"Christmas wedding bands...."

"I'll be home
for Christmas,
you can count on me..."

Tomorrow, I will walk into a local pawn shop - as I do each Christmas. I will ask the person behind the counter if he/she has a sense that there had been a mom, or dad, over the past few days, who'd needed to pawn something precious to them, in order to make Christmas for their children. Then I will offer to redeem that pawned item.

Later, the person behind the counter will call the owner of the item and ask them to come back and pick it up. I will not know who they are, and they will not know who I am.  This post will be the first time I've shared the details of this very private holiday tradition.  But, it has been the best gift I have given to myself - every year.

Here is why:

The year I turned 11 was especially difficult for our family. The youngest of six children had been born. Dad had been out of work for nine months, and we had lost our home.

In September, Dad found temporary work towing mobile homes cross-country. It was hard work, but he had a large family to feed.

Because we'd lost our own home earlier that year, we were living in a house that was located in a much different neighborhood. We were going to another new school and starting to make friends. Dad was away much of that fall, and in early December he left on another long trip across country. Driving a wide load tractor trailer in the middle of winter was treacherous.

Each day we listened to the weather forecast and hoped that clear skies would allow him to make good enough time to be home for Christmas.

As the other children in our neighborhood talked about the gifts they wanted for Christmas, we, too -- not realizing the financial constraints our parents were under -- asked for new bikes, train sets, a full-size play kitchen, and other childhood gifts.

Mom, being alone with six children, and having no financial support until dad returned to collect his paycheck, could be heard working late into the night. While we were in school she'd gathered orange crates from the local supermarket -- as well as stove burners, knobs, and dials from discarded appliances at the junkyard. She painted the crates, glued on knobs, dials, and burners -- turning another family's junk, into our play kitchen.

A sheet of plywood - found in an abandoned lot - became a miniature town with painted train tracks, twigs glued on for trees, and cardboard houses for neighborhoods and stores. Tiny cardboard cereal boxes with button wheels were painted and strung together to make a train set for my younger brothers.

Slowly our garage became a Santa's workshop, and her treasure bag grew.

While she prepared for Christmas in her way, we prepared for Dad's arrival. In school, each of us had learned a Christmas song that we shared with our younger brothers and sisters. That song, coupled with my new ballet/tap skills, turned us into a song-and-dance troupe that we hoped would "wow" dad on Christmas Eve.

But as Christmas grew near, weather conditions on the other coast became hazardous. Financial constraints prohibited phone calls, so each day we watched and waited, practiced and built.

But no matter how resourceful Mom was at the junkyard, she couldn't come up with the two-wheeler bikes my sister and I dreamed of.

On Christmas Eve, we vowed that we would not go to sleep until we knew that Dad had made it home. But somewhere between Bing Crosby crooning, "The Little Drummer Boy," and "Chestnuts roasting on an open fire..." we dozed off.

The next morning we woke up and quickly gathered the rest of our brothers and sisters. We ran into the front room, and there on the sofa, still in his work clothes, was Dad. Mom was asleep, with her head on his knee.

The Christmas tree had presents under it, but none were as important to us as the picture of our parents sleeping. When they woke up - to our noisy shushing of the younger children, we performed our Christmas songs, to the generous applause of our parents.

We opened our gifts, and each one drew breathless surprise - a homemade kitchen set, the miniature plywood town with it's painted cardboard trains, bowling pins made from felt-covered cardboard tubing filled with dry beans, a hand sewn ball for the baby, doll clothes remade from our too-worn-for-hand-me-down clothing.

Soon we were bustled off to the kitchen for breakfast. Mom asked me to get the milk from the refrigerator, but there was none to be found. With feigned surprise she said she must have left it in the cold, on the back porch. I headed for the back door, but instead of finding a gallon of milk, there were two beautiful new bicycles.

No one was more surprised than our dad. He just stared at Mom's glowing face. I don't think I had even seen her look so happy or so beautiful as that day, sitting at the kitchen table with chin in her hands and her eyes on us.

It would be years before I would notice that her engagement and wedding rings were missing from her hand. They had been pawned, so that she could surprise us with the bikes we'd dreamed of.

For a very long time, I couldn't understand why it had made her so happy to give up the beautiful rings she loved. Rings that had been given to her by someone she loved.  Rings that she had never been able to get back.

That was until my 16th Christmas. It was the first time I had held a full-time job, and I had saved up enough money to buy a beautiful dress for the Christmas dance at school. I had seen it in the shop window for three months, and after receiving my paycheck, I could finally go and pick it up.

On the way there, with my every penny in hand, I passed the jewelers. Suddenly, I noticed the wedding bands sparkling in the shop window. They were more beautiful to me than anything I had ever seen. I walked in and picked out a very modest gold band for my mom, without giving that dress another thought.

That Christmas, I sat with my chin in my hands, watched with a smile on my face - and finally understood.

offered with Love,

Kate

If the substance of this story sounds familiar, it first appeared in The Christian Science Monitor in the late 1980s.

"when I had none at all..."

"When my bankroll is getting small,
I think of when I had none at all,
and I fall asleep counting my blessings..."

Sometimes I am stunned by God's love for us all. This afternoon, He led a dear friend to re-read this post from Christmas, 2010. She, in turn, wrote to say how much it meant to her. So, I re-read it myself. And wept.

How could I have let this moment fade from memory. For months after that day, I woke up each morning "remembering" this example of grace, and used it as a springboard in my prayers and for my actions.  I am so grateful for my friend's email. So, I share this post again -- with Love:

"When my bankroll is getting small..." 

