"sun-burned, or sun-blessed..."

"here comes the sun,
here comes the sun,
and I say,
it's all right..."

Could there be a better keynote some for this post than the Beatles' classic: "Here Comes the Sun?" I think not.

It happens every summer. Someone arrives at the door of my cabin to talk about sunburns, sunscreen, and extended exposure to the sun. I can never help myself from gazing off towards the flower beds, that hug Valerie Lodge and remember...

It was more years ago than I can remember. That summer mid-July days in Colorado had been particularly hot and dry. And although late afternoon storms offered respite -- dark clouds, strong winds, heavy downpours, it was only for a few minutes. Then back to bluebird skies and bright sun. The cycle was dependable.

Earlier that summer - before staff and campers arrived - a crew of volunteers had turned the weedy flower beds into a riot of texture and color. By late July, all that work had paid off. There were columbine, pansies, lupine, iris, bleeding heart, and my favorites - poppies.  And the poppies were thriving. I love them all - icelandic, oriental, California, Flanders. My favorite though were the pale blush petals of the Helen Elizabeth palaver poppies [shown above] that dance on their tall stems with every breeze.

This particular day - like many of the staff and campers that summer - my shoulders were particularly tender from a long day in the sun. As I listened to the young woman on my porch - concerned about her sun-burned face - I watched a lovely pale-petaled poppy swaying to the changing direction of the breeze. And in an instant I saw what would alter my sense of things - forever.

There was the most delicate flower in the garden, reaching her face towards the sun. It was a very, very hot day, and the sun was blindingly bright. But she wasn't turning away or seeking to hide behind the shade of a neighboring flower's shadow. She was actually seeking the sun. Turning - ever so gradually as she followed the sun's trajectory from east to west across a bluebird Colorado sky.

Her delicate pale peach petals were not singed or brittle from the heat. In fact, they were even more beautiful. More lovely. How were my shoulders -- or that camper's precious, freckled, up-turned nose -- any different. Any less protected by our love for the sun.

I was immediately flooded with this passage from Psalms:

“The sun shall not
smite thee by day,
nor the moon by night..."
 

I got it. It was suddenly so clear to me. We are all made of the same spiritual substance -- from a blade of grass to a star. There is only the substance of Soul. The substance of beauty. 

Mary Baker Eddy tells us that "All nature teaches God's love to man." If that lovely, graceful poppy could stand in the bright sun -- hour-after-hour without her delicate petals being burned -- so could I. And so could that beautiful camper. 

Immediately on the heels of that realization, this definition of "sun" from the Glossary in Eddy's  Science and Health came to mind:

“SUN.  The symbol of Soul
governing man, — of Truth,
Life, and Love."
 

Suddenly it seemed ludicrous that the Sun -- the symbol of Soul governing man -- could be harmful, pain-inducing, or destructive. The stinging in my shoulders completely abated. I was free. And not only was I free of the negative effects of a long, lovely day in the sun, so was the camper.

The sun - the symbol of Soul governing man - can no more injure us than it can harm the delicate petals of a poppy. Elsewhere in Science and Health, Eddy says:

"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." 

We can only be sun-blessed.

offered with Love,

Kate

"this is where we belong..."

"I hear the wind across the plain.
A sound so strong that calls my name.
It's wild like the river,
its warm like the sun.
Yes, it's here -- this is where I belong..."

Bryan Adam's soundtrack for Spirit - Stallion of Cimarron is my go-to when I am missing my daughters. When they were little girls we would watch it on rainy Saturdays, or on long winter days when our dreams of summer, horses, and camp seemed too far in the future. The other night, it was "This is Where I Belong," that sang through my heart.

I've just finished three weeks at camp. There is no place on earth that means as much to me as the Adventure Unlimited Ranches. I know I am not alone. This place is the heart's home to many generations of campers, counselors, staff, families, and volunteers.

At the beginning of training school Ranch Director, Alison Peticolas, encouraged the summer staff to join with the full-time staff in embracing a number of key results that the organization had identified - and agreed upon - earlier in the year. Each of them would give greater clarity and focus to our individual and collective purpose this summer. The first two really spoke to my heart -- articulating an over-arching organizational desire to help constituents and stakeholders:

- deepen their relationships to God

-  feel loved and valued 

There was something so simple and profound in these desired outcomes. I kept coming back to them throughout training school as I interacted with, encouraged, and supported staff, evaluated my own thoughts, and assessed the soundness of my actions at the end of each day.

These questions helped me clarify whether or not my expectations were consistent with the goals of an organization I felt so honored to serve: "Were my words and actions encouraging a deeper relationship with God? Did I leave others feeling loved and valued?"

They were questions that stayed with me throughout the day. They gave structure - and breadth - to each opportunity for service.  They brought greater focus to our collective preparation for receiving campers - and families - at the end of the month.

For example, each time that I was asked to speak, I had to ask myself, "Will what you are saying, make others think about you and your relationship to God, or will they be encouraged to deepen their own relationship with divine Love -- through their own prayer and listening?"

The same kind of clarity came with the second key result. I found myself examining my thoughts and words throughout the day -- asking questions like: "If someone could actually see your thoughts would they feel loved and valued? Are your words and actions leaving others feeling loved and valued?"

Then on the last night of training school, after the annual Heritage Night banquet, my friend Heather gave a talk in which she honed in on three promises for staff to cherish -- for themselves, and for their campers:

1. You belong here.
2. You are ready.
3. You are not alone.  

I couldn't help but think of how it had all come together so beautifully. Between the key results, and those promises, everyone had all that they needed to go forward with confidence, humility, and grace.

We each belong here -- exactly where we are -- in the cabins, programs, roles, responsibilities, and the relationships we are in.  No one is out of place.

We are ready for whatever presents itself as a platform for spiritual growth, healing and adventure. We are prepared -- but so are our fellow staff members, and the campers -- we will be working with throughout the summer. Everyone has been graciously prepared. We can trust this truth. Everyone is the very manifestation of the promised "kingdom of heaven within" -- inspiring, governing, guiding. 

