"Nothing new…"

"Old Mr. Webster
could never define
what's being said
between Your heart
and mine..."

Alison Krauss' "When You Say Nothing at All," has been one of my all-time favorite songs for almost thirty years. But it speaks to a different place in me today, than it did the first time I heard it.

In those days, it was all about "Him." Today, it is all about Him. This song reminds me that my relationship with God is not in words, but in the Word. It is not found in a particular scripture or a string of quotes -- however much I love them. It is in, as Mary Baker Eddy suggests in Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, that:

"sweet and certain sense
that God is Love." 

It is a feeling -- not a sentence. It is an indwelling sense of trust in the unseen.  It is that which is insensible to the senses. It is a silent, abiding confidence in His promise:

"Lo, I am with you alway…"
 

There are days when my heart is too full to speak -- or write. Days, when the best I can do, for everyone in my life, is to simply deepen into that sweet and certain place of abiding trust that God is Love. This is the place where my heart finds its ground in free fall. This is where I land when I completely let go of self-determinism and human thought-taking. This is my home in yielding to the divine.

Recently I woke with a heavy heart. The voices of "human reason" were relentless -- and, they made sense. Everything they suggested -- when weighed in the scale of "should haves" - left me feeling negligent, stupid, "Kate, you've-got-your-head-in-the-clouds" naive. I couldn't seem to drown them out with words, sentences, or inspired "thinking."

I lay there with a weight on my chest and a tightness in my throat that was almost unbearable. Words, words, words, -- tumbled around in me like an aggregate of stone and sand in a churning cement mixer. That is, until I remembered to feel. To just feel the power of the Word. I slowed my breathing. I closed my eyes. I moved my focus from my head to my heart and became very quiet -- silent actually. Not just silent in a "no noise" way -- but silent in a "no words" way.

And there it was -- that sweet and certain sense that God is Love. That feeling of "God with us." A feeling that -- no matter what was swirling around me or in my "head" -- God was with me, just because I loved.  Because I felt love. Period.  I let myself feel the love I have for my daughters, my love for camp, my love for my work. I didn't think about my work, I felt my love for my work -- without reason.

It was enough.

I was free. And with this freedom, came the joy of just being -- well, me. The me of God's creating. The me that He inspires, sustains, and calls according to His purpose. Moment-by-moment.

There are many statements from Mary Baker Eddy's writings that have fed and sustained this quiet sense of spiritual self-assurance in my heart.  I'd love to share just a couple of them here, with gratitude and love for her ongoing spiritual guidance.

:

"The infinite Truth of the Christ-cure
has come to this age through a “still, small voice,”
through silent utterances and divine anointing
which quicken and increase the beneficial effects
of Christianity.

I long to see the consummation of my hope,
namely, the student’s higher attainments
in this line of light."

and

"In order to pray aright,
we must enter into the closet
and shut the door.
We must close the lips
and silence the material senses.
In the quiet sanctuary of earnest longings,
we must deny sin and plead God’s allness."
 

I am learning that there is a quiet that is deeper than "no sound." There is a quietness of the heart. A quietness that is the felt presence of God.  It is a stillness.  Rather than a straining and a striving for the right words in "thinking about" God -- it is the actually feeling of God's presence.  It is a spiritual sense of Love that fills the breast. And there are no words -- at least none that I know of -- that can describe its meaning or weight.

In a piece that Eddy chose to include in her last collected writings, The First Church of Christ, Scientist and Miscellany, she begins with this brief statement:

"I have nothing new to communicate,
all is in your textbooks." 

This sentence was a sobering discovery some years ago. Now it is a beautiful gift. If she had nothing new to communicate, why did I think I needed to find something new to say, or a new way to say it. It is all in my textbooks -- the Bible and Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures -- and this realization has given me a more laser-like focus on the richness of those source materials.

It has given me permission to be quiet - to simply share my experiences -- when it seems right. And to be so quietly transfixed on those primary texts, that perhaps anyone who walks into the room wonders, "what is she gazing at -- so lovingly." 

And the funny thing is, that these texts only send me back -- even more deeply -- in search of that feeling of "Immanuel, God with us" -- the sovereign ever-presence [that] delivers the children of men from every ill…"  

For me, this is the healing place, the transforming and redeeming place.  The place where God and men do meet.

offered with Love,

Kate

"I will...."

Last night, as I thought about Valentines Day and considered songs that spoke to me of enduring love and the beauty of "being known." And it was Lennon and McCartney's I will…" that came to mind. Here is a earlier post from 2012 -- and with a few tweaks -- it still rings true for me.

"Who knows how long I've loved you..."

"Who knows how long I've loved you
You know I love you still
Will I wait a lonely life time
If you want me to I will

For if I ever saw you
I didn't catch your name
But it never really mattered
I will always feel the same

Love you forever and forever
Love you with all my heart
Love you whenever we're together
Love you when we are apart…"
- Lennon/McCartney

I have always felt this way about my children and my husband.  It is as if I have always known them.  And when I say always, I don't mean as far back as their birth -- or mine -- but to and from infinity and beyond. 

And meeting someone new -- a family member of a friend -- has often been more of an, "oh, I remember you," than a "nice to meet you."

There is always something vaguely familiar poking at the edges my heart. It is almost as if I've seen them somewhere before. But the details of the memory elude me.  There is an, "oh yes, there you are" to the shade of green in my eldest daughter's eyes. A foreverness in the way my sister's fingers feel -- slender and cool in my hand -- as we talk about hopes, and dreams, and heartbreak.

It is found in the graceful beauty of my girlfriend's gestures and mannerisms whenever she's animated about something. It is in the sharp intake of breath, and then the shy girlish giggle, when my mother is startled. I hear it in the sound of another daughter's voice singing from behind my seat in the car.   And the way her sister's eyes well up at the thought of a homeless puppy waiting for adoption at the neighborhood Petsmart.  It is in the color of the African veld at sunset. These are things that feel as timeless and familiar as the strains of an ancient lullaby.

I have written about my confidence in the eternality of life -- when a loved one has passed. But I feel this same sense of timelessness about a child's birth, meeting a new friend, or discovering love.

Carly Simon sings in "Life is Eternal":

"Life is eternal
And Love is immortal
And death [birth] is only a horizon
And the horizon
Is nothing save
The limit of our sight..."