"When I'm worried and I can't sleep,
I count my blessings instead of sheep,
And I fall asleep counting my blessings..."

I grew up singing this song to myself long into the middle of the night, all through the Christmas season. Long before VHS and DVD copies of Irving Berlin's "White Christmas" were available for any-time-of-the-year viewing, my sister and I would check the TV listings in the newspaper to find that one showing of "White Christmas" we could count on each year.

For me,"Count Your Blessings," became a prelude to prayer.

Today this song came alive in a well-worn booth at a McDonald's restaurant overlooking the Mississippi River.

My husband and I had been driving all over the city on post-Christmas errands, and were both thirsty. Thankfully, there was a McDonald's. Perfect. Since the drive-thru lane was already a dozen cars long, I suggested we park and go in - thinking we'd have a much better chance of getting back on the road quickly.

I was wrong. The line at the counter was eight deep, with quite a few folks waiting for their orders to be filled. It wasn't hard to notice that more than a few customers were in pretty dire financial straits. Pennies were being carefully counted out, old sweaters/shirts/jackets were layered on six deep, and one man had duct tape wrapped around doubled-up pairs of socks for footwear.

We placed our order, and I went to the drink station while my husband waited for his hot chocolate to be prepared.

As I stood in line at the drink dispenser, I noticed a young family sitting at the end booth -- very close to where I was waiting in line to get my drink. The dad looked very, very tired, and the children: a boy around 10 years old, and a girl about 6 or 7, looked as if they'd been sleeping in their clothes, coats, and hats for days. 

But there was also a palpable sense of dignity with which this young father cared for his children. He reminded them to use their napkins, to say "please" and "thank you" when passing the small cups of ketchup he'd gotten for them, and to excuse themselves when getting up for more salt.

It wasn't long before the dad himself got up to use the facilities.  Before leaving, he asked his son to be very watchful of his little sister. 

He hadn't been gone long before the little girl asked her brother, "When do you think we will get our Christmas presents?" Her brother looked quickly in the direction his father had gone, and then said, "This is our Christmas present. It is all they can afford this year." 

 "Oh..." said his little sister.

I looked at their table. Each child had a simple cheeseburger, a small order of fries, and a milkshake. Dad had a cup of coffee.

I was standing there on the verge of weeping, when suddenly their father slid back into the booth. His daughter got up from where she'd been sitting next to her brother, and scooched in next to her dad. 

 She wrapped both her little arms around his arm, and laid her head against his shoulder and said, "Daddy, this is the best lunch I have ever tasted. Thank you for bringing us here. I love you."

I could barely take it all in. There was such humility, gratitude, and grace radiating from that table. Dad leaned down and kissed the top of his daughter's head, and then he reached across the table with his free hand to cover his son's cold-chapped hand with his larger one.

I walked away sobered, inspired, shaken, and deeply moved.

Talk about counting your blessings instead of sheep -- or stocks and bonds, cars and vacation days. I filled my cup, and returned to where my husband was standing. Then I leaned into his chest - trying to still the waves of emotion that were on the verge of taking me under.

I wasn't sure if I was more devastated by sadness, or moved with inspiration. I had learned more about grace in that moment of humility, than from all the Christmas "moments" I had witnessed, read about, or watched during the last few weeks leading up to the "big day."

This year Christmas came in the warm manger of a McDonald's booth.  It was lit by the stars of love in a child's eyes, the gentle wisdom of a brother's words, and the humility of a father's gift.

I thought about giving them something -- money, a gift card -- but then I realized that this time I needed to be a graceful recipient.  Their's was the greater gift.  And I could honor that.

I needed to, as the hymn says, "receive it, still." Receive their gift in the stillness of a manger heart. I needed to honor the dignity of their lives by walking away in silent awe.  I needed to respect their manger.  

My gift to them was a heart filled with prayer, gratitude, and an aching hope that they neither lose the richness of who they are, nor the sweetness of what they gave to me today.

I have no doubt that God will bless their lives with all that they need. Just look at what He gave me today through their example. It was more than I could ever have hoped.

Thank you for Your unspeakable gifts.


offered with Love,

Kate

"Lord, remind me..."

"When children play on Christmas day
and snow is flung,

When I feel I haven't had a friend
since I was young,

When I'm feeling tired of myself
and everyone,

Lord remind me,
Lord remind me..."

I was looking for an Amy Grant song to keynote an earlier post when I stumbled upon this exquisite song by Jon and Valerie Guerra on Amy's Facebook page.

Sometimes a song comes along that begs its own post, "Lord Remind Me" is one of those songs.

The holiday season -- from Thanksgiving to the year's end -- has always been my favorite time of year. I cherish long-held traditions and nurture new ones that have found purchase in the sweet soil of our family home. The tree goes up the day before Thanksgiving, White Christmas. Little Women, The Holiday, and Love, Actually fill the screen that weekend. Then comes the Christmas music -- too many favorites to note. 

But my favorite "tradition" comes between December 1st and the 25th, when I pray with each of the twenty-four questions in the chapter, "Recapitulation" from Mary Baker Eddy's textbook for spiritual healing, Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures as my version of an advent calendar. One question deeply pondered, each day, as we move towards Christmas -- and every year it transforms me.

But this year, although I have dutifully carried out each of these traditions -- as well as a few more -- I have felt a bit detached. Perhaps it's because its the first year that none of the children were here for me to lasso into choosing the tree, watching White Christmas, or baking pies.  And although I have felt a bit sad, I wasn't really doing anything about it. I was aware that the tree went up too quickly and I was alone in the kitchen while I baked cookies and listened to White Christmas, but I chalked it up to our version of empty nest syndrome after over three decades of day-to-day parenting.