We are not alone. Scripture promises that, God is with us always, everywhere.  So, not only are we always "with the Lord," -- individually.  We are also part of that "us." -- collectively.  Yes, we each have the "kingdom of God" within us.  But we also have each other -- to encourage, inspire, listen with, and appreciate.

What a wonderful three weeks of training school. The staff is focused on deepening relationships with God, and helping others feel loved and valued. They know that they belong, they are ready, and they are not alone -- and neither are their campers.  Thank you for this succinct reminder, Heather.    

I can't help but think of the passage in Mary Baker Eddy's The First Church of Christ, Scientist and Miscellany from which the name Adventure Unlimited comes:

"This day drops down
upon the glories of summer;
it is a glad day,
in attune with faith’s fond trust.
We live in an age
of Love’s divine adventure
to be All-in-all." 

Here's to a summer of unlimited adventures.

offered with Love,

Kate

"what we hold gently...."

"We have come to believe
there's hidden good in common things,
You can't always tell
but sometimes you just know..."

The connection between Carrie Newcomer's beautiful song, "Geode," and this post may not be easy to recognize. But there is something about knowing what to hold firmly, and what to hold gently, that celebrates the remarkable, in the common for me. The hidden promise, found in the familiar.

One of our oldest traditions at the Adventure Unlimited Ranches is a practice we call, "Alone with Your Thoughts." Once, during every two week summer session, campers of all ages gather around the fire ring. The Ranch Director shares remarks offered as a springboard for inspiration. Then, she tells the story of camp founder, Cap Andrews' time on a submarine during World War II.

This activity, held at dusk, is deeply meaningful for me. Cap's practice of spending time alone on the deck of a submarine - in the middle of the Pacific Ocean - inspired his dream of founding a camp to, in his words, "teach boys to appreciate God, and learn how to turn to Him in prayer."

Cap's story begins with a night alone in the dark. What started as a desire to consciously focus on God without any distractions, became a lifelong journey towards longer and longer periods of time in quiet contemplation of the divine. 

After the Ranch Director shares her own message and tells Cap's story, campers and staff are invited to find a quiet spot in nature and silently listen for inspiration.  No books, no media, no conversation -- just an hour alone with your own thoughts.

I've heard Cap's story scores of times over the years, and it always inspires me. I've heard many Ranch Directors share their inspiration and I've taken away something special from each of them. But there is one that stands out to me -- above all the rest. And it is an idea that I find myself turning to often.

It was Ranch Director, Alison Peticolas', first summer in her new role. It had been her first year making the final hiring decisions and job offers. In late winter she felt she had assembled a wonderful team of camp directors, program heads, and counselors. But by Spring it looked as if her perfect teams was falling apart. Family demands, internships, and financial needs started whittling away at the teams' shape.

As she returned to the drawing board,  she said that it was hard.  She felt as if she'd already had a perfect team in place, and it was difficult to let go of that plan. One day, as she was praying about the situation it came to her that she needed to be clear about what she needed to be holding firmly, and what she could hold more gently.

For example, it was right for the Whitewater Rafting Program Head to be an experienced boater, have demonstrated leadership skills, be awareness of safety laws, show compassion for campers, be organized, etc. Those were the things she could hold firmly as she explored new candidates. Whether it was a particular guy or gal, their number of years of experience, camp history, etc. -- those where the things she could hold gently.

She told us that from that moment on, she approached the hiring process with less anxiety and greater expectations. And every position was filled perfectly.

I think about this often in my life. What are the things I hold firmly as I make plans, consider choices, or frame expectations. Am I holding -- too firmly -- the things that are not essential? Or am I willing to be dispossessed of my certainties about what is "perfect," and discover a solution that is inspired.

Recently, I felt I had a very clear sense of how I thought things should work out in a particular situation. I found myself getting tense when it didn't seem to be unfolding in the way that I thought it should. That was when I was reminded of Alison's talk. It brought me back into alignment.

I remembered to ask myself, "what do I needed to hold firmly?" That was clear -- God is good, His power is unquestionable, and my purpose is to serve Him. And I also remembered to ask what I needed to hold gently -- the who, what, where, when and how of the outcomes. It was such a small adjustment. But it was enough. A situation that seemed complex and fraught with detours, fell into place in wonderful new ways -- ways I couldn't have even imagined.

Geodes are actually like that. On the outside they appear as muddy-colored, almost insignificant round rocks. There's just no drama to them. They are often buried in quarries or ravines, and overlooked by rock hunters looking for the obvious. But tapped with a small hammer and "voila!" a hidden crystal world opens up to you. By holding firmly all that is spiritually essential in our hearts and tapping into the changelessness of what is deeply constant -- while holding gently the details that are unfolding before us, we often find new perspectives, solutions, pathways that are more brilliant than anything we could have imagined.

For many years, Alone with Your Thoughts has enriched my spiritual practice with new inspiration, peace of mind, and a deepening trust in the divine. It's not a flashy practice, but quiet, modest, and without drama. But this quiet time with God has become as natural to me as breathing. I am grateful for Alison's humble and inspired sharing each summer. And tonight, I am simply grateful for this particular lesson about what to hold -- firmly and gently.


offered with Love,

Kate

"grateful for it all…"

"All that I am,
all that I see,
all that I've been,
and all that I'll ever be..."

The other day someone asked me why I would encourage our daughters to work as camp counselors this summer -- long days, modest wages. I was stunned. I can't imagine encouraging them to do anything else. The above chorus from "Grateful: A Love Song…"  by Empty Hands Music, sprang into my heart. I hope you will take a moment -- or two -- and give it a listen.

Almost everything I am, and all that my children have become, I directly attribute to our years as campers, counselors, volunteers, and staff members at the Adventure Unlimited Ranches -- the opportunities for spiritual growth, wonderful mentors, and programs it offers. I do not say this lightly. I mean it with every ounce of my being.

Do I hope that my daughters will devote the rest of their lives to supporting and contributing to this organization and the programs that it provides for children, adults and families? Actually, yes. But, as much as I would hope that their hearts remain aligned with this extraordinary place -- one that lives in each of us -- my encouragement that they return to camp as counselors this summer embodies a larger dream for them.