I believe that the horizon we call birth, is nothing but the limit of what we remember.  And the timeline of measured moments between birth and death which we refer to as life -- and then try to extend as long as possible -- is just one chapter in a very long book. Just one more expanse of prairie, between mountain ranges. Simply the stretch of landscape we can see in a given moment. But not the end -- or the beginning -- of the journey itself. 

Early memories -- our own, or those of someone who claims to have been there -- seems to define the beginning of our lives.  But what if these moments -- when we recognize something familiar, in someone we are meeting for the first time -- is really just a glimpse beyond the last horizon.

I only know that when my husband laughs, I often feel that I have known that sound longer than my own name -- or his.  I know that his hand at the small of my back -- gently steering me out of harms way -- is as enduringly familiar, as my own hand against my cheek in sleep.

It gives me great pause to think that perhaps we are rarely meeting anyone for the first time. Maybe we are just reconnecting on this side of the last horizon.

"…And when at last I find you
Your song will fill the air
Sing it loud so I can hear you
Make it easy to be near you
For the things you do endear you to me
And you know I will
I will…"

Here is a link is to my favorite recording of
I will…" by Alison Krauss

always -- and again,
Kate

"forged by fire, tempered by water..."

"Oh sisters,
let's go down,
come on down,
don't you want to go down,
down in the river to pray..."

I love this scene from "O Brother Where Art Thou," and especially Alison Krauss' Down in the River to Pray." But it was last week's Bible study on baptism, that led me to some new spiritual imagery. It came as a memory. One I hadn't thought of for a long time. We'd taken a trip to an historic village where participants re-enacted the lives of 18th century tradesmen, farmers, and families. A bustling community with thatched cottages and kitchen gardens.

I was most fascinated, at the time, by the blacksmith. Strong and silent, he forged lumps of molten metal into horseshoes, hinges for doors, farm implements, and tools. It all seemed like magic to me. Watching him submerge his quarry, first into the fire...in order to soften, bend and shape it, then into a large vessel of cold water...to harden it so that he could test it's shape, and further hone it's sharpness, was like a dance of heat and steam.

So, when our Bible lesson last week, referred back and forth to baptism by fire, then baptism by water...it was this blacksmith imagery that set me thinking about the spiritual essence of these elements as they relate to "sacrament," which Webster defines as "an outward and spiritual sign, of an inward and spiritual grace."

Mary Baker Eddy, in particular, references water and fire over-and-over again in her writings, but I loved thinking them in the context of "smithing," particularly with statements like:

"The furnace separates the gold from the dross that the precious metal may be graven with the image of God.”

"Millions of unprejudiced minds -- simple seekers for Truth, weary wanderers, athirst in the desert -- are waiting and watching for rest and drink. Give them a cup of cold water in Christ's name, and never fear the consequences."

I know it may seem like a bit of a stretch, but to me, this is what Jesus' life is a model of...being softened in the fire of God's love...for bending and shaping, molding and exalting, and then being "set" by the cool waters of spiritual refreshment....the silence that comes in the quietness of prayer. Again, Mary Baker Eddy gives such a lovely sense of this spiritual refreshment when she states:

"Jesus prayed, he withdrew from the material senses to refresh his heart with brighter, with spiritual views."

Perhaps his tempering, with the cold water of spiritual stillness, came from within...from deep draughts of prayer. The cup of cold water that set the shape of his heart.

I was thinking about this heating and cooling as I considered the way a goldsmith works. He heats up lump, and the impurities, or dross, fall away from the ingot of gold. But this heating, this baptism of fire, also softens the gold so that it can be graven with the image he wishes to set, as his seal, his signet in the gold. Once the image is right, he submerges the same piece in the cold water to set that image in place.

Isn't this what Jesus' life...and ours, if we truly follow him...is all about. Surrendering to those experiences that forge a new compassion in us. A compassion that is not just soft enough to envelope the world's hurts, but graven with the power of the Word, and set with a holy purpose. We don't have to look beyond the gospels to find an example of this kind of self-surrender.

Jesus lived it from Bethlehem to Calvary. Back and forth he goes from the furnace to the cup. Exalted as a babe, rebuked at twelve, anointed at Jordan, tempted in the wilderness, revered by thousands, betrayed by loved ones...crucified, resurrected...back and forth...fires that soften his heart with compassion and understanding, waters that refresh him with the "bright and imperishable views" of his calling. And always, baptized with the deep draughts of Principle-based spiritual law.

I think it's like that for us, too. I know it has been for me. It is out of those furnace experiences...which at the time seem more like self-imposed "trials by fire"...that I've seen the dross of "judging others" fall away, had my view of the situation soften with compassion, and watched my willingness to extend that cup of cold water - in Christ's name - refreshed with a holy sense of purpose and affection.

Fire and water, fire and water, fire and water....

Isn't this, in fact, the last image we have of him...a fire on the beach, next to the sea, with his disciples.


I often have to ask myself, "Do I think a life of lavender-scented bathwater; gentle, soft-fingered tracings; and fires that I only have to come close enough to warm my hands by, but not so close that I am in danger of self-immolation, is better for some reason than the furnace and the cup?" Is that what I really want?

No....I want his purifying fire. I want to feel my hard-heartedness melt into "the form of the forth." I want to feel the point of a diamond, and the pen of an angel, engraving the Truth on my consciousness. And, I want to be set in place...and in purpose...by the law of Love. I want to be forged and tempered by His hand.

There's more that Love is unfolding to my heart about His "smithing" in my life -- but for now...

with Love,

Kate

In this context, I am enjoying re-reading this post, from last Spring, aboutWhat Water Can Do," as Johnny Diaz sings.

"A haven from my unbelief..."

"In this world I walk alone
with no place to call my own.
But there's one who holds my hand
the rugged road, through barren lands...

The way is dark,
the road is steep,
but He's become my eyes to see.
The strength to climb
my griefs to bear
The Saviour lives inside me there...

In your love I find release
A haven from my unbelief
Take my life and let it be
a living prayer, my God to Thee..."

"A haven from my unbelief..."  I remember the first time I heard this little snippet of lyric from Allison Krauss' "A Living Prayer."  There was, in her voice, such sweet compassion.  A gentle "I've been there" spoke to the place in my heart that sometimes felt tight and tense with blind faith -- the kind of faith that hadn't yet blossomed into understanding.

And it was in the safe harbor of this haven that I finally allowed myself to dive into the deep waters of, "Lord I believe, help thou mine unbelief." It was here that I would explore the buoying properties of a new truth.  Here I could open up and surrender to a wider, broader view of God and the meaning of His presence in my life -- and in the world.