That was when I fell upon "Lord Remind Me," and fell to my knees. The true meaning of Christmas came alive in me. This wasn't about trees and cookies, films and carols. It wasn't even about traditions long-loved. It was about something timeless and humbling. It was about remembering that nothing was impossible to God. It was about forgiveness and healing, about kings that kneeled before a baby, and a boy who trusted angels. It was about a girl who said, "yes," and the message of "on earth peace, good will to men."

Is there anything we need more today? Is there any message more timely, or a time more hungry for this message?

As Jon and Valerie sing with such reverence and humility:

"when I hear the news,
and hear another war's begun,
and I wonder if God's
on the side f either one,
I hear bullet, nail, or handcuff
you bore all of them,
and in the light
my heart's as dark as anyone's.

Lord remind me, Lord remind me
that the shepherds head the angels
break the silence in the field,
that the wise men found a baby
and they could not help but kneel

Lord remind me, cause its Christmas
and I want to remember..." 

And I do want to remember. I want to feel the power of this story drive me to my knees. I want to feel it change my heart and break through any sense of brittle self-certainty and icy indifference that might have gathered, like frost, on the tender places where I want to feel the heartbreak of my brothers and sisters in Aleppo, or Chicago, or Washington, DC.

There is a sweet, holy cry for the Christ to enter the manger of our hearts in this song:

"Tell me, how He loves me,
tell me, how he wants me,
tell me the story
like I've never heard before..." 

This is the part that broke through to the softest, deepest part of me. The words split me open and love for Him spilled from every part of my being. To think what he gave. To remember what he did. To know his love -- it is everything.

"...and I'll sing it
like the angels sing it,
with my whole heart sing it,
to Him who's worth
a thousand songs and more..." 

Hymns and carols came alive in me. My heart was an angel's heart singing from the stars. I walked out into the cold night and sang for him who loves us so. I lifted my voice in praise, and hope, and humble adoration for the child who brought kings to their knees, and for the man who would be king of kings.

I sang through tears of repentance and joy:

"Glory in the highest,
glory in the lowest,
glory that shines when nothing
seems to shine at all

Glory in the highest,
glory in the lowest
glory, Immanuel..." 

And isn't this the message of messages, "Immanuel..." which is translated, "God with us..." So tonight, I raised my voice to the heavens and sang, "Glory in the highest, glory in the lowest, glory Immanuel..."  Then, a flock of geese rose from the lake, circled above, and -- I like to believe -- carried that message in their own voices to the far corners of the earth.


offered with Love,

Kate

"the babe of healing..."

"I am waiting
in a silent prayer..."

A friend's recent post on Facebook reminded me of an early December night, many years ago.  It was a time when all I wanted was a baby to love, to hold, and to cherish.

I'd called a friend and mentor during one of my darkest moments. I poured out my heart's sorrow. I could actually feel the compassion that filled the pregnant silence. It was as palpable as a hand reaching through the darkness. Soon, my weeping stilled, and my breathing evened.

Then, when he knew I was ready to listen, he asked me if I was ready to give birth to the most precious babe on earth -- the babe of Christian healing. I knew he was referencing a passage by Mary Baker Eddy from an article titled, "The Cry of Christmas-tide," published in her collected Miscellaneous Writings 1883 - 1896:

"Unto us a child is born,
unto us a son is given.

"In different ages the divine idea assumes
different forms, according to humanity’s needs.
In this age it assumes, more intelligently
than ever before, the form of Christian healing.
This is the babe we are to cherish."
 

He reminded me that, more than ever before, this was the babe I needed to cherish -- not just for myself, but for the world.

Then, he gently suggested that I return to a series of twenty-four questions and answers that make up the entire curriculum for Eddy's course on Christian Science healing. Questions that are found in the chapter "Recapitulation," from her primary work, Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures. Beginning on page 465 and concluding on page 497 we are given a path for seeking -- and finding -- healing. Twenty-four questions on thirty-two pages.

He told me that each December, he did this himself. He took one question per day and studied her answer. Then he pondered how he might answer that same question, based on what he had experienced as a healer throughout the year.

He assured me that these next precious days of gestation would bring forth this "babe," and I would be ready to cherish it with my whole life's purpose. These questions would prepare my heart. They were the promise of a new birth.

So, I did. And I still do. Each December 1st, I begin with the first question: "What is God?" I deeply consider Eddy's simple, cogent, complete, and profound answer.  Then I ask myself, "Based on what you have learned this year, what is God to you?" 

You see, I long to know God, myself.  

I am profoundly grateful for Mary Baker Eddy's waymarks as she chronicled her own journey towards a deeper understanding of what it means to "know the Lord." 

But I don't want to simply read her travel diary, and look at her photos -- I want to go where she has gone.  I long to feel that landscape under my feet.  To breathe that holy air.  And by revisiting those questions -- and then searching my heart for answers that ring with a true tone -- I align myself with the I AM THAT I AM.  For me, it is one of the most holy traditions of the season.

Last night, I couldn't wait to begin this year's season of expectancy, gestation, and birth. In fact, I was so eager that I rose just after midnight and took up that first question. The brevity and clarity in her answer took my breath away:

Question. — What is God?

Answer. — God is incorporeal, 
divine, supreme, infinite Mind,
Spirit, Soul, Principle,
Life, Truth, Love.
 