It is gratitude. I dream that our children grow into global citizens that understand the gift of gratitude. Gratitude is much more than an "after the fact" feeling of thanks. It is a way of life. It is an empowering and sustaining way of being in the world.

No one -- and nothing -- can deprive us of our right to be grateful. And it is a right. A divine right. In the midst of the most trying times -- while facing poverty, homelessness, pain, disappointment -- we can become still enough to recognize that there is always something to be grateful for.

This gratitude is a upwelling power within us. When we realize that we are aware of some small measure of good in our lives -- good that we can be grateful for -- we bring that good into conscious being. And when we appreciate [are grateful for] this good, it begins to appreciate [grow in value] in our lives.

To live with this attitude of gratitude is to live in a state of conscious good -- of grace.

So back to camp. Yes, our family could find "jobs" that might let us sleep in later each morning, or that might recompense us in larger measure, but we will never -- and I mean never -- find a greater opportunity to nurture and develop the best in ourselves. To discover the full depth of our identities as grateful children of a generous Father-Mother God.

To give a summer -- or a lifetime -- to this "place" that has shown us our best - our most unselfed, and spiritually trusting - selves is the greatest gift we can give to ourselves. To wake each morning knowing that we will have countless opportunities to say, "thank you," through providing the same encouragement and support to a new generation of campers and camp colleagues, that we have experienced, is to live a life of beauty and joy.

Each morning that we rise in the semi-dark of dawn for staff inspirational, and every time I hear a knock on the door of my cabin after midnight, or see a camper and counselor praying together on their porch -- long after lights out -- I am grateful. And each time I catch a glimpse of a counselor alone in the corral caring for horses when the rest of camp is at dinner -- I am immeasurably grateful.  Not only am I grateful for what they are doing to support our horse program, but for what they are learning about their own ability to put self aside, in caring for the needs of another creature first.

Our daughters may have opportunities to pursue internships that could forward their professional careers.  They may be offered jobs that would contribute more significantly to our very modest college savings account.  But nothing will contribute more to them becoming their best selves, than a summer steeped in gratitude for what camp has done in their lives. A summer filled with appreciation for the spiritual values that have nurtured their "clear sense and calm trust," in God's love for them. A recognition that this same Love has afforded them priceless opportunities to attend camp every summer since they were big enough to sit on a horse.  And that Love is giving them another summer in which to say "thank you," to an organization that has so deeply blessed their lives.

So, why would I encourage our daughters to work at camp this summer? Because I can't imagine a job that will lead to a greater -- more fulfilling and satisfying -- life of gratitude, service, and joy. 

The friendships they will make, and foster, are friendships steeped in selflessness and spiritual strength. What more could I want for my children, my husband, myself -- the world?

Thank you Adventure Unlimited*. We are grateful. We are grateful for it all.


offered with love,



Kate

*for some families "camp" is represented by the Peace Corp, other summer camps, or the many non-profits that serve humanity in countless ways. This post celebrates the practice of selfless service to our common purpose -- the blessing of others, as we have been blessed.

"How great Thou art…"

"Then sings my soul,
my Saviour, God, to Thee
how great Thou art,
how great Thou art..."

We approached this Christmas break with open hearts and willing hands. Our children would be celebrating the holidays with family in other parts of the country, and Jeff and I would be working Adventure Unlimited's Christmas Ranching program. It's one of my favorite programs offered at camp, and it was the perfect answer for us --  spending Christmas together in a meaningful way.

We would be surrounded by people we loved, programs we believed in, and a mission we cherished -- offering a quiet, sacred manger-like Christmas for our guests. And the Christmas Ranching metaphysical theme couldn't have been more perfect, or practical: "Dear Christ, forever here and near…" from Mary Baker Eddy's poem Christmas Morn.

At the last minute my sister-in-law, Laurie, and her daughters -- Kristen and Lily, decided to join us at the ranches. What a blessing it was to share this precious, healing time with them. And it was a healing time -- for everyone. You can't focus on Christ's forever dear-ness, here-ness, and  nearness, and not experience wholeness, wellness -- healing.

For me,  it felt -- from the very first moment staff arrived -- that we were in for a holy week. And as each guest came through the door of the lodge for dinner that first night, it was clear we had each been sent, called, drawn forth -- like shepherds, wisemen, lambs, and doves -- to discover something blessed during our time together.

Each day -- morning scripture study, activities in the lodge, adventures in the snow, traveling in the vans, breaking bread together at meals -- sparkled with promise.  "Dear Christ, forever here and near…" rang through the brisk mountain air.  The fire crackled with it. It was in the whinnying of the horses, the laughter of children, the sound of a hockey puck rushing across the ice.  Each moment gave new birth to a fresh sense of Emmanuel, or "God with us…"

Christmas Eve, while navigating the path from my cabin to the lodge, I took a hard fall on the ice. Immediately, I felt strong arms under me, and a voice saying, "God is Love, you are loved." Moments later, a young man I knew well, was at my side assuring me that I was fine. With his help I made my way to the lodge.  

During the evening's activities, I remembered the promise in our metaphysical theme: "dear Christ, forever here and near." It helped me let go of the false story. It was abundantly clear to me that God was with me, had always been with me, and that I had never fallen out of his care.  Holding to this fact, I stayed conscious and upright. I wrote about this experience in an earlier post, but as I have thought about it further, there were a few other details that I remembered.

For example, the next day I grateful to be able to do everything I needed to do in caring for our guests. And a quote by A.W. Tozer kept coming to my heart:

"What comes into our minds
when we think about God,
is the most important thing about us."
 

Throughout the day, I tried to be consciously aware of what came into my mind when I thought about God.  And I was also conscious of what I felt, when I thought about God. I took moments throughout the day to find a quiet space -- even for a few moments -- to sit still, and let myself feel deeply the peace, awe, joy, wonder, and trust that I was actually experiencing when I thought about God.