I can still feel the cool breeze of that late October day.  The way it billowed the gauzy white linen curtains.  The softness of its touch as it came through the French doors in my office -- open wide to the last golden light of that Indian summer day. 

I was sitting at my desk, books and dictionaries spread in front of me.  Head in my hands, I was praying for "understanding." When it washed over me, I had been seeking "understanding" as a noun -- something I thought I could get, find, have, own.  But in an instant I sensed something new -- something that I had never really grasped in the context of my spiritual hunger. Understanding was a verb -- a way of being in the world.  It was something I could be -- rather than have.

Mary Baker Eddy's statement from Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures:

"...understanding is not intellectual,
is not the result of scholarly attainments;
it is the reality of all things brought to light."

came alive for me.

I had been studying, exploring, searching for understanding.  But what I suddenly saw was that if I wanted to be a person of understanding, I had to be an understanding person.  I had to be thoughtful, compassionate, non-judgmental -- willing to look at a situation through a kinder lens, with better eyes. I needed to exercise vision -- look at everything through the eyes of understanding, the eyes of love.  This divine viewpoint would bring "to light" God's presence in every moment, with every person, through all things.

Understanding became a behavior that transcended my unbelief.  It no longer matter what I believed -- or for that matter, what anyone believed.  What mattered was what the light of Love revealed about everyone, in every situation. What mattered was whether I was thinking in accordance with Love's understanding of things -- moment-by-moment. 

It didn't matter whether someone else felt impelled to share gossip. Or if I was hearing news reports about a terrorist attack on refugees along the Gaza. My response had to be "understanding."  To not judge [self]righteous judgment, but to judge every man according to his/her indissoluable relationship with God. 

I had the right to affirm that no one could disassociate him/herself from God's presence and power. This understanding of that one true fact, gave me the courage to trust God's Word "to enrich the affections of all mankind and govern them." (from Mary Baker Eddy's "The Daily Prayer").  It freed me to think, speak, and act with kindness, compassion, gentleness, and grace -- no matter what is going on around me.  No matter what I may not understand. Whether or not it fit within the paradigm of my own beliefs.

Understanding is my haven from unbelief.  Understanding -- compassion, kindness, non-judgment -- is a way of being in the world that lifts us into the space of living love. Within this sanctuary of understanding, we become a practical, effective, breathing, walking, living prayer -- a prayer that heals.

with Love,

Kate


[photo of Lindsey Arthur Tamm by Sune Tamm-Buckle 2010]

"...simple and profound..."

"Tis the gift to be simple,
'Tis the gift to be free.
'Tis the gift to come down
where we ought to be.
And when we find ourselves
in the place just right,
it will be in the valley
of love and delight..."

I woke with "Simple Gifts" as my morning prayer.  Simple gifts.  Nothing complex, complicated, or difficult, but simple. sweet, and timeless.  As ancient, and new, as the first cry of a baby.  Thirteenth century Sufi poet, Hafiz says:

"We should make all spiritual talk simple today."

Over 600 years later, spiritual reformer, Mary Baker Eddy would write:

"When hearts speak, however simple the words,
its language is always acceptable
to those who have hearts."

and elsewhere in her primary work on spiritual healing, Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, she would state:

"Love one another," is the most simple
and profound counsel of the inspired writer."

Here is my heart's simple reflection, in its native tongue:

The ego
begs for words...

it wants me to
say something

it 
pleads
for pithy platitudes,
researched,
inspired,
scholarly words,
rich with
similes and metaphors
perfectly mined quotations,
poetry that sings
like notes
from the
lute of a repentant King...
prayers that
will turn the key...
treatments
that unlock the door
to the
inner sanctum
of the
temple.

But they
have no
power
anywhere,
but in the heart of
the inner ear,
the space of the hearing,
the heart of the
hungry who
sits waiting
for
a simple
wafer,
a
sip
of
wine...

My words,
her words,
his words,
their words...
are interesting,
beautiful,
rich with allegory.

They are woven with
golden threads of
Scripture
and
the musings of
a
saint
who walked the
streets of
India
feeding
children,
or a prince
who
sat beneath
a tree
and wept
for
all
the pain
he'd never
seen.

But these words
themselves,
they do not
heal,
transform,
liberate...
cure.

"Love one another."

Love.

simply, love...

love one.
just one,
then,
love another...and
another...

love.

It is enough.

The Quakers understood it from the space of extended silence and a deep cavernous listening for the echoing of His breath upon their heart.  And they sway to the music that sings without words, without complex stanzas and a carefully turned phrase...and they bow to His calling, and bend to His will, and turning, turning...they come round right within themselves....within the kingdom...within.  Where simplicity is a delight.

"When true simplicity is gained
To bow and to bend,
we will not be ashamed.
To turn, to turn
will be our delight.
Till by turning, turning
we come round right."

Simply....gratefully,
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"Down to the river to pray..."

"As I went down in the river to pray,
Studying about that good old way,
And who shall wear the starry crown,
Good Lord, show me the way.

O sisters let's go down,
Let's go down, come on down,
O sisters let's go down, 
Down in the river to pray..."
- traditional gospel performed by Alison Krauss

I have loved going "Down in the River to Pray"over, and over again, this week. I've allowed myself to return to Fresh Pond, our little estuary just north of Cape Cod, and live in the space of Tuesday's post "so like still water" when I've been able to carve out moments for silent reflection.   And since past, present and future coalesce in the beauty of  an eternally infinite now, I've been listening for how I can discover from the classroom of yesterday, the lessons of today.  And how, through the simple lens of humility, I can let the ego dissolve in ashes of Love's strange, refining fires, and allow another self to evolve towards an "advancing thought", as Mary Baker Eddy suggests in one of my favorite passages from the first page of Miscellaneous Writings 1883 - 1896, and recently shared by two very dear friends:

"Humility is the stepping stone to a higher recognition of Diety. The mounting sense gathers fresh forms and strange fire from the ashes of dissolving self, and drops the world. Meekness heightens immortal attributes only by removing the dust that dims them. Goodness reveals another scene and another self seemingly rolled up in shades, but brought to light by the evolutions of advancing thought, whereby we discern the power of Truth and Love to heal the sick."

[Thanks S. and J. - for your wonderful reminders about this statement...it so perfectly describes exactly how I felt revisiting the pond. ]

One of my favorite spiritual practices for listening, and learning, at the feet of divine Love, is "dictation."  Just sitting with pen in hand...poised over the pages of a journal or legal pad...heart open, listening for more love-lessons from the voice of the Great Teacher....and then writing whatever comes.