And as I pondered my own journey --  with that question as a spiritual waymark -- my heart opened to new views. What a revelation! Everything that I've discovered about God's allness, power, and grace this year has deepened my trust in the spiritual reality of all things.  It has informed my understanding of healing.  Over and over again, it has been my spiritual anchor in moments self-doubt and uncertainty. I wrote down my most current answers to that first question, and filled page-after-page, long into the night.

Tomorrow I will take up the second question. Then the third. And each day I will feel this babe grow stronger in me -- again.

For me, this Christmas exercise -- first practiced over 25 years ago -- was (and is) life-transforming. It has continued to renew and refresh my understanding of how to realize the healing presence of God. In fact, I find myself repeating it throughout the year.  And although I've been blessed with inestimable joy in parenting each of our children, it is this "babe of Christian healing," that has filled my heart with purpose, and brought unfathomable peace when my womb felt empty.

From experience, I know that on December 25th I will be looking into the face of this beloved babe. I will see this healing Christ in the unwavering spiritual innocence of universal humanity. This is the babe that I will hold close, and never let go of.  This is the babe that will never let go of me.

And each day as I ponder these questions I will be waiting, as Amy Grant sings in "Breath of Heaven," in a silent prayer for the birth this babe in my own heart.

For me, this is the great gift -- healing.  It is what we all seek.  To know that we are whole, well, complete in the All-in-allness of God's great love.   Or, as Mary Baker Eddy promises in "The Cry of Christmas-tide:"

"This is the babe we are to cherish.

This is the babe
that twines its loving arms
about the neck of omnipotence,
and calls forth infinite care
from His loving heart."
 

offered with Love,

Kate

"A baby changes everything..."

"My whole life has turned around,
I was lost, but now I'm found,
a baby changes everything..."

Faith Hill's "A Baby Changes Everything," is a beautiful song. But it's the title that makes me smile tonight. I can't help but remember a more recent Christmas -- than the one Faith is singing about -- when a baby changed everything.

A year earlier the son we were making plans for adopting was still warmly nestled in his mom's tummy. She lived with us those last months of her pregnancy, and Christmas Eve found us all at the kitchen table looking forward to his birth only a few weeks out.

His birth was beautiful. We all loved him. When his mother decided later that winter to parent him herself, I understood. That doesn't mean that I wasn't shattered and unsure of how to go on. It was a very long year -- full of heartache, surrender, prayer, and healing.

By autumn I was able to breathe again without worrying that I'd exhale a sob. It was a step. Yet I knew I had a long way to go before I was whole inside. My younger sister had become pregnant earlier that year, and I'd been truly thrilled for her when she finally told me. It was a milestone in my healing. But I wasn't sure how I'd feel when I saw her with her newborn son in her arms.

He arrived on the night of the winter solstice. And since my husband and I had plans to fly home to Colorado (from Boston) that Christmas Eve, I knew my "growth in grace" was either going to be authenticated, or it was going to crumble into a heap of tears. I remember how nervous I was during that flight. I prayed with all my heart to be truly free of envy, sorrow, heartbreak -- the crushing ache of empty arms.

Our flight landed and we were whisked off to meet the entire family at The Brown Palace. On that drive -- through the glittering streets of Denver -- I prayed, "Let every heart prepare him room..." I wanted my heart to be as wide open and accepting as a manger.

And it was.

I remember that night as a benediction. The "amen" on a year of healing. I saw my sister with her son in her arms, and I was filled with delight, joy -- a pure un-adulterated bliss for us all. I was free of any sense of wishing it were me. I held my nephew, not wanting him to be my son. I looked at my sister -- a happy mommy -- and was filled with awe, respect, love. It was over. I was genuinely whole, healed, happy.

That Christmas was one of the most beautiful in my life. There was no promise of a baby in the future, we weren't on any adoption agency's list for consideration, there were no hints of impending motherhood -- but I was pregnant with joy.  I was filled with gratitude, overflowing with peace. 

My sister was thoughtful, tender, and generous letting everyone cuddle, coo, and snuggle their baby. Every chance I got, I happily held her son and delighted in him -- as his aunt.

I look at photos of my nephew today -- an amazing man, a husband, a devoted son, a wonderful brother, a kind and loving citizen of the world -- and I see a beautiful infant boy in a tiny little tuxedo romper -- a baby, who changed everything.

with so much love,

Kate

"she knew..."

"Mary did you know
that your baby boy
would give sight
to a blind man..."

"Sometimes a light surprises," one loved hymn suggests. Today was a day of surprising illumination for me.  First, I discovered Ceelo Green's breath-taking version of "Mary Did You Know?," from Roma Downey and Mark Burnett's film, The Bible. But that wasn't the only light that took my breath away today.  The other will never leave me.

I love going to church. I love hearing scripture read aloud. This morning I felt like a child listening to loved stories at bedtime. As I was savoring the familiar passages from Luke -- ones that recount Mary's conception of Jesus, her run to Elisabeth's house to confirm the miracle of her cousin's pregnancy, and her "Magnificat," her song of praise -- I sensed something was missing.

I looked at the citations included in the passages being shared, and there was a gap. So, I opened the Bible lying next to me, and read:

"My soul doth magnify the Lord,
And my spirit hath rejoiced
in God my Saviour.
For he hath regarded
the low estate of his handmaiden:

for, behold,
from henceforth all generations
shall call me blessed.

For he that is mighty
hath done to me great things;
and holy is his name.