And later that day -- after a beautiful meal -- we gathered for a Christmas program that included scripture, carols, inspiration, and this beautiful performance of "How Great Thou Art," by my niece Lily, with my husband on guitar and singing harmonies. This pure focus on God's greatness touched me deeply -- and I felt it.

As I've pondered all that we shared and experienced together during that Christmas week -- staff, volunteers, guests, horses -- I keep coming back to our theme, "dear Christ, forever here and near…" As well as Christ's dear message of "God with us…"

On the first page of her primary work, Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, Mary Baker Eddy defines the prayer reforms the sinner and heals the sick as:

"an absolute faith
that all things are possible to God,
a spiritual understanding of Him,
an unselfed love..."
 

Not a spiritual understanding of our human circumstances or of our thoughts, a spiritual understanding of our human histories or of the motives and intentions of the people around us -- but of God, of Him.

And later in this same book she reminds us that:

"“Truth and Love
come nearer in the hour of woe,
when strong faith or spiritual strength
wrestles and prevails through
the understanding of God."
 

How often have I been distracted into thinking that I needed to understand where I've gone wrong -- where was my thinking out of alignment, how did I identify myself, what mistakes did I need to correct, what sin needed to be repented of, or what was someone else was thinking about me?  What did I need to fix, in order to experience healing, transformation, redemption, salvation? And how often did I fall prey to this mental hunt for what was true -- or false -- about the human picture?  Too often.

But it's never about me. And it's never about you, or her, or them. It's never about our mistakes, circumstances, or our thinking -- it's always about God. If anything is pulling our focus off of the allness and goodness of God -- we need to pull it back.  It's an understanding of God that brings healing.  It's what we know about Him that makes all the difference.

I believe that what comes to mind -- and what I feel in my heart -- when I think about God, is the most important thing about me.  So that's where I'm training my focus -- on Him.

I can't say enough about our week together during Christmas Ranching.  There -- in the sacred manger of "dear Christ, forever here and near…" -- something holy was born, and  took root in our hearts. God was with us. God is always with us - each of us - individually and collectively.

Oh Lord, my God, how great Thou art…


offered with love,



Kate

"the quiet sanctuary…."

"no one
dared disturb
the sound of silence..."

Today, I discovered this haunting rendition of Simon & Garfunkel's, "Sound of Silence," by Emiliana Torrini. There is something raw and lovely about it. It seems to speak to my inner most longings.

And it fit perfectly in the context of this scripture:

"Commune
with your own heart
upon your bed, and be still…"
 

It took my breath away. I'd read this Psalm countless times before, but this morning it felt like everything.

And to discover that it was followed by Mary Baker Eddy's statement from Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures:

"In the quiet sanctuary
of earnest longings,
we must deny sin
and please God's allness…"
 

made me weep.  I felt known, understood, encouraged.

One dictionary gives the etymological root of the word sin as "to sunder." For me, to sunder, or to separate our sense of anyone -- or anything -- from it's divine source is to believe in sin.  On the other hand, to see the all-presence and all-power of God in all things -- and at all times -- is to live with vision -- and with a holy purpose.

I have to admit, I spend a lot of time in "communion with my heart, upon my bed, in stillness."  A lot. Hours a day - in fact. It is where i do my best work. It is not on the phone, at a desk, or even in conversation.  And when I am in this space -- a bed, a chair, behind the wheel in a traffic jam -- becomes a holy place.  It is in this still space of a silent heart -- that I listen for God's influence on my heart and in my life.

This is where I am clearest about what is true. It is where I am rebuked by a loving Parent. It is where I am encouraged by my dearest Friend. It is where I find the courage to go forward, and the grace to stand still.

At camp each summer we celebrate our most cherished tradition, "Alone with Your Thoughts." Camp comes to a stop, and every staff member, counselor, and camper -- regardless of age -- takes an hour alone in nature. No books, no media, no cameras, no inspirational material -- just time alone with your thoughts.

It is for me, without question, the most important tradition we have at camp. It is the activity most remembered by campers. It is the activity that has one of the most lasting effects on all of us. Year, after year.

It is encourages a relationship with the divine that can only be found in that "quiet sanctuary." It reminds each of us that wherever we are, whatever our circumstances, we can resort to this place -- this kingdom within -- to find peace, comfort, direction, encouragement, joy. On a mountaintop or in the depths of despair -- we can find refuge in this stillness.

This is the place of "I am…" This is the space where we find the power to bless. This is where we are one with all creation.  This is where we share a common inner landscape, one which we all must navigate.

Deepening my relationship to this space is the most valuable gift I can give to myself, my family, and my world. When I think of Cap and Marianne Andrews' greatest contribution to the world, it is this nurturing of "alone with your thoughts," in girls and boys, young men and women, who will go out to bless humanity.

As much as I love our horse programs, or rafting adventures, and our mountaineering expeditions -- it pales in comparison to what I see "Alone with Your Thoughts" do in the lives of campers and counselors, year after year.

Those adventures and activities are simply the laboratory for deepening one's relationship to this space of spiritual stillness.  This is the place of unlimited adventure. This is camp - no matter where we live, no matter who we are with -- it is always with us. Just as it was with the boy/king/psalmist David. Just as it companioned with Mandela in prison, and Jesus in the wilderness. It is always there for us -- at any moment.

I am so deeply grateful that - as a child - I was exposed to this practice. I am even more grateful that our children have been nurtured in a love for the importance of time "alone with your thoughts," in navigating the course of their day. To know that wherever you are, whatever decisions you must make, whatever guidance you are seeking, whatever challenges you may be facing, you have a place where you you can retreat for answers and solutions -- this, this is everything.

offered with gratitude and Love,



Kate

"to know the rapture..."

"I have felt you with my spirit,
I have felt you fill this room...
And this is just an invitation,
just a sample of the whole...
And I cannot wait to be going home..."

I love Sara Groves' "Going Home."  I sense that she might be writing about her hope of experiencing "the rapture," much the way I used to feel about going home to camp.  The rest of the year I was either anticipating going to camp, or reveling in all I'd just learned, and expereinced, at camp. 

