"are we too blind to see..."

"People, don't you understand,
the child needs a helping hand;
or he'll grow to be
an angry young man some day?

Take a look at you and me
are we too blind to see?
Do we simply turn our heads,
and look the other way?"

I was up most of the night in self-examination and on-my-knees reflection. How?  Why?  What can I do to make a difference? Every solution to a collective issue has to start with an individual change of heart. I fell asleep -- with more questions than answers.

When I woke this morning, it was a verse from Elvis Presley's  "In the Ghetto" that just filled my heart. And I knew. I knew that there was something I could do.

This song was written just shy of 50 years ago. I remember how sad it made me feel at the time, but I also remember thinking that it had no relevance for me. That was, until two years later. My dad had passed on suddenly, everyone that I thought might help my mother and I raise my younger siblings disappeared as soon as the memorial service was over.  And I couldn't separate my grief from the anger I felt knowing that my life -- as I knew it -- was over. That grief and anger seemed so inextricably linked.

When I "heard" Elvis' song in my heart this morning, I was perplexed.  Why was this suddenly playing on an endless mental loop.  That was, until I read an article about Nicolas Cruz (the Florida school shooter) that broke me into a million little pieces. Nicolas, and his younger brother, were adopted as infants. In 2005 his dad died suddenly and his mother became a single mom who was devoted to her sons - hoping to compensate for the boys being raised by a single parent, according to the boys' aunt. Last winter, she passed away suddenly.

I can only imagine the devastation of losing both of your parents and having a younger brother to worry about. Who stepped in? Who provided the love, comfort, and support that may have made all the difference in the way this young man processed his grief -- grief that is often conflated with anger. What organizations stepped in to provide a sense of family, community, support? A church, or a hate-group looking for recruits.

Instead of finding the spiritual tools for dismantling his grief, he was given access to a weapons-based culture, and his anger was stoked into devouring flames. So, what does this have to do with me -- with us?

When my dad passed away, my sense of where feelings of grief ended and anger began -- were so confusing. One day I was deeply sad. An hour later I would be on the verge of suicide. The next moment, I was so angry I couldn't function. And in the middle of it all, I was still a child working three jobs in order to help raise my siblings. Emotions swirled and I didn't have the time, or the tools, to sort them out. Instead of taking it out on others, I took it out on myself. Anorexia, bulimia, self-harm, mis-directed social choices -- anything to distract me from the heartbreak of it all.

This post is not a justification for the actions of Nicolas Cruz. What he did is incomprehensible. But this is not about him, it is about us. What can we do -- going forward? How can we stem the tides of bitterness and inhumanity that we see in these domestic acts of terrorism -- not just in school shootings, but family disputes, work-place sexual harassments and assaults, online bullying. There is a wonderful song from Rogers and Hammerstein's South Pacific. It often corrects and alters my course of thought, words, and actions. The first time I heard  "You've Got to Be Taught"  - as a child - I knew it was true. I believe that loving others is the most natural state of being for a child.

Last week, our high school Sunday School class talked about The Golden Rule. We discussed how there is an version of its primal message in every major (and minor) world religion, practice, and philosophy.

We also talked about what the world would be like if we practiced this rule: "do unto others as you have them do unto you," moment-by-moment every day.  If it were the guiding principle of every parent, child, neighbor, community leader, political party, government, global initiative.  If it governed every choice and decision we made -- every action and interaction with others.

Then we talked about how we could begin to more effectively practice this Golden Rule in our own lives. We considered how - like "the butterfly effect" - every act of kindness and generosity could shift the mental molecules in the universe so that someone's heart is softened, encouraged, reformed --  and down the road, perhaps a poor choice is averted.

In her primary work on spiritual healing, Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, Mary Baker Eddy states:

"If we would open their prison doors for the sick,
we must first learn to bind up the broken-hearted.
If we would heal by the Spirit, we must not hide
the talent of spiritual healing under the napkin
of its form, nor bury the morale of Christian Science
in the grave-clothes of its letter.

"The tender word and Christian encouragement of
an invalid, pitiful patience with his fears and
the removal of them, are better than hecatombs
of gushing theories, stereotyped borrowed speeches,
and the doling of arguments, which are but
so many parodies on legitimate Christian Science,
aflame with divine Love."