And his mercy
is on them that fear him
from generation to generation.

He hath shewed strength
with his arm;
he hath scattered the proud
in the imagination of their hearts.

He hath put down the mighty
from their seats,
and exalted them
of low degree.

He hath filled the hungry
with good things;
and the rich
he hath sent empty away.

He hath holpen
his servant Israel,
in remembrance of his mercy;

As he spake to our fathers,
to Abraham,
and to his seed for ever..." 

Oh, she knew.

This was no frightened girl. This was a wise, inspired young woman. I don't know why I'd marginalized her as timid maiden who'd been swept up in God's plan for humanity -- a human vessel for incubating the divine idea.  But that paradigm was shattered this morning. I held my breath in awe of this strong, consciously willing, inspired woman of God.

In the breadth of a heartbeat she became something more to me than she'd ever been before. Her story was no longer that of a human mother following her beloved son -- hoping for a moment of audience with him.  An over-attentive mom, eager to see him succeed.

No, she too was God-appointed.  Her's was a life-long mission -- and she knew it.  She was wise enough to be still. Prudent enough to "hold these things in her heart." She knew when to speak, and when to be silent. But she never forgot.

She was the first harbinger of salvation. Hers was the first voice to proclaim the advancing reign of humility, charity, and grace. She was the one person who was always with him, from Bethlehem to Calvary -- and was waiting at the tomb.

She not only carried his body in her womb, but his mission and his purpose in her heart. And it was she who refused to let anyone -- even Jesus himself -- forget the promise.

She was not just his livery, but his teacher. Not just his mother, but the one who knew -- and remembered. I can only imagine the lessons in courage, trust, grace, and self-surrender she taught her son.

This morning she came alive for me in a new way. And I can answer, without a shadow of a doubt, that the woman who said, "be it unto me, according to Thy word," - knew her son would give sight to a blind man, recommend charity, raise the dead, feed the hungry, exalt humility, denounce self-righteousness, and bring salvation to a waiting world.

Yes, I am completely certain that she knew.

humbly offered,

Kate

"the unspeakable gift..."

"Wonderful, merciful savior,
precious redeemer and friend --
Who would have thought that a lamb could
rescue the hearts of men..."

I realized today that I am not ready to return to "business as usual." I love this season. I love the focus on the nativity. On the life story of Jesus of Nazareth.

I was watching this  beautiful video of Selah's "Wonderful, Merciful Savior," and remembered how meaningful it was for me to discover Mary Baker Eddy's own love for Jesus. I've written about that night, briefly, in the post, "One December Night in 1910."

Since then I've seen how deeply she loved Jesus. Not just the Christ he embodied, but the man who was willing to be "the highest representative" of that office.

Sitting next to her bed that December night, looking up at the portrait of Jesus which hung on the opposite wall, in her direct line of sight from where she slept -- and faced her darkest moments -- I realized how important his example was for her...and is for me.

It is not just his divinity that inspires, but its coincident humanity. The bold boy, the eager student, the hard-working carpenter, the tired passenger, the patient teacher -- the tempted, the angry, the forsaken, the forgiving, the merciful -- the willing man of God, the playful son of Mary.

When I think of those "unspeakable gifts," we are asked to give thanks for, it is his humanity that chokes me up. Those are the "gifts" that leave me speechless. 

I think it's why I love this little film clip (with it's subtitles) that underscores Selah's, "Wonderful, Merciful." It reminds me that this was a boy, a woman's son, a father's apprentice, someone's friend. He was part of a community.

When I was in high school I served and participated actively on the teen board for my local Adventure Unlimited Chapter. I loved it so much. But because we only met for activities once a month and held board meetings even less frequently, and I often missed the camaraderie of those gatherings.

Fortunately, our rural high school had an active non-denominational youth group that met weekly to plan and host activities that were wholesome and fun. I loved this too, since most of my high school friends were active in this group.  And as much as I enjoyed bowling, or ice skating, it was the conversations that kept me coming back.

There was one in particular conversation that I will never forget. It was with a guy I'd watched from a distance for a long time. He was peaceful in a way that wasn't lonely. He seemed to be just as happy hacking around with his friends in the hallway at school, as he was sitting alone in the library staring out the window at a migrating community of geese.

I wanted what he had.

One night, after a dance at our town community center, he'd taken a break from the pick up basketball game in the gym to come sit outside and get some fresh air. I was there to find relief from the room-jarring noise level. 

 He sat down on the bench next to me, and didn't say anything for a while. So I didn't either. We knew one another well enough to say "hi" in the halls and to participate in group discussions about faith and politics, but we'd never spoken one-on-one.

After a few moments he asked me, "Have you received Jesus as your Lord and Savior?"

I thought this was a pretty bold, and personal, question to start a conversation with. And I was caught off guard enough to answer it without self-editing. I said, "No, we don't do that in my church."

"Hmmm," he said, "you might want to do that some day." Then he turned to me, gave me a hug, said he would pray for me, and got up and went back to his basketball game. And although we became better friends through the rest of high school, we never talked about that conversation again.

And for as long as I knew him, I never felt my faith was questioned, wondered about, or judged. But his question never left me.

After high school, and the sudden passing of my dad, I explored many philosophies, religions, and beliefs systems before coming back to my childhood faith. But I was never led to formally "accept Jesus" as my personal savior and "be saved." I wasn't opposed to it. It just hadn't been part of my faith journey.