At the time, I thought it was "healthy."  I thought I knew where I belonged, where I was "at my best," and although I convinced myself that I could carry "camp" with me throughout the year as a place in my heart...I still spent waaayyy too much time dreaming about "the valley" (the Arkansas Valley of Colorado where camp sits in the palm of a series of avalanched chutes called "Columbia Basin'), and my freindships there. 

But one day, after listening to Sara's song, I realized that I waited for my weeks at Adventure Unlimited, the way Sara's song referred to the rapturous experience of "going home."  And as much I tried to "live" camp wherever I was, I was still thinking that my camp experience was better when I was sitting on a porch looking out over the Midland Range across the brow of a rock formation called, "Sleeping Indian."

So, I got after it, the way I would start to wrestle with any concept that no longer resonated with me spiritually.  And there were two statements that began to inform my prayers.  One was from the book of Luke in the Bible:

"And when Jesus was demanded of the Pharisees, when the kingdom of God should come, he answered them and said, The kingdom of God cometh not with observation: Neither shall they say, Lo here! or, Lo there! for, behold, the kingdom of God is within you."

and from Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures by Mary Baker Eddy:

"In divine Science, where prayers are mental, all may avail themselves of God as "a very present help in trouble."  Love is impartial and universal in its adaptation and bestowals."

I began to see that, for me, if the kingdom of God was not, here or there, but within me;  it really didn't matter where I was...I could always be at my best, satisfied, peaceful,  And not only could I be at my best, there was a spiritual demand upon me to be at my best and not live in anticipation of, or longing for, a better place, a better time, a more condusive enviroment for spiritual living and scientific Christian practice.  Love, God, is impartial and universal...and by reflection, my loving has to be completely, utterly, absolutely impartial and universally adaptable in its bestowing to be "like Him."

So, although I am deeply happy to be here in the valley, and to make this my basecamp, my homebase...a touchstone for the moment...I now know, that I really can be home anywhere.  I know "the rapture" of a unverse teeming with God's presence and overflowing with Her Love. 

Here is the poem that escaped, like a gasp of realization, as this truth dawned in full moonlight....

"rapture: [from medeival Latin  raptura to seize and carry off]
(noun) a feeling of intense pleasure or joy;
(verb) to transport from earth to heaven at the coming of Christ;
to be raised or lifted out of oneself by divine power."

i have known
rapture

it comes in the
silent hunger of a
heart that
yearns to know and
be known

there is a moment,
a coincidence,
where we finally surrender to grace,
and are caught up,
carried into the weightless,
burdenless,
space of spiritual trust...

when knowing the answer
is less important
than feeling like a child
in the arms of a 
Parent who 
knows All...
and
it is enough.

it is peace,
but more...

it is bliss,
but without reason...

it is poised
ecstacy...calm and
consistent...

it is flight but
without the beating of
wings...

the rising...
and still rising,
unhurried on
the thermals
of the unseen...

it is light holding hands with
the darkness and together
watching the changing faces of
the moon like
sisters
who know,
that
in the presence of
one,
the other
is
a miracle,
a divine surprise,
a moment
of
pure
rapture...

I hope you find the rapture in every moment of your oneness with God...today. 

with Love,

Kate

Here is another link to Sara's song, "Going Home."

"What would Love do..."

"It's nice to meet you.
No, I'm not from outer space
but I'd like to take you,
to a higher place,
where we won't ever have to leave the ground...
Just ask,
'What love would do now?'"

Heather shared this clip of Jason Mraz performing, "What Would Love Do Now?" the song he wrote for the film May I Be Frank.  In his introduction he shares,

"I try to be conscious of the food I put in me,
I need to be just as conscious of the thoughts I am putting in me."

Wow...if we ever thought we were the lone homesteaders on a new frontier...the uncharted territory of making the connection between what we think, our bodies, and how we live.   As well as the deeper spiritual impact this consideration has on our relationships, communities, the environment we share with all living things, and the global peace movement...are we ever wrong. 

I sense a collective nodding-of-the-head, so unanimous today, that it's beginning to feel like a single piece of divine choreography, perhaps the largest in history.  Men, women, and children from almost every culture, race, religion, and socio-economic segment of society saying: "yes, there is a connection." 

I feel it in the applause that Jason receives from the audience when he shares these thoughts, and the song that those thoughts gave birth to.

Young Christians have been asking the question, "What would Jesus do?" since I was a regular participant at Youth for Christ events in high school. Events that, on a number of occasions,  were co-sponsored by our local Adventure Unlimited chapter (regional activities for young Christian Scientists and their friends...these local chapters are now called Discovery Bound). 

Our high school's Youth for Christ group would get together for bowling, host dances, attend concerts, or go ice-skating on a frigid pond in the Poconos, and take turns warming up in an ice-fishing shed in front of a small wood stove. But no matter what the activity was, they all had one thing in common...conversations about living spiritually, and usually included that very question:  "What would Jesus do?"  There were those of us who attended the local Christian Science Sunday School together...mostly just my sister and I from our high school...and others who attended nearby Catholic, Congregational, Methodist, Baptist, and Presbyterian churches.  We did not have a Jewish temple or a mosque in our town, but I know...without a shadow of a doubt...that any teen interested in joining us, would have been welcome. 

We were a close-knit group of hippies, artists, and athletes, cheerleaders, bookworms, and yearbook editors.  We actually liked talking about living a God-centered life.  And at a time when Time magazine's cover question: "Is God Dead?" was still echoing through the chambers of human memory a decade later, we were asking ourselves, "what would a God-centered life look like?" 

I remember one particularly cold, icy Saturday in February.   We arrived at that icy pond in the Poconos, after a long drive up a dirt road in freezing rain.  We slid down a steep hill on our bottoms, only to brush ourselves off,  tie on skates and unpack thermoses of hot chocolate and a bag of donuts before getting completely soaked. There was an inch, or more, of water on top of the ice, but we were die-hards.  It didn't take long before the whole bunch of us was huddled in the ice shack like sardines, talking, laughing, eating, and finally deciding we should call it a day and head home. 