This week I have returned to Her classroom at the water's edge.  It wasn't long before I realized, while writing "...so like still water..." that the lesson, from a rainy morning two dozen years ago, may not have been finished just because I was ready to get back to the house and begin putting into practice some  of the threads and strands of practical wisdom I'd been able to glean from that morning's curriculum on stillness.

So this week,  I slipped into the back row of Her lecture hall on the shoreline, into that space of stillness, and asked the Teacher for more.  And She didn't leave me hungry.  One afternoon I listened to Her speak on the subject of "simplicity" and its critical role in my usefulness to Her.  Simplicity is something I have been striving to live, with more purpose and practicality, over the course of the last few years.  So her subject-matter was timely and meaningful.  I now have pages and pages of class notes to ponder, but one recent dictation was so arresting, that I can't help but let it sing me forward on a river of prayer, and share it here with you:

"I am here.  I have shown up in this moment, on purpose, to listen and to learn.  How important is simplicity to my purpose in serving you?

Simplicity in purpose is not just important to Me, it is essential.  Water (H2O) is a simple chemical equation.  It is made up of two hydrogen molecules and one oxygen molecule.  In this simplicity is the profound breadth of its function and usefulness to Me.  A drop of water doesn't seek out elemental change.  It doesn't try to be something it is not.  It just shows up, simply and authentically, as H2O and therein is its genius.  It is always ready for whatever I need it to be.  It doesn't decide to be refreshing water, it doesn't try to be clear water, or seek a degree in buoyancy, or get credentialed in purification.  It just is what it is...H2O.  So it shows up as water.

And since you've asked, an even simpler element is Oxygen.  One oxygen molecule is critical to life, but only in its pure simplicity.  It is silent, invisible, vital...there is not a breath taken, not a sound made, not a leaf moves without its presence.  Hmmm...that sounds like Me, Spirit, doesn't it? 

You are my daughter.  You are enough. You don't need to be something more, have something more, get something more, want something more.  The more purely and simply you just show up as you...in your truth, the more useful you are to me in serving my creation in an infinite number of ways.  The more you try to be something, inhabit a role, take on an office, or make a name, the less ready you are for whatever I need you to be at a moment's notice.

You are most useful to me in your simplest "form"...that effortless consciousness of your worth as the reflection of  Me, the one and only I AM that is...in all my Allness...in all.   The less you drag around with you...names, histories, resumes, degrees, expertise, credentials...the less roles you try to occupy, the more vital, valuable, and useful you are to me.  If you will just show up each moment ready to be anything I need you to be, based on the elemental balance of PMSSLTL (Principle, Mind, Soul, Spirit, Life, Truth, Love) to the infinite degree or measure - your one real truth,  the more ways I can give you as a covenant...a promise of my Love..."

So, I am just showing up in the river to pray, studying about that good old way, not caring about "who shall wear the starry crown," but each moment asking, "O Lord, show me the way...."

your student...
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"There must be a reason for it all..."

"…Hurtin' brings my heart to You,
a fortress in the storm
When what I wrap my heart around is gone
I give my heart so easily to the ruler of this world
When the one who loves me most will give me all

In all the things that cause me pain
You give me eyes to see
I do believe but help my unbelief
I've seen hard times and I've been told
There must be a reason for it all…"
- Alison Krauss

This song brings me back to my core, a place of deep centering in Christ.  It fills me with a sweet sadness, an abiding joy, and an unshakeable peace…all at once.  It reminds me that often the deepest wellsprings of joy have been carved out by sharp experiences which leave the heart aching and sore…for a moment. 

A dozen years ago I learned that there are times when almost indescribable pain could actually be giving birth to a moment of profound grace. 

It's no surprise to regular readers of this blog that becoming a mother was, for me, a long and arduous spiritual journey.  Infertility, miscarriages, a collapsed adoption, and eventually the birth and adoption of our precious daughter had brought me to a moment of deep joy.  Prayer, surrender, yielding, hope, trust in God's love, and gratitude…were the true waymarks on this climb, and I was ready to enjoy the view from this summit of motherhood. 

She was "all of my dreams coming true".  Every day with her was a blessing wrapped in pure joy, pastels, and ponytails.  She often mentioned her desire for a baby brother or sister…like her best friend had…but expanding our family was not something we were focusing on.  It was about this time that I, quite by surprise, found myself pregnant once again.  Over the years I was aware that I had conceived a number if times, but usually lost the pregnancy by the third month. 

This time things seemed quite different.  By the fourth month I was still showing signs that the pregnancy was established and had begun to "show".  I held my breath as we shared our good news with family and friends.  I wore loose fitting clothes and became more confident each day as my belly swelled along with my hope. 

I was happy, but hesitant.  At one point I remember mentally rushing ahead and imagining myself holding our new baby in my arms and becoming the mother of two.  When a voice from within said, "Be grateful for this moment."  This message really resonated with me.  At different points while we were adopting our daughter, I would become so concerned with the endless International redtape, immigration details and steps towards finalization, that I was barely able to enjoy the fact that I was in Africa with our new baby…my dream come true on many levels. I didn't want to miss even one moment this time around...with this baby, or with our daughter who was so excited about having a new baby in the family. "Be grateful for this moment." I could do this.

In fact, this message became a way for me to remember to back up and re-focus on the moments at hand.  That year I really enjoyed Christmas as a family of three.  I appreciated walking my daughter to school and having one-on-one time with her…something that would change after the baby was born.  I relished not sucking in my tummy and enjoyed the small swell of pregnancy I could rest my hand lovingly on throughout the day.  I enjoyed the simple pleasures of pregnancy not as a means to an end, but as a very complete and satisfying moment…each moment.

One Sunday after our church service I was visiting with other members and visitors in the lobby when I started feeling very tired.  I excused myself and retired to a row of seats in the rear of the auditorium to be quiet and pray.  At first my prayers were a humble "please take care of us…please don't let anything happen to this baby sister for our daughter," and then I remembered, "be grateful for this moment". 

I looked around me and couldn't help but be filled with gratitude.  My heart whispered, "...be it unto me, according to Thy will" (Luke). I was sitting in our beautiful sanctuary, there were flowers on the dias, the sun was shining through the diamond-shaped panes in the windows that lined each wall.  The branches of the large pine trees outside were brushing the sky and scattering sunlight as it came through the glass and sent Tinkerbelle shadows flitting across the walls.  And it was quiet…so quiet and peaceful.  The thought came, "Well, it's just the two of us in here right now".  Not, "I'm here alone praying"  But, "the two of us…"  I hadn't let myself go there before.  But in that moment we were really an "us" for the first time in my head…since my heart had long-since loved her.