But that night, after sitting next to Mary Baker Eddy's bed and seeing Jesus' portrait on the wall not 15 feet from where she faced her darkest moments, I knew I wanted -- and needed -- to feel a sense of "relationship" with Jesus, as much as I felt with "the Christ." Both became important to me.

In her, Miscellaneous Writings 1883 - 1896, Eddy suggests that:

"It is most fitting that Christian Scientists
memorize the nativity of Jesus."

As I've studied her writings, I've also learned how deeply she felt about Jesus -- someone she identified as "the greatest man who trod the globe."

I love him too. More than words can say. He is the man who has had the most profound influence on my life. He is the man I want most to emulate in my all ways. He is the teacher I have learned the most from.  He is the model of true humanhood for me.

I think my high school friend knew that I needed to have this kind of relationship with Jesus. 

 Knowing all that Jesus was able to navigate with deep spiritual grace and poise, I can see why my friend was so unconditionally peaceful.

We learn most, from those we love most. 

with every hope...

Kate

"Breath of heaven, hold me together..."

"Breath of Heaven
Hold me together
Be forever near me
Breath of Heaven*..."
- Amy Grant

Recently, the editors at Church Alive asked me to write about a time when "church" played a role in my Christmas memories. It seems like I have a heart-shifting, church-related experience every Christmas. But this is the one that came to mind:

"The greatest gift..."

I’d traced the path from our house, to the church we attended nearby, almost a thousand times that year. But this particular winter night, as a million stars hung brightly from an inverted bowl of midnight blue velvet, my steps were heavy and my heart sank low. We’d lost a baby that year…a baby who’d moved in my heart, long before she moved in my womb. Because of my size, there were those who wondered if I’d just imagined her and thought it was some sort of psychosomatic pregnancy. There were others who’d mourned our loss and feared my descent into a quiet sort of madness. But her still birth was very real. Leaving me, her mother, siding with the latter group—those who were praying for my fragile peace.

That particular night, so close to Christmas, I was months beyond her loss and yet closer than ever to my sorrow. Our church was holding a Christmas Hymn Sing and I was carrying a plate of cookies with one hand, and holding our kindergarten-aged daughter’s mittened hand in my other. Earlier that spring I’d imagined this Christmas with a baby in my lap and our sweet daughter opening presents under the tree. And although I’d tried so hard to be at peace with our loss, that night the tears froze on my cheeks as we walked through the cold December air.

Arriving at church we were greeted by a sea of love; it washed over our small family, and carried our daughter along from loving embrace to loving embrace. She was surrounded by an ocean of kindness, and I was deeply grateful. On the surface I’d been functioning normally for months, but just under the surface I was always on the verge of tears. As members and guests found their seats in the beautifully decorated auditorium, and my husband joined other musician on the platform to lead the singing, I took a seat at the back. I didn’t know if I could make it through the hymn sing without putting my face in my hands and weeping.

But as the first song was suggested, and the musicians played through the opening verse, I felt a voice…yes, felt a voice echoing through my being. It was the same feeling I’d felt, in that very church auditorium, the day our baby first moved in my womb and the words from Luke flooded my heart, “Be it unto me, according to thy will.” Feeling it again was like a divine reminder. I had felt our daughter move, I wasn’t mad. It was glorious. It was more than I’d hoped for, a sensation I’d only dreamed of experiencing during years of other early pregnancy miscarriages. I’d felt her move. I’d known the kind of love that defines the word “compassion” in Hebrew as “by extension, the womb as cherishing the foetus” (Strong’s Hebrew Dictionary). The foetal stage is the one where the babe’s life is not obvious, unseen to the observer, but completely known to the mother. And I’d experienced that awareness. I knew what it felt like to love the promise of what was unseen, without measure. This was the greatest gift in the world.

The auditorium became a manger that night. My church family had become shepherds, kings, wisemen, and cooing doves…midwives at the birth of something holy in me. My mourning had been turned into dancing. The Christ, the consciousness of man’s unconditional innocency, worth, purity, goodness, beauty, and promise, had found its breath, and was singing an “Allelujah” in my heart. It was as if each chorus rose to meet the next, in a crescendo of peace.

By the time we left the church later that evening my heart was no longer broken, it was whole. I’d felt the presence of a Love that delights in the unseen, celebrates the power of peace, and knows a love, that alone is life. The tears that froze on my cheeks that night, as we walked home together, were tears of wonder and joy.


*"Breath of Heaven," was written by Amy Grant, but the version sung by Sara Groves, takes me apart.  The clip in the first link is Amy's performance and the video sticks to the nativity story, but the second video, paired with Sara's extraordinary recording, although a bit rough and dramatic, underscores the human passion and pathos of the larger story.  Both are moving.  I love them each for different reasons.

"The manger within..."

This piece, from Christmas 2010, was requested as a re-post today:

"The sleeping child you're holding..."

"Mary, did you know...
That your baby boy has come to make you new?
...This child that you've delivered
Will soon deliver you..."
-Greene/Lowry

Each year, about this time, I seem to always write a post with this Kathy Matthea version of "Mary, Did You Know?" as the keynote... and if you do nothing more today on this blog than listen to this song, I will know your heart has been touched.  Please don't miss its blessing.  I love it so much that I am now convinced it will show up every Christmas...along with a few others that continue to bring their spiritual gifts each year. This season, I share it as the prelude to a poem. 