But in the few short hours we'd been there, the temperatures had dropped drastically and getting back up the hill was treacherous...at best. 

We encouraged...pushed and pulled...one another up the slippery incline, but by the time we got to the cars, there were a few injuries to contend with. 

I remember thinking, that although our friends all loved Jesus, my sister and I were the only ones...as Christian Scientists...who turned to pray for healing.  Boy, was I wrong.

Once we'd gotten everyone packed into the two station wagons Jim and Tom had borrowed from their parents, it wasn't long before the injured were being comforted with audible prayers, Bible verses, and I remember one friend...who attended the small Baptist church in town..singing the old gospel song, "His Eye is on the Sparrow."

It was a long, but love-filled, drive back down the mountain.  And by the time we reached Mary's house...where we continued our day in front of the television watching a movie, and eating popcorn...we were all happy, comfortable, and closer than ever.

That was day was just the first in a series of wake-up calls for me.  But it taught me how myopic I had been about the broader spiritual healing movement.  My friends were all expecting their prayers, Bible verses, and the singing of hymns to comfort, and heal, those who had been injured that day. 

I think of it whenever I read Mary Baker Eddy's statement in "Choose Ye" from The First Church of Christ, Scientist, and Miscellany:

"A genuine Christian Scientist loves Protestant and Catholic, D.D. and M.D., - loves all who love God, good; and he loves his enemies. It will be found that, instead of opposing, such an individual subserves the interests of both medical faculty and Christianity, and they thrive together, learning that Mind-power is goodwill towards men. Thus unfolding the true metal in character, the iron in human nature rusts away; honesty and justice characterize the seeker and finder of Christian Science.

The pride of place or power is the prince of this world that hath nothing in Christ."

and elsewhere in the same volume:

"What we love determines what we are. I love the prosperity of Zion, be it promoted by Catholic, by Protestant, or by Christian Science, which anoints with Truth, opening the eyes of the blind and healing the sick...

It is of comparatively little importance what a man thinks or believes he knows; the good that a man does is the one thing needful and the sole proof of rightness."

My friends loved Jesus, they loved God, they loved the Scripture...from whatever translation they read it, they loved to pray, to question, to sing praise, to kneel in holy benediction.  They loved me...and we were brothers and sisters in Christ, in Spirit. 

I am so grateful to discover...more each day...that, as Eddy celebrates, in her Miscellaneous Writings 1883 - 1896:

"We live in an age of Love's divine adventure to be All-in-all..."

to be living in fellowship, in holy congregation, in spiritual community with a heavenly host of spiritual thinkers who are cherishing God's Allness, in all of humanity, and asking some wonderful questions...like:

"What would Love do?"

aren't you?

thanks Heather for sharing this song, and for walking this question boldy...with Love,

Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"Hummingbird don't fly away, fly away..."

"Oh hummingbird,

mankind was waiting for you

to come flying along.

Oh hummingbird,

lend us your wings.

Let us soar in

the atmosphere of Abba.

Lift us up to the heaven of holiness,

oh source of our being,

oh hummingbird...."

I love Seals and Crofts "Hummingbird," not just for the memories of tall grass, embroidered jeans, gauzy peasant blouses, and soft messages of hope it evokes, but for the very creature it celebrates.



The more I learn about hummingbirds, the more I realize that they prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that there are no "laws" of matter.  The hummingbird dashes them with the lightning swiftness of her wings.  Hinged wings that seem to dislocate and rotate...rather than flap, the only bird that flies upright with her face forward...rather than down, and a speed that generally exceeds twenty-five miles an hour.   One scientist, in the PBS film linked at the beinging of this paragraph, calls them "nature's superheroes."  I love them for their intelligence, gentleness, strength, and grace. 



And hummingbirds are very smart!  The have the smallest of brains, and yet they can remember every flower they have ever visited and how long it will take each flower to refill its store of nectar. The can travel vast distances and have the endurance necessary for long journeys.  They learn which people fill the hummingbird feeders, and which ones don't...and interact accordingly.



This is consistent with my hummingbird experiences at camp...and at home. After arriving at camp each year, it takes about three days for the community of hummingbirds that live there to discover that I am home.  I am convinced that they know me and know that if they wait just a few days, I will hang the feeder from the porch eaves, I will keep it filled, and I am a safe place to hover, and flit, and dance, and tease by resting upon the arm of my chair just inches from my hand.



There is one hummingbird, I call her "Life," (even though her markings are that of a male, I am sure she identifies with her more feminine leanings) who returns to my porch each year.   Our shared life-transforming experience a number of years ago, confirmed in us a species-blind relationship that is enduring and still takes my breath away.  The first time, upon my return to camp, she zips out of the large pine branches just an arm's reach from my cabin, and lands on my arm,  I feel like I have been touched by the wings of an angel.  If I am very patient, she will linger for longer and longer as my time at camp each summer extends from June into July. 



During the bright, cool sunlit mornings and afternoons, she plays and hovers with her friends...moving from feeder to hanging petunias and lobelias, to the large pots of mixed wildflowers that stretch across my porch.  But she is also a bit possessive and if any of her friends decide to hover too close to my chair or bob and weave around my hair, she will chase them off the porch and out into the sunlight.



But at dusk, she shyly comes closer each evening and lingers for longer.  She returns to the "place" of our first gathering.  She darts from the pine tree to my Adirondack rocker...back and forth, back and forth...reminding me that she remembers and making sure I know it is her.  I assure her, I could never forget. 



By the end of the first week we have returned to our now five year old rhythm of evening visits.



I love her.  I love that she has taught me to look beyond the size of something in measuring its value, intelligence, strength, or worth.  She has taught me that what we experienced that evening five years ago is as meaningful, and remembered, for her as it was for me.  She has taught me that there is a mighty something, beyond all rhyme and reason, that brings us into relationship with one another for a holy purpose.



Gerogia O'Keefe once said of her encounter with a hummingbird:

"One day a hummingbird flew in. When I had it in my hand it was so small I couldn't believe I had it--but I could feel the intense life--so intense and so tiny. And I am, at this moment, willing to let you be what you are to me-- beautiful, and pure, and very intensely alive."