It didn't happen immediately, but as I continued to sit there enjoying our Us-ness, alone in that quiet church sanctuary, I felt, for the first time, a gentle flutter of movement under the curve of my belly.  I didn't jump, I wasn't surprised, it was as natural and sweet as having a butterfly land on your arm when you are in an English garden full of aromatic herbs and flowers.  The longer I sat there the more she gently moved...brushing a tiny hand or foot along my ribs as tenderly as an angel's fingers on the strings of a lute.  And I sat there for a long time.  I had never been this far along in a pregnancy.  As much as I had prayed, I had never expected to be this pregnant much less feel a child move within me. It was a gift.  And in that moment I wasn't looking ahead, I was fully in the moment of that experience.

Over the next weeks I continued to feel her move and stretch ever so delicately even though my tummy didn't seem to be growing quite as much as I had expected it would.  Then one day I realized that she had stopped moving.  I prayed and stayed as still as possible until one day she passed from me.

At first I was absolutely devastated, so deeply sad that I wasn't going to be able to share her movement, her life, and her joy with my daughter...and her dad.  I was afraid I had somehow disappointed everyone who expected to love her and hold her and watch her grow.  I felt like a failure.  What had I done wrong? Was I being punished for past mistakes? How could I have prayed more effectively, protected her, nurtured her, loved her...better.  My thoughts became darker and darker. 

In the midst of this darkness, when I thought I might just shatter into a million little shards of emotional glass, the thought came, "You never thought you'd ever have that feeling and you did…be grateful."

And I was. 

I know that my second daughter is as alive for me today as are my other children.  I trust that she is growing strong and learning the lessons of Love that God has always intended for her to learn in His care.

When I think of that time I don't feel sadness or regret…I feel great joy and gratitude. I am a very blessed mom with three amazing daughters to adore and cherish each day.  Because of that experience I have realized that the love I feel for our (now) three daughters is exactly the same searingly profound love I felt for that sweet baby under my ribs one sunlit morning in church…no different at all..it just grows deeper each day.   My peace came softly...and it took months to find solid ground again, but I learned so much from that pregnancy.  And when I am most uncertain of what my future holds or how something will work out, I can return to that moment in the back of the church and sit with my hand on my tummy and remember how it feels to be silent in His presence...and surprised by His love. 

I never expected to feel her move…it was enough.

"A mother's affection cannot be weaned from her child,
because the mother-love includes purity and constancy,
both of which are immortal. 
Therefore maternal affection lives on
under whatever difficulties."
- Mary Baker Eddy

with Love,
Kate

"Your grace provides for me..."

"If I could have the world and all it owns
A thousand kingdoms, a thousand thrones
If all the earth were mine to hold
With wealth my only goal

I'd spend my gold on selfish things
Without the love that Your life brings
Just a little bit more is all I'd need
'Til life was torn from me

I'd rather be in the palm of Your hand
Though rich or poor I may be
Faith can see right through the circumstance
Sees the forest in spite of the trees
Your grace provides for me..."
-Alison Krauss

I've been thinking about this song quite a bit since last week.  In my Bible study was the story of Jesus' breakfast meeting with his disciples on the shore of the Gallilean Sea.  These men had experienced their master's crucifixion and had witnessed proof of his resurrection.  But let's face it, he was gone.  They no longer had a Leader whose vision would set their course.  Who would choose which dusty roads to take from village to village?  How could they continue a ministry of healing when there was no longer a great healer with them, someone who could perform the miracles.    They were more than happy to talk about the gospel message of a kingdom of heaven within, but let's face it, people were looking for those miracles.  Without his vision and leadership they might as well go back to fishing, collecting taxes, building boats.  They had to do something…right?  How else would they provide for themselves and their families?

So there they are back out on the sea toiling all night.  Casting their nets, pulling them in empty and then recasting.  Over and over again.  It's in the midst of this task...a task they know so well they can do it in their sleep...that some guy comes along and shouts at them from the shore.  He tells them they should cast their nets on the right side and then they would find.  So they do.  And they are barely able to draw the nets in for the multitude of fishes.

Now, according to the story, they still don't know that it's Jesus who made this suggestion.  But once they pull their little boat onto the shore and notice that this same guy has a fire going and fish and bread prepared for their breakfast, and is beckoning them with a "Come and dine", they know it is him. 

Okay, so I know this story pretty well.  I have read it over and over again.  But for some reason this last week it held a profound new message for me.  Perhaps it is because I know so many people who are looking for jobs, are in jobs they don't love, or feel stuck in careers that feel mechanical because they can't imagine changing course without taking a considerable cut in income – something they can not afford to do in today's climate of economic instability.  And then there are those who just have dreams that they can't even think about without feeling such deep sadness because they see no way to explore them and still provide for themselves and their families.
This is where this story reached me this last week. 

And it spoke to me in a new way.  For the first time I saw that Jesus doesn't wait for them to bring the fish they have caught to shore so that he can feed them.  Their "provision" was not dependent on their fishing.  It was as if Jesus were saying, "if you're going to return to fishing, cast your net on the right side...do it for the right reason.  Do it because you love it.  But not because you won't eat if you don't.  Here I'm going to feed you anyway.  And not only with fish, but with bread."

It was as if he was saying to them, "If you are fishing for the right reason…because you love it, because you feel a calling for that work,…you will be successful.  But if it's only because you're afraid you will starve if you don't, here let me show you that you are going to be fed no matter what.  God is going to take care of you anyway.  And since this is true…see, I am feeding you now…what is it that God, Spirit is impelling you to do in order to be about your Father's business?"

Jesus makes such a distinction in this act between the work they are doing, and their right to be fed...to be provided for.   Perhaps he feeds them not because they caught fish, but to show them that there is no connection between catching fish and being fed.  He was going to feed them anyway.  The coals were already burning, the bread was already baking, the fish were already prepared and waiting.

This story has really meant a lot to me this past week. 

Last night we were sitting with friends, after church, talking about the music industry.  Often the theme returned to how to make a living while pursuing a career in the arts.  The whole "starving artist" paradigm says that if you aren't "big"…a star, someone with a recording contract with a major label, or someone whose name attracts hordes of screaming fans…you won't make a decent living in this business, but will have to do jobs you don't love just to pay the rent.   