I am continuing to learn that when we open our hearts, manger-like...humble, simple, still, and expectant...to our Father's plan, the Christ is new-born within us.  "The blind will see, the deaf will hear, the dead will live again.  The lame will leap, the dumb will speak the praises of the Lamb..." Do you know that this sleeping child you are holding within you, is "the Great I AM"

"A Manger Within"

your quaking heart
can know a deep, unfathomable peace
even when all looks lost
and hope seems like a taunting
a haunting
a place where disappointment and doubt
lay in wait
around any
and every corner
ready to pounce and pierce
the soft places
the inner regions
the tender dreams
of the soul

but Love walks in
with all Its quiet Self-certainty
and announces
"I am that I am"
you cannot run from what "I am"
"the spiritual sense of truth that must be gained,
before Truth can be understood"

your heart is Mine
your life is Mine
your love is Mine
you cannot take it back
you cannot take control
you cannot put the shattered pieces
back into a shape that is safe
shelve it all away
in tissue paper
with the old star
the fragile Christmas ornaments
and sigh with relief
that
for another year...it is still intact

I have taken you apart for My purpose
torn away the shredded tatters
you hugged so close
I have dressed you in a bridal garment
pure as driven snow
on an empty, endless beach
along the coast of Maine
I have scattered your false convenient peace
down the abandoned church steps
like rice
raining on your hearts
rending the veil of tolerance
revealing the face of Love

within the stillness of a sanctuary heart
I have wed you to Me...to My presence in your life
I am asking you to trust Me
with your eternity
with your intuition
with your heart and soul and mind
let Me be your God
let Me prepare you a place
as I have prepared your heart
breaking it wide open
ready to receive
a babe

this will not look easy
it may not make sense
it may leave you feeling naked

but what have you learned from a girl
visited by angels
espoused to a man
great with child
giving birth in a manger

sometimes what I have planned
does not make sense
to hearts that need to know
to minds
that need to have it all in columns
and rows
and pews

but if you will let Me have your heart
like she did
I will show you a miracle
a star will lead
angels will sing
kings will bring gifts
shepherds will quake

and you
may learn
to trust
Me
...with all your heart

give it to Me
and I will fill it
with
something
Wonderful,
Mighty,
full of promise...
the Prince of Peace
...or a girl in a manger.

with an expectant heart, always...
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

I just found this version of "Mary, Did You Know?" as sung by lyricist, Mark Lowrey. And as much as I absolutely love Kathy Matthea's version, I am always interested in seeing how a songwriter interprets his/her own lyrics.


[photo credit:  Lisa Redfern and Lydia Day (daughter of Doug & Diana) by Randall Williams 2009]

"Star of wonder, won't you guide us..."

"Star of wonder,
star of light,
won't you guide us..."

Sometimes it is the simplest thoughts that resonate most deeply with us. At least it seems to be that way for me. A clear, true tone of truth reverberates through my being like a tuning fork. I can feel it bringing me into tonal alignment and in perfect pitch with the universe.

My friend Laura Matthews was the first spiritual thinker, I knew, who blogged. Her musings were honest, clear, and simple. I loved them. She encouraged me, and others, to find our voice and speak our truth. Then one day, she stopped blogging. Her writing took her in another direction. She'd stopped, as fearlessly as she'd started.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning once wrote:

"The capacity to terminate
is a specific grace."

It takes a manger-like stillness to hear the voice of angels whispering "this is your path." It takes the watchfulness of a shepherd to see when a faint star is pointing towards a hushed stable, and not be distracted by the bright lights of a bustling inn. It takes a wise woman to know when to turn her back on the Herod urging, and go "home" by another way. Laura has that capacity to terminate...and to courageously begin a new adventure. I watch in wonder, and celebrate in awe.

Laura's still writing. She's still encouraging blossoming writers. She's still making the rest of us "sound" cogent and wise through her editing business. I am so grateful she was willing to midwife the birth of my blogging, and cherish those infant stories. When I think of her, it is always the clear, simple voice of a single star on a December night, the tinkling laughter of a crisp, well-written sentence, the warmth of a kind word falling softly on the page like an infant's breath, that fills my heart. The following post from 2005 is just one example of her voice.


Christmas Starshine
by Laura Matthews

The manger. The animals. The shepherds. The wise men. The dutiful and selfless husband, the willing and innocent young mother. A perfect smiling baby. Compelling symbols of a miraculous event.

The symbol that moves me the most is the star. Each year our star glows brightly at the top of our tree, illuminating the entire room. That beacon light draws us along our journey, closer to Christ with unfailing certainty. It guides us in the quiet of prayerful moments, it lights the way in the darkest night. I look for the starshine whenever I pray.

I know this weekend will be very busy for most of us. I know we're hoping for memorable and pleasant family times, and to please each other with gift-giving and communing. Steal away, though, for a moment, sometime this weekend, and watch for the star. Watch for it with me. Let the star lead our actions. Let it bless us with its light.

And we will see the Christ appearing, in our hearts and our homes.

copyright Laura Matthews 2005


Here is a link to Sara Groves' recording of a prayer, as simple a single star, singing in the stillness of winter's night sky: "Star of Wonder."

Thank you Laura...for sharing your clear voice.... always,
Kate

Manger love - an invironment of peace.."

After noticing that I was reposting classic Christmas pieces, by my friends, H. asked if I would please slip this post from last December onto the list.

Little did she know that it was the perfect reminder for me this weekend, as I further considered the importance of maintaining an uncluttered spiritual invironment. Keeping my thoughts focused on the "how," rather than the who, what, where, and when questions of the season, was the best spiritual discipline I could engage in. I hope this piece finds you enjoying the simple, sweet, unpolluted manger days of Christmas.


"I am waiting in a silent prayer..."
 