This passage has meant so much to me today. It has been a rebuke, an encouragement, and a comfort. It has brought hope that there is something I can do - right now - to shift the way someone sees themselves and their sense of belonging in the world.

I can be kind. I can be alert. I can be the person who notices. I can be the person who stopped in my tracks and put another's needs above my own desire to tick off another item from my to do list. I can listen when I feel like talking. I can hold space for someone without an agenda. I can hold someone in their moment of confused grief and anger -- without feeling like I need to fix them. I can comfort without becoming their Comforter. I can silently affirm that God is there, and that we are not alone in our moment of Love, reflecting love.

This has been a wake-up call for me -- again. When I was looking for the above-linked version of Elvis' song, I came across another video that I'd filed for periodic referral. Casting Crowns'  "Does Anybody Hear Her?"  walks with me wherever I go. I hope it reaches you where you are. Whether you are the lonely or the busy, angry or afraid, the heartbroken or the good Samaritan today -- please let it in.

What Nikolas Cruz did is tragic.  What we do with this moment is filled with opportunity.  There will be 18 families with broken hearts.  Nikolas' younger brother Zachary will be one of them.  Will we stop the heartbreak -- wherever it is found, or will we continue to "simply turn our heads and look the other way?"

offered with Love,

Kate

"it moves us all..."

"from the day we arrive on the planet
and blinking, step into the sun
there's more to see than can ever be seen
more to do than can ever be done…"

- Elton John/Tim Rice
"The Circle of Life"

I originally wrote this post in 2007 -- about an experience our family had it 2000. But the current economic climate of wage disparity and income inequality had brought it back into focus for me. When the chasm between wealth and poverty becomes so wide that we cease to see the humanity of the "other" - because we are looking at it from such a great distance - we have lost spiritual perspective. This experience -- which happened almost 18 years ago -- was a wakeup call for me then, and it continues to inform my sense of where we all fit -- in the body of humankind. 

At the time of this experience, we were living on a very modest budget while renovating a large home we had purchased in a "fire sale," And although our neighborhood was somewhat affluent, what may have looked like expendable toys to someone who thought we could easily replace them, were actually carefully budgeted purchases.

When we expect those who live on the edge of poverty to be willing to be away from their own families on Christmas Day, so that we can have our cup of designer coffee, we have lost our way as neighbors. When the poor cease to see that the tricycles in the driveway of a large house are the toys of children -- the distance between us has become too great.  This moral chasm is dehumanizing.  And when we dehumanize one another, we can justify decisions that are cruel and inhumane.  We must close the gap. I believe that The Golden Rule -- doing unto others as we would have them do unto us -- is our only hope. Not just doing unto those who are like us, as we would have them do unto us. But all others. Here is our story:

It was early December in 2000 and we were grateful for a patch of warmer than usual weather just prior to the holidays.  Emma and Clara were active, busy, rambunctious three-year-olds and a recent purchase of new tricycles had given us a playtime option they loved.  Racing around the back driveway or tearing up the front sidewalk caused an explosion of happy giggles from them like bursts of water from a summer fountain in the park.

Buying the tricycles had been a financial stretch for us, but a sale at Target, coupled with our urgent need for finding appropriate gross motor activities for two little monkeys who never stopped moving, quickly shifted the purchase from want to necessity. 

The girls awoke each morning with one major goal -- get outside and ride their new red "bikes." But as often happens in a family of five, one child's needs supersede another's, and everyone has to cooperate with a plan that might not fulfill their hopes for the day's schedule.  This particular day, our older daughter's itinerary had to come first.  We were in the throes of pre-Nutcracker rehearsals and, cast as Clara, she was in the studio rehearsing, more than she was eating and sleeping -- combined.

Piled into the Jeep that morning we were accompanied by the echoing strains of "I want to ride my bike, I want to ride my bike" -- in stereo.  I dropped our older daughter off at the dance studio, stopped by the grocery store, and then picked up the twins' babysitter so I could work for a few hours while she watched them ride their tricycles around the block.  When we pulled into the back driveway, I immediately noticed that something was missing -- the tricycles.  I was sure they had been in the driveway before we left.  Now they were gone. 