But that paradigm feeds off the attending belief that what you do is directly connected to how well you are able to provide for yourself and your loved ones.  What if we discovered that they are not connected?  What if God really would take care of us, provide for our needs…in ways that we can't even imagine…just because He loves us.  What if it isn't a job we should be looking for, but a new way of thinking and living?  What if what we do (as a "career") should only be determined by what we love and are divinely inspired (by Love) to do?

I had a paperweight once that said, "What would you do if you knew you could not fail?"

Just thought I'd share some questions I've been considering this week…with Love,
Kate

"...to be simple..."

'"Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free,
'Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be,
And when we find ourselves in the place just right,
'Twill be in the valley of love and delight.
When true simplicity is gain'd,
To bow and to bend we shan't be asham'd,
To turn, turn will be our delight,
Till by turning, turning we come round right."
- Elder Joseph

"Simple Gifts" happens to be one of my favorite songs…of all times.  In the last few years I have been learning the true beauty of its message.  But as with all things spiritual, the depths to which we can plumb an idea is unfathomable in its inspiration, practicality, and application.  

This past week "simplicity" has been a powerful theme in my prayers…and in my approach to choices and decisions.  What is the simplest route to a destination?  How can I simplify a concept shared, directions for a recipe, the steps in accomplishing a task.  What are the simple joys of family?  How can I bring greater simplicity to my spiritual practices.   Little things like packing for an overnight, choosing a gift, praying with a friend, were more joy-filled and fitting, as I let simplicity be my criteria for human actions.

In the third volume of his biographical trilogy on the life of thought-leader Mary Baker Eddy, Years of Authority, Robert Peel shares Eddy's criteria for the workers in her household.  Eighteen years ago, after reading this biography, I adopted them as the standards by which I "run" my own inner household.  They are:

close attention to detail
strict neatness and order
a simplified and systematic way of life
and
a breath-taking genius for improvisation

It was once shared with me, by another of her biographers, that Eddy believed the fourth, that "breath-taking genius for improvisation," could only be accomplished after mastering the first three.

So "simplicity" and I go way back.  I love harvesting my life's baggage.  Clothes not worn are recycled, cooking is done is small enough portions so that we don't have left-overs, and I try to never touch a piece of paperwork twice…processing it the first time in comes through my hands as often as I can.  One of the ways that I have been recently inspired and blessed by the demands of simplifying my life has been in my listening to God when praying and giving treatment.  Simplicity has been a gift that keeps on giving.   

But this past week, right in the midst of this movement towards greater simplicity, I found myself wrestling with a decision that seemed so complex in scope that I tossed and turned for hours and hours in the dark trying to find direction and peace.

I lined up pros and cons, I measured and re-measured the impact of each possible outcome, I wrestled with cost analyses and the consequences…of taking the left or right turn…on everyone involved.   One moment the left-hand choice seemed so obviously right.  And in the very next moment, the right hand was even more right than the left.  I was so far right at one point that I had circled back to left because I couldn't remember where I was.  As you can see…confusion ensued and I was dizzy from the journey.

It was at this point, when it all felt like a blur of human choices between two rights and no real wrongs,  that a conversation with my husband brought the light I desperately needed.  I was in the dark trying to find my way out of the complex labyrinth I had wandered into - with all my human reasoning, pros and cons, weighing of cost, value, consequences and impact studies - when he called.  He had been harvesting some files and came across a note to himself with this statement (if anyone recognizes it and can share its source please do):

The simplicity of the Christ,
untangles the complexity of human affairs.

Something in me clicked.  All my wrangling and wrestling had been based on nouns.  Persons, places, and things.  But for me, the Christ is a verb…and is all about verbs.  Motives, intents, actions.  What were my motives, what was the intent, what did I need to be doing?  The nouns, the whos and wheres would fall into place, clearly, when I was sure of the verbs.  So then I thought about what would accomplish the greatest good for the greatest number…not me or him, or her, or them...but all. 

Which option was Christ-like…kind, non-judgmental, honest, selfless, pure, compassionate, humble, good, meek, caring?

It was clear…there was no decision to be made, no choice to consider…just a simple direction to begin walking in. I have no idea where it will lead. I only know that by keeping my focus on the simple verbs of Christianity, those verbs will give birth to whatever nouns are needed to carry out their mission and purpose. The same way that light in the first chapter of Genesis, gives birth to the sun. The verb, light (isn't this what the sun does...light our path, lighten the universe), came first...the sun naturally followed.

I'm looking forward to this journey.  I'll be embarking on a path I've never taken before…someone once said to me (and again if you know the source of this statement, please share it with me so that I can give proper attribution):

If you want something you've never had
You have to do something you've never done.

This level of simplicity is something I've "never done"….perhaps I'll get to that "breath-taking genius of improvisation" someday, but for today, tis' enough of a gift…to be simple.

Simply with Love,
Kate


If you love Alison Krauss and Yo-yo Ma's version of "Simple Gifts"as much as I do, here is the link to that recording as well.

"In the Palm of Your Hand..."

"Embosomed deep in Thy dear love,
   Held in Thy law, I stand:
Thy hand in all things I behold,
   And all things in Thy hand.
Thou leadest me by unsought ways,
Thou turn'st my mourning into praise."

I have lived in 50 houses, 10 states, and 44 cities, towns, villages, or municipalities in my lifetime.  Lived, mind you, not just visited. I have packed and unpacked, been assigned or chosen a bedroom, decided which drawer to put the silverware in and which cupboard best housed the plates versus the glasses.  I have repainted or papered hundreds of walls….bedrooms in pink, lilac, pale blue, cabbage roses, mint green or Laura Ashley stripes as well as more than my share of the Navajo white which is the standard “neutral” for most rental properties. I can map the trajectory of my life in color trends for kitchens from 50’s diner aqua through avocado, harvest gold, Williamsburg blue, persimmons, cobalt, khaki, butter yellow and periwinkle…back to cobalt blue and white again.

I have learned to assimilate myself into an empty house so quickly that I can throw a dinner party the night after the move…every picture hung, the pantries organized (call me if you’d like a tip or two), a genuine “Welcome Home” mat in place at the front door.  That said, I find change unsettling.  The biggest demon I’ve had to wrestle to the ground is the one that threatens me with its insidious suggestions of homelessness and destitution. 