"...I am waiting in a silent prayer
I am frightened
by the load I bear
In a world as cold as stone,
Must I walk this path alone?
Be with me now
Be with me now

Breath of heaven
Hold me together
Be forever near me
Breath of heaven..."

Like Kathy Matthea's "Mary Did You Know," Sara Groves' "Breath of Heaven" fills my heart whenever I think about a young girl, a gentle man, a babe of promise, and a quiet manger on a starry night. 

In her small volume, The Handmaid and the Carpenter, Elizabeth Berg writes of Mary's time in the manger:

"A hard pain came upon her. She rose up, clenched her teeth, and pulled on the rope. When the pain subsided, she lay back down and allowed herself one more moment of pity for her poor circumstances: She lay on the floor of a stranger's stable. Somewhere, water dripped. The air was foul with the scent of the animals and their droppings. Wind blew in through the cracks in the walls. She closed her eyes.  So be it."

"So be it"...

And we wonder where a young man learned to say, "Into thy hands I commit my spirit?" 

This story has no season.  This story cannot be assigned, or relegated to, a single holy day.  It is a story that serves us every day, and for me, its holds it greatest promise at night...in moments raw with the cold chill of despair, and rancid with fear, doubt, uncertainty, and pain. Moments when I must go deeper. Moments when the stillness of my inner life outweighs the drama of the ego's stories. Moments when I am aware of the profound importance of spiritual in-vironmentalism and my role as an invironmental advocate.  

I remember a night, one winter, when the snow blew under the doorjamb, the cold bit into my bones while I shoveled the walk, and tears froze to my bottom lashes - hard and sharp against my cheeks.  My heart was heavy with questions which were piling up like the heavy snow I coud barely lift, and the thoughts that pierced my peace were as relentless as the driving ice storm that had blown through earlier in the day.

Why....
Why....
Why....

Why God....

And there were no answers.  Are there ever?

But then something fluttered onto my heart as soft and perfect as a snowflake:

"Behold the handmaid of the Lord. 
Be it unto me according to Thy Word." 

And suddenly, there was nothing but the quiet of a starry night.  The clouds broke, the winds stilled, the snow still fell gently from somewhere high in a sky as black and clear as a bottomless quarry.

In the wake of surrender my new question became:

"How..."

How would You have me navigate this moment?  How can I love more like You?  How shall I behave towards others in service to You?  How should I speak to him, her, them? 

And the answers came as easily, and as sweetly, as a perfectly formed snowflake .  Love unconditionally, be impartially kind, sincere, honest, consistently gentle, be acceptingly open, be willing to adapt, listen deeply, serve humbly, give generously...judge no one.


It was no longer a question of why, but only how...how to be, moment-by-gently-falling-moment...and there was a great calm and the storm ceased...and within the environment, the invironment, of my deepest thought, there was nothing but a manger. Filled...

   ...with the breath of heaven.

living in the "how" of His love...

Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"You remember him, he's Joey's boy..."

"Lord, I ask that He,
for just this moment,
simply be my child..."

The December wind whipped and swirled around my ankles, as I made my way down the cobbled sidewalk. My destination, the soft golden light that beckoned from just beyond the steamy casement windows set deep within the tall brick building.  I was all too eager to reach the door of the bakery, where a small bell announced my arrival, and the sweet, warm, succulent perfume of rising dough, cinnamon sugar, and vanilla greeted me with promise. 

It didn't take long for me to find the perfect table, position my tea and toast just the right reaching-distance above my books, and lean into the sounds and scents of the morning.  A neighborhood "regular" stood at the counter, coffee mug in hand, proudly introducing his grandson to an old friend.  "You remember him, he's Joey's boy..."   It got me thinking about another Joe, and my friend Kim's Christmas post about him, and his son:

"Celebrating Joseph..."

by Kim Crooks Korinek

I've been doing a deep dive into the nativity story, my interest being piqued by the movie of that same name, popular some years ago. Prior to this, I don't know that I gave Joseph too much thought. The movie helped me see how crucial his role was as the meek and steadfast protector not only to the expectant Mary, as a birth partner, as a new father; but to a world hungry for hope. It's those qualities of thought that I want to nurture in myself -- they are crucial to our own ushering in of the Christ to our consciousness.

There was an article written in the Christian Science Journal (December 2002) that discussed his character in more detail. (These notes are taken from csdirectory's Bible Study resources). It says of Joseph's role:

"It couldn't have been easy finding out that the woman he was about to marry was mysteriously 'with child.' But he stood by Mary with unquestioning fidelity, perhaps realizing how crucial he would be to the fulfilling of Bible prophecy....

And this is the wonder of Joseph's fidelity: that nearly all he did to nurture/defend the special mother and child entrusted to his care had to be done just this way: in secret, in the humblest of circumstances, and totally without public recognition."

The other wonder about Joseph is how immediate was his recognition and acceptance to the messages of the angel Gabriel. No questions, arguments, or excuses.

It is interesting to remember Jesus' comments about his relationship to God who, at one point referred to God as "Abba" a Hebrew term of endearment meaning the equivalent of "daddy". It makes me wonder if it was Joseph's tenderness and closeness to Jesus that made it easy for Jesus to feel God's tenderness and closeness.

So today, I am grateful for all those 'Josephs' in my life: men and women and children whose meekness, alertness and guardianship of all that is good have led me to see more of the Christ in my life and in others.

copyright Kim Crooks Korinek  2007

I hope you enjoy this recording of "Joseph's Lullaby" by Mercy Me.