A few weeks ago I was back at camp for the Adult Base Camp program. And because we were running parallel with the Cowboy/Cowgirl program, for the first time in a long time, I didn't stay in Crowsnest, but in one of  the beautiful new rooms in Aspen Grove.  And although I wasn't on the porch of Crowsnest, my small balcony shared the same stunning east/west orientation of that beloved space.  I was so thankful that I could still enjoy the rising sun in the morning and the color of dusk over Sleeping Indian each evening.  And that first night, as the sky shifted from blue to lavender, to salmon, and I pulled my quilt around my shoulders to watch each transition from my small perch...a heard what sounded like a very large mosquito just behind my left ear. 



As I reached up to brush it away, my fingers felt soft feathers.  I slowly drew my hand back into my lap and waited.  Then she landed and we watched the sky turn into an upside-down bowl of navy velvet, sprinkled with a million tiny diamonds...and we remembered.



so grateful for Life's love...

Kate

Kate Robertson, CS

"...a bow of promise on the cloud..."

"Little darlin'
It's been a long, cold, lonely winter.
Little darlin'
It seems like years since it's been here.
Here comes the sun,
Here comes the sun,
and I say,
It's al right...."
- George Harrison

Since there is not (at least not one that I could find) a recorded version of my first choice song for this post, "Love," by Mary Baker Eddy,  I am going to lead with this hauntingly lovely James Taylor and Yo Yo Ma version of "Here comes the Sun," written by The Beatles' brilliant George Harrison.  But the story is still the same. 

It was almost twenty years ago, but I can still feel that sudden shift, a recalibration in the weight of my mental "air," whenever I think about that Sunday morning service in Valerie Lodge.  I'd been in my cabin all night wrestling with demons...and angels. I'd gotten a phone call, in the middle of the night, that threatened to take me so far down into a chasm of depression, that I wasn't sure I'd be able continue my work at camp that summer.  My heart was in shreds, and I could barely breathe.  I'd been caught in the middle of an emotional battleground all night.  One minute the angels of Love and peace were winning...and the next minute I'd become a ricocheting crossfire of anger, hurt, and regret. 

If you were to have painted a picture of my mental sky, it would have been as grey as slate, and as black as a battalion of thunderheads creeping over the western slopes of the Collegiate Peaks, on a late summer afternoon. 

I wasn't surprised the next morning, when I finally did leave my cabin, that it was actually overcast, and that heavy raindrops were beginning to splatter...darkening the pale, sun-bleached cedar decking that apron-ed Valerie Lodge.  I'd already missed breakfast, but I couldn't miss Sunday School. 

We gathered in the Lodge, while one of the campers played a prelude, and we moved chairs from the dining room, passed out hymnals, and got everyone settled.  The Sunday School superintendent announced that we'd be singing Mary Baker Eddy's poem, titled, "Love."  It barely registered on the landscape of my dark thoughts.  Then she read the poem, the pianist played through the melody, and then we stood to sing. 

I did not feel like singing.  I was not at peace.  I was in pain.  I hoped that I could get by with just listening to the rest of the congregation sing.  I thought that, perhaps, I could find some comfort in the sound of their voices.  And so,  while quietly wiping at my tears, and...hopefully...without notice, I stood in a cocoon of mixed sorrow and hope.  But, before long, I found myself singing along as if each word were the sacred building blocks of a prayer.   And, not surprisingly, I was finding comfort...and hope. 

But it wasn't the comfort I found in its words that shook me to my core, it was the promise, the hope that I found in this line:

'Twas Love whose finger traced aloud
a bow of promise on the cloud..."

Love wasn't going to paint a rainbow of promise on a clear, cloudless blue sky...but on a cloud.  Love was going to use my cloudy moments as a canvas for painting a promise...full of color, dimension, beauty.  I could count on it.  Without the cloud, love wouldn't have the droplets of water...my tears...to bounce and refract light off of.

My tears were going to color my life with beauty and texture.   I could count on it.

And, it wasn't just the words from the poem that gave me strength, but it was the poet herself.  Mary Baker Eddy had lived through so many days that were heavy with clouds of darkness and despair.  She had borne sorrow, rejection, disdain, and regret with grace.  She had suffered and survived, hoped and persevered, wept, worked, watched, and prayed.

If anyone knew how to navigate a personal storm, it was Mary Baker Eddy.  If anyone had the "street cred" necessary to inspire, encourage, and "call forth" the kind of inner resolve that, alone, could weather the seething sea of human crisis, it was Mary Baker Eddy. 

And I trusted her.  I trusted her honesty.  I knew that her poetry was wept with the purity of the Magdalene's tears, and written with meekness of the our Master's courage.

For almost two decades now, this simple statement:

'Twas Love whose finger traced aloud,
a bow of promise on the cloud..."

has given me a lens through which my darkest days have portended the greatest opportunity for Love's light to shine through my heart and become a multi-hued rainbow of promise. 

I did not leave camp early that summer.  Instead I discovered how beautiful life can be when love passes through the prism of our tears and paints the world with light, and color, and grace.

I hope that if you are feeling the lowering of clouds, you can find promise in Eddy's words.  Words she poured out in tears, to give each of us fresh hope.

with Love,
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

Here is the link, for those of  you who might prefer the more classic Beatles version of "Here Comes the Sun."

And for a rare performance by George Harrison, Ringo Starr, Eric Clapton, and Phil Collins here is another version of "Here Comes the Sun." 

"Tender shepherd, tender shepherd..."

"Tender shepherd,
tender shepherd
watches over all her sheep.
One say your prayers,
and two close your eyes,
and three, safe and happily
fall asleep..."

I've always loved the lullaby "Tender Shepherd" from the 1954 musical version of J.M. Barrie's Peter Pan. It seems a fitting soundtrack for this post. 

My 2010 summer at the Adventure Unlimited Ranches is fast coming to a close, and what I have witnessed of God's love, guidance, protection, and care in the lives of campers, counselors, and staff, is staggering.  I stand in awe of His omnipotence and grace.