At the mere hint of a move my heart pounds, and I need to call my Nomads Anonymous sponsor.  I begin to burrow in deeper and become obsessed with finding the next “right place”, scouring the classified and real estate sections of newspapers (and now the internet) and trolling neighborhoods for rental or “For Sale” signs.

Last Friday I posted a piece that was based on an old Allison Krauss song off her “Now that I Found You” CD.  Writing it made me long for its voice the way I want chocolate after watching an episode of Emeril Live on Food Network during Valentine’s week. 

I must have played "In the Palm of Your Hands," a hundred times over the weekend and was reminded again and again of a move that had a life-transforming effect on my view of the somewhat nomadic life I’ve lived. 

It was 1997 and we had adopted, and brought home, our twin daughters only a few days after moving into a wonderful stone cottage.  OUr older daughter was a gentle, generous, and happy eight-year-old with only one dream…becoming a ballerina.  We loved our home.  The opportunity to live there had come at a time when we were living on a shoestring after relocating to a large city so that I could participate in a global initiative that was very close to my heart.  Initially we rented a sweet house near the project’s headquarters, but when the owner told us that he really needed to sell it before our lease was up, we realized that finding something in our budget would be near impossible.  So we did what we had always done when faced with insurmountable odds…we prayed. 

When the opportunity to rent the charm-filled stone cottage suddenly came into our experience we were thrilled…and grateful.  It was going to be perfect for our small family of five.  It was in the neighborhood where our daughter had already begun attending school after our move from Colorado, near her ballet studio and a short commute from  where my husband and I worked…which was no small miracle in this city.

By the time the girls were six months old we were happily planning for the holidays.  That’s when we received a call from our landlord who informed us that our wonderful, cozy cottage was an environmental hazard for our daughters.  We would have to put all of our things in big black plastic bags and move to a hotel.  Within hours we went from being nestled in our candlelit cottage to facing the harsh light of a large residence hotel lobby where we stood with three small suitcases, baby paraphernalia, our daughter’s schoolbooks, backpack, dance bag, a teddy bear and a very shaken eight year old child who didn’t understand what had turned her life upside down…anymore than I did.  

How had we gotten here?

We were assigned a room. I had all three children asleep in a bed and in portable cribs, and I had unpacked suitcases before my own terror hit.  And boy did it hit.  I felt traumatized.  The honoraria for my project was gone, I had a healing practice but the phone patients called and reached me on was back in the quarantined cottage (this was before I had a cell phone) and my husband’s work, although satisfying, was not consistent.  Our daughter’s school would not let her continue to attend if it was discovered that we weren’t living in the very desirous neighborhood (whose residents it served exclusively), but were living in a hotel forty minutes away. 

On top of that, we had only one car. In order for my husband to get to the office where he could accept the  temporary projects he was being offered, he would have to take our daughter to her school and pick her up later in the day…which meant he would have to leave work well before the end of the work day…which didn’t bode well for him being considered for a permanent hire.   Her ballet studio--her real home away from home, the place where she felt most secure--was another forty minutes away.   Her school schedule would require her dad to pick her up and bring her back to the hotel after school for a few hours, before one of us would have to take her back into the city, a city internationally known for its horrific commuter traffic, to attend her ballet lessons and rehearsals. 

I asked myself again, “How have we gotten here?”

Regret, self-doubt, bitterness were tearing at my spiritual poise.  What had we been thinking when we moved to this part of the country?  Were we that naïve?  We had no money for a down payment or a lease deposit even if we could have found a house in our price range in the third most expensive housing market in the nation.  We didn’t even have enough money to go home to Colorado.  Within a month our hotel stay (which had been paid for by the owner of the cottage) would run out.  It seemed that all my lifelong demons had come to roost on my shoulders and were cackling with glee.  Homelessness and financial destitution were knocking at the door and I didn’t know what we could do to keep them at bay.

I was up all night studying and praying.  For the next two weeks after my husband and daughter left for work and school, I would put the twins in their double stroller and would walk the miles of hallways in the hotel singing hymns and praying, listening quietly, for a spiritual solution. 

I asked myself over and over, “How had we gotten here?”

One evening after a particularly difficult day, I offered to drive our daughter into the city for her ballet lessons. I needed a break from the miles of patterned carpet that I seemed to be drowning in.    My husband was only too willing to stay back in the hotel with the twins and avoid the traffic back into the city until the next morning.

As she and I made our way across the crust of snow and ice in the hotel parking lot, I felt tears of despair begin to freeze on my cheeks.  The Jeep started on the first try, gratefully.  As we sat there waiting for the car to warm up, our daughter reached her small mittened hand across the console between us and into my own.   I felt as if we were so alone.  My own mother had faced years of impending homelessness following my dad’s sudden passing when I was just out of high school and we were left without any resource but prayer.  She had prayed and each day we were cared for.  But it seemed so much more daunting now that I was the mom and I was the one praying.  I missed my mom and my sisters.  Most of all I missed the feeling of being secure and safely nestled in a home. 

Our daughter must have sensed my need to feel connected to a chapter in our lives when we were a family living under our own roof in a little house that we loved with grandmas, aunts and uncles nearby, and our own little coffeehouse to go to work at each day.  She reached into the CD case and pulled out Allison Krauss’ “Now That I’ve Found You” and popped it into the player.  Her voice worked its magic on my heart.  It reminded me that I had known the peace and joy of home, and through our coffeehouse, we had shared it with others.  By the time Allison’s voice reached “In the Palm of Your Hand,” I was ready for its message:

"If I could have the world and all it owns
A thousand kingdoms, a thousand thrones
If all the earth were mine to hold
With wealth my only goal

I'd spend my gold on selfish things
Without the love that Your life brings
Just a little bit more is all I'd need
'Til life was torn from me

I'd rather be in the palm of Your hand
Though rich or poor I may be
Faith can see right through the circumstance
Sees the forest in spite of the trees
Your grace provides for me

If I should walk the streets no place to sleep
No faith in promises You keep
I'd have no way to buy my bread
With a bottle for my bed

But if I trust the One who died for me
Who shed His blood to set me free
If I live my life to trust in You
Your grace will see me through

I'd rather be in the palm of Your hand
Though rich or poor I may be
Faith can see right through the circumstance
Sees the forest in spite of the trees

If I could have the world
If I could have the world and all it owns."

The same insidious question presented itself again. “How had we gotten here?”  But this time I had an answer.  We had gotten there by choosing to leave a life that was comfortable and secure to move to a place where we could engage in a project of such far-reaching spiritual impact that we had had to throw all caution to the wind and jump into an abyss so vast and fathomless that all we could do was trust in God’s care. 