At first I thought that perhaps their dad had scooted them into the backyard, or put them in the garage.  However, a quick - but thorough - search made it clear that the tricycles were no longer on the premises.  The girls' creative babysitter quickly turned the girls' attention towards a messy, and  therefore thrilling, art project while I assessed the situation.

The trikes were gone.  Period.

I was devastated.  We had stretched our budget to the limits that month to buy them in the first place.  Replacing them was going to be hard -- even if the sale was still underway.  Of course I was already  praying to see that we could not be separated from anything that was truly ours, but more critical to my spiritual poise were the feelings of helplessness, violation, and despair I felt.  We lived in a very sweet neighborhood bordering the grounds of the university.  It was anchored by a wonderful park with a lake, and ducks, and a playground.  I felt so safe there, and I trusted that my children could play without harm.

And, to be honest, I was angry. 

As I vacillated between praying to feel a sense of peace and wanting to let loose my tears of frustration, the question kept coming to me, "Who steals tricycles from the driveway of a home?"

My prayers for inner peace finally overcame the angry tears.  I sat still, poised, waiting  for inspiration that would help me make sense of this all.  Again, the frustrated question came.

"Who steals tricycles from the driveway of a home?"

"So much for the parting of the clouds," I thought.  But then the question came again, "Who steals tricycles?" I actually listened and engaged.   Within a moment or two, my heart broke open -- wide with mercy. 

"Oh my goodness," I thought. "Only someone with small children or grandchildren would ever want -- or need -- to steal two shiny new tricycles just before Christmas." 

That was when I remembered hearing a Sunday morning pundit, speaking about neighbor-on-neighbor urban violence. He said, "Desperate measures are nothing but a measure of someone's desperation."

Anyone whose experience has made them feel hopeless enough to stop and steal two itty-bitty shiny red tricycles out of another person's driveway, must be feeling very desperate indeed.  And not only might they be feeling the bleakness of their own hardship, but they must have children or grandchildren, siblings, nieces, and nephews they were caring for.

In an instant, my prayer changed from one of "take away my anger and let me find peace," to "how can I be an instrument of change and healing in my community -- a place where someone was feeling so desperate that they would steal toddler-sized tricycles?" 

The more I prayed, the more my heart burst with ideas for how we, as a family, could participate in some way toward making a difference during the Christmas season for children whose parents may have needs so looming, that the simple traditions we enjoyed were, for them, way beyond even our modest holiday budget . 

Because our holiday plans that year were being driven by our daughter's ballet rehearsals in The Nutcracker, it was a natural first step for me to think about how we could roll out that years' performances to a larger audience.  Perhaps there were those in our community who might not have the means to purchase tickets.  And although my husband and I were not poised to write a check for a block of tickets,  I knew we could draw on an abundance of practical spiritual ideas.  What we did have was a community of dance parents who shared our desire for social advocacy and a fathomless love for the arts.  These were the things we had all chosen to invest in for our own children's future.  Why couldn't we share our abundant love for the arts with other children?

Throughout the rest of December we were overwhelmed by the number of amazing, fresh ideas that God laid at the doorstep of our hearts for how we could share our holiday bounty -- of dance, beauty, art, inspiration, and music with others.  However,  one opportunity unfolded immediately -- and it continues to fill my heart with gratitude. 

So, back to the tricycles. 

After the girls were settled in the kitchen with Julia and their messy art project, I headed to my "office" at the local Border's bookstore café near our home.  Since I was often there for appointments with clients, I had become quite close to the managers and employees.  That morning as I sat at my favorite table praying for answers, Heather, the store's events manager, approached.  She'd noticed me staring into the middles distance somewhere between where I sat and the snow-covered mountains looming in the west, and playfully asked what I was daydreaming about.  

I told her, "A way to bring The Nutcracker to children whose parents can't afford tickets."  Then I went on to tell her about my morning and the tricycles. 

Within the span of ten minutes, we had our first gift to the community all wrapped up with shiny paper and satin ribbons.  We would bring The Nutcracker to Borders bookstore on the busiest Saturday of the holiday season and perform scenes throughout the store.  I called the Director of the ballet, and she agreed that this would be a perfect opportunity to share The Nutcracker with children who may not be able to otherwise attend, promote the performances, and give the dancers another dress rehearsal.  It was done. 