There are so many stories that are not mine to tell.  I pray that those whose lives have been transformed and healed will find ways to share what they have experienced...during peak climbs, along the river, through on mountain biking trails, and in cabins...with loved ones.  I will hold, what I have witnessed of their journeys, in my heart, in sacred confidence...forever.

This afternoon I was praying about how to say thank you to one of my "partners" in this adventure...the Christian Science nurse, who is also here to support healing in our camp community.  Being able to work shoulder-to-shoulder, and heart-to-heart, with such devoted spiritual caregivers, is a holy gift each summer.  This poem is a song of love to my friend Laura, and, in truth, to each of the nurses I have had the privilege of partnering with over many summers at camp...I love you...



she arrives
in a cloud of stardust,
a moonbeam,
a whisper of
peace,
peace,
always "peace"

her hands are
deft and
gentle...
strong and pure,
ready,
willing,
skilled,
kind...

but it is her
eyes,
her smile,
the touch of something
deeper than
a surgeon's
probe...
it is
a love
that reaches
to still
the aching of a broken heart,
calms persistent pain,
staunches sudden fear...

do not be
fooled, 
do not be
distracted by
the
bandages and
soft cloth she will use to wipe
away the dust and
tears,
they
are not the substance of
her work,
they
are only symbols of
her heart...
so focused on
"binding up the broken hearted"
and
rejoicing in
the baptism
"submergence in Spirit"

in her heart
a manger
becomes a temple,
and the basin of water
is transformed
into
a sacred
font
where all
are bathed,
washed clean,
in
the river of His
pleasures

She is Christ's
servant...
by His side in the
operation of
Truth's curative
care,
comfort's art,
Spirit's touch of regeneration,
Love's first aid...

her balm is laughter
and
she wraps you
in her unfailing
confidence
that
God is All....in all.

Joy rings
out
clear, precise,
laser-like
and
tears are dried in
the warmth of her
beholding,
by the
gentle
breeze of her
movements

a smoothed brow,
a closed wound,
a touch as
soft as the breath of
summer air,
as firm as the mountain
beneath our feet,

She trusts as a
child,
she sings like a lark,
her words are
soft as a butterfly's kiss....

she waits with cool fingers,
she companions with angels, 
she sits in the
sacred space of Mary
while her
Martha hands
care for all
children...
because
in doing so, she 
honors
the boy
who once
brought a message...
of 
"thy sins are forgiven,
rise and walk"

she is my friend,
we are partners,
I am blessed....


this has been one very special summer...thank you for sharing it with me...

rest well tonight....with Love,
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"As the ruby, in the setting..."

"...As the ruby in the setting
As the fruit upon the tree, 
As the wind blows over the plains...
So are you to me..."
- EastMountainSouth

I love this song...love, love, love it.  "So Are You to Me" has been one of my favorite love songs, since the first time I heard it performed by Kat Bode and Peter Adams.   And although it was used to keynote an earlier poem (on this blog), it serves to underscore a different message in this piece, for reasons that I hope will be obvious.

Today, as I was thinking about about Mary Baker Eddy's statement:

"Jesus beheld in Science the perfect man..."

it was this song that I came to mind.  

Over the years, I've have loved hearing it performed during marriage ceremonies. But I could easily see that it is not just a lovely romantic wedding song. It is a song about the kind of love that Jesus shared, so generously...impartially and universally...with everyone he came in contact with.  He loved them enough to behold their perfection (their wholeness) right where they were, right in front of their own eyes. And in doing so, it was possible for them, and others, to see the beauty, power, and grace within themselves. Innate spiritual resources that had the power, and potential to heal, and to bless . 

Not long ago  I wrote about an etymological discovery I had made.  I'd found a definition of the word, "behold," that read:

"to see, and call attention to"

And tonight, as I write this, I am realizing that this is a perfect, and accurate, description of what we do for those we love.  We are "the setting" in which their beauty and brilliance...their color and depth...is revealed, exposed to the light of love's illuminating grace, held high for all to see...each facet full of reflected, dancing light.

I see this in the lives of spiritual thinkers -- mothers, nurses, partners, husbands, healers, parents, teachers, healers, coaches - who see the good, the presence of God, in the lives of others...calling attention to it, for that very individual, and others, to see, experience, and appreciate.

I have experienced this kind of love.  I think that the first time I knew how it felt to "be the ruby in the setting" of someone's love, was with my younger sister.  She was so talented and confident.  She was willing to audition for roles, try-out for dance teams, put herself forward in ways that I was not able to do.  But what she would do...once she "made the team" or "got the part"...was to bring my talents to the attention of coaches and teachers so that I too would have opportunities...opportunities that I would never have had the courage to explore on my own.

So, why has this song become the pure and perfect, quintessential love song for me?  Because, I think, this is what real love is all about.   Holding our loved ones aloft, up to the light, high above even their own view of themselves, so that all of their unique spiritual gifts can be recognized, valued, and used for a holy purpose.

My daughters had a camp counselor last year who did this for them.   She saw that each of the girls had a very different, but equally remarkable, way of working with horses.   She identified one child's deep-settled calm, and placed her on a horse that, in partnership, would reveal how that same peacefulness...coupled with a growing inner confidence...brought out the best in their horse/rider partnership.   She recognized the spirited fearlessness in our other daughter, and put her on a horse that would enjoy her exuberance, while demanding that she develop a sense of quiet strength in her movements.


Each of our daughters' camp counselors have showed a deep, and abiding, love for them that I will never forget.  I think about what I have learned from them...often...in my own relationships with others -- my husband, my daughters, those who call me for help,  friends, colleagues, and those I meet in the course of my day.

When we really love another, we are willing to "be the setting," and not the gemstone.  My sister was never afraid to hold my gifts up to others, and point out how I could be a blessing, a contribution, a jewel of great value to their experience. To truly love another is to not only see, but to "see and call attention to" what they may not...at that moment...be able to see in themselves.

This is love...real love,
Kate