We were not alone.  We were in good company.  Not only were we surrounded day in and day out by colleagues, and their families, who had also made huge sacrifices of self to participate in this initiative, but we were surrounded by spiritual heroes of reform like Jesus, Mary Baker Eddy, Moses, Paul, Nelson Mandela, Mother Theresa, who had surrendered personal comfort and the guarantee of home and hearth for a life that was heart-driven, divinely guided, purposeful and deeply devoted to global transformation and individual wellness.  I was not alone…and neither were my husband, children or colleagues. 

I found a sense of peace that night.  I dropped our daughter off at the ballet studio and went to a local coffeehouse to pray and enjoy the sense of home I found there, with other mothers, students, homeless men and women, and executives…in the palm of His hand. 

I would love to say that things resolved quickly.  Rather it was sometimes a path that felt confusing, messy and scary…but it also provided amazing opportunities to learn about the kindness of strangers, the generosity of friends, the warmth of coffeehouses, bookstores,  and our local church…but most of all I learned that I truly would

“…rather be in the palm of Your hand
Though rich or poor I may be…”

There were months when the solution to our dilemma seemed to keep us separated from one another by thousands of miles, months that were full of personal heartache at being away from my children, but also full of the joy I found in serving a purpose that I truly believed would change our world for the better.  During those days when I ached to hold my babies, I would remember that since we were all living in the palm of His hand, we were never farther apart than a thumb and a pinkie.  That when God closed his hand…around the globe to hold the whole world close…we were even closer to one another.

That chapter of my life was one that taught me that I could feel a sense of home whether I was living in the corner of a generous friend’s studio apartment or in a spacious home on a mountaintop, a penthouse apartment or the backseat of a car.  Home was found in the palm of His hand, not in the world and all it owned.

I am grateful this week to be reminded of this song and the deep sense of home it fills me with.  Some days our twins are just a dozen or so feet away from where I am working late at night, sleeping under their soft, worn-pale petal pink and spring green quilts after we have read to them from the latest chapter book... listening to their daddy sing hymns on the CD player in their room, and other days they return to their dad's apartment after school to play with their beloved dog, Daisy and fall asleep to their daddy singing to them in person or their stepmom reading to them before they nod off. One daughter is in San Francisco starting her life as an adult with an apartment, roommates and a new job.    Our son comes home at night to sleep upstairs in his bedroom under the eaves, but even he is often out late with friends driving them back to the dorm or enjoying a concert.  And my former ballet dancer now lives and goes to school in South Africa and I must calculate time zones before picking up the phone to hear the voice that is dearer to me than I have words to explain.   But no matter what each of us is doing or how far we might seem to be from one another, we are all “In the palm of His hand”... as close as a thumb and a pinkie.  And when He wraps His hand around the world….we are so close that we can whisper to one another…or sing if the Spirit moves us, that…

“His grace will see us through…”

K (& J)

"Sometimes a light surprises...."

"Sometimes a light surprises... The Christian while he sings;
It is the Lord who rises...With healing in His wings.
When comfort seems declining...There comes to us again
A season of clear shining, To cheer us after rain."
- CS Hymnal 313

Alison Krauss and I go way back…not as far back as JT and I, but pretty darn far.  One afternoon as the Colorado sun was cresting the trees just outside the windows of the small coffeehouse we owned across the street from the University’s School of Music, "When God Dips His Pen of Love in My Heart""came on the CD player, and stopped me in my tracks. 

"When God dips His pen of love in my heart
And He writes my soul a message He wants me to know
His spirit all divine fills a sinful soul of mine
When God dips His love in my heart..."

My life seemed to have come full circle.  I had left behind my days of “wine and roses,” the emptiness of climbing ladders and shattering glass ceilings for a life devoted to knowing Him.  I woke up each morning with a burning in my heart to wring out of the day every moment I could with a Father who saw me as His innocent and beloved child. I wanted to know His face and feel His arms around me.  I wanted to breathe in the air of His mercy and never leave the light of His love.   But I also wanted to leave everything that felt unlovely about my past in the dust.  I had made a pact with myself that I wasn’t going to rehash the chapters that had seemed to have left bruises on my heart and scarred my innocence. 

"Well I said I wouldn't tell it to a livin' soul
How He brought salvation and He made me whole
But I found I couldn't hide such a love as Jesus did impart
Well He made me laugh and He made me cry, set my sinful soul on fire
When God dips His love in my heart"

I stood at the counter with Alison’s voice floating around and in and out of my heart…weaving her words through my thoughts like a mother robin bringing bright bits of tinsel found in the snow to lace through the building of her early spring nest.  God’s love had made me laugh…and it had made me cry….and more than anything it had set my soul on fire…to serve, to love, to heal.  How could I ever hide such love?  As I stared past the stained glass panels above the front windows and through the branches of the tall pines across the street and into the fathomless blue of a Colorado sky, I saw my child self...innocent and pure...skipping along holding the hand of the broken teenage me, the tired overachieving young adult me, the weeping betrayed girlfriend me, the frustrated "eldest of eight" sibling me, the burdened daughter of a widow me….and we all had a gift in our hand.  I realized that we all had at least one story to tell of how God had dipped His love in our heart and helped us see our wholeness…our completeness…our integrity, innocence, joy.  These stories were our gifts to share like breadcrumbs on a path of spiritual discovery. 

"...Well sometimes though the way is dreary, dark and cold
And some unburdened sorrow keeps me from the goal
I go to God in prayer, I can always find Him there
To whisper sweet peace to my soul. .."

As I stood there waiting for the scones I had put in the oven to finish baking, the fragrance of God’s message of redeeming peace filled my heart the way the scent of blueberries and lemon filled the coffeehouse.  I had a purpose…

"...Well I said I wouldn't tell it to a livin' soul
How He brought salvation and He made me whole
But I found I couldn't hide such a love as Jesus did impart
Well He made me laugh and He made me cry, set my sinful soul on fire
When God dips His love in my heart..."

“Write these things”…so we write…the teenager, the child, the mother, the career woman, the school principal, the friend, the wife….these are our gifts…to Him..

and to you…

"In holy contemplation
We sweetly then pursue
The theme of God's salvation
And find it ever new.
To God, in light abiding
True praise shall tune my voice
For while in Him confiding
I cannot but rejoice."

Kate