Throughout the month, opportunities to share what we had with others quite literally fell into my lap.  For me, a "once upon a time" very poor little girl, it was as if I had been given the greatest gift imaginable -- to be able to give back.  The gift I received in return was priceless -- a new perspective that didn't put me on either side of an economic chasm -- privilege or poverty.  I realized that I had the tools - and the heart - to build bridges of compassion and humanity.

I stopped seeing desperate parents, children, teens -- or desperate measures.  Instead I saw families eager to care for one another's needs. I saw mothers willing to bake and serve cookies at a bookstore rather than be out shopping for their own children at the mall.  I saw -- through grateful tears --   children wide-eyed with wonder as the strains of Tchaikovsky's "dum-dum-da-dum-dum-dum" ushered in E.T.A. Hoffmann's story of a girl, a toy, some sweets and a dream.  I saw children so fully satisfied by the beauty of it all that hunger was forgotten -- for a moment at least.

That was one of my favorite Christmases of all times.  As I sit here writing, I realize that I can't, for the life of me, remember how or when we replaced the girls tricycles.  Somehow it happened, but it simply escapes me today -- in the light of what we discovered about ourselves and our neighbors.

When we see someone resorting to desperate measures, we can either feel angry, hopeless, vulnerable and frustrated ourselves, or we can look for ways to bridge the chasm between desperation and innocence, with practical prayer-based solutions that break through despair with the light of hope and kindness.

The answers to Virginia Tech, Columbine, 911, and Darfur do not lie solely in the portfolios of Senators, on the maps of Generals, in the promises of presidential hopefuls, or the hands of prison guards.  They lie in the most accessible place on earth -- the heart.

"It's the circle of Life
and it moves us all
through despair and hope
through faith and love

Till we find our place
on the path unwinding
in the circle,
the circle of Life."

There is more to do, but it can be done...


with Love,


Kate

"kindness matters..."

"In the end
only kindness matters.
I will get down on my knees,
and I will pray..."

Jewel's beautiful anthem, "Hands" has a profound effect on me. For over a decade, this line: 

"in the end, 

only kindness matters," 

has been a touchstone, time and again.

This week film reviewer, Roger Ebert, passed on. I found myself weeping when I heard the news. I love this man.  I trusted his filter.  I loved his courage, his generosity, his candor.

He could make me laugh one moment, and then leave me speechless the next.  He was a deeply spiritual man with a profound insights about humanity.  His statement on the importance of kindness -- in thought, word, and deed -- has been close to my heart since the first time I read it:

"Kindness covers all of my political beliefs. No need to spell them out. I believe that if, at the end, according to our abilities, we have done something to make others a little happier, and something to make ourselves a little happier, that is about the best we can do.

To make others less happy is a crime. To make ourselves unhappy is where all crime starts. We must try to contribute joy to the world. That is true no matter what our problems, our health, our circumstances. We must try. I didn’t always know this and am happy I lived long enough to find it out."

I can't think of a more perfect way to sum up his contribution to the human collective.  I am so happy that Roger was "here" long enough to discover the power of this truth, live it, and share it with us by word and example.

For me, kindness is at the heart of The Golden Rule. Jesus is recorded as having urged:

"Whatsoever ye would 

that men should do to you,

do ye even so to them."

A "rule" which appears -- in some form -- in the doctrines and teachings of almost all major religions and philosophical movements.

There are so many issues facing the human family today. But when I look at each of them through the lens of kindness I am at peace. There is such serenity in making our life choices based on what is most kind. When facing questions like: Do I help a stranger, judge another person's personal choices, cast my vote in a particular direction?

For me, sifting those decisions through the filter of kindness always brings greater clarity and confidence. It has helped me to separate good judgment -- in how I think and act myself -- from judging others.

John Lennon once wrote,

"You may say that I'm a dreamer. 

But I'm not the only one..." 

Tonight I am grateful to know that I have had the privilege of living in this world at the same time as Roger Ebert.   A man whose politics could be summed up in one word, "kindness."

Because in the end, only kindness matters...

offered with Love,

Kate