"how many roads…"

"how many years
can some people exist
before they're allowed
to be free…"

I remember the first time I heard Peter, Paul, and Mary's hauntingly beautiful recording Bob Dylan's "Blowin' in the Wind. I was already a strange child. A quiet girl who would rather listen to grownups talk than play with her peers. I sought out stories of loss and abandonment. I would cry at the sound of bagpipes. To see a parent spanking his/her child made me nauseous. Hearing a song about tired doves made my heart ache.

It still does.

For many years I thought there was something terribly broken in me. Why would anyone who was whole want to sit with strangers in a hospital waiting room or seek out the most marginalized members of society? I tried everything to be a happy girl. I wanted to be liked. I wanted to fit in -- truly I did.

But something always gave me away. The book secreted under my sweater when my sister and I were sent out to play kickball with the other neighborhood children. The awkwardness at slumber parties. Being the only student in our current events class who wept over the latest news about the Viet Nam War.  These things did not endear me to my peers.  It was often interpreted as dramatic, selfish, or over-sensitive.

I couldn't blame the people for running in the other direction when I started weeping "for no reason."  I resisted me. I didn't want to be around me most of the time.  And I certainly didn't want to be me. Being me meant being teased as a bookworm, a cry baby, a mole who liked to spend her time in the dark. If that's who I was -- and it was -- I didn't want be me.

Until one day, I did. It was a rainy day in early Spring. One of those days filled with melancholy and memory. I was sitting in a small cafe watching a studious boy at the far end of a large nearby table. He was trying to disappear into himself or behind the covers of the book he'd been reading, so that a group of gregarious, loud teens who'd just come through the door wouldn't notice him. It wasn't hard to see that this boy was familiar with being teased and bullied. I could almost feel his feelings.

But as I sat there watching from my safe distance, a girl from another table stood up and walked over to the table where he was sitting. She asked if she could join him. Without looking up, he nodded and she sat down.

After ordering their drinks, the other group of teens looked around the cafe for some place to sit. When they saw the boy hunched over his books, it was clear they were ready to roust him from the table where he was sitting with the lovely girl.

But she looked up at them, and without saying a word, made it clear that they should rethink that plan. And they did. In a moment she had diffused the situation. Then she set about engaging the young man at the table with her in conversation. It was a small thing. But it was powerful.

Something in me woke up. I knew her heart -- and I knew his. In that moment I understood why I had spent my childhood feeling shy, marginalized, awkward, and insecure. And I also knew why I had spent my entire life feeling heartache whenever I saw, heard of, or experienced violence, teasing, poverty, or sorrow.

The first gave me compassion. The second gave me courage. It was clear to me that I'd been prepared for my life's purpose. I wasn't broken, I was destined to be brave. I wasn't shy, I was quietly alert and observant. I wasn't awkward, I was empathic. I wasn't overly sensitive, I was understanding.  I wasn't paralyzed by self-loathing, I was empowered to act.

Instead of feeling insecure about myself, I felt secure in my purpose. I could make a difference in the lives of others. I could be like that young girl. In fact, I realized that in my heart, I had always been like that young girl. Her example simply served to demonstrate to me that empathy is only as good as it empowers our compassion, humanity, and courage.

We all have things we are aware of. Injustices and secret sorrows that we see played out in the harsh light of society as we go about our days. It might be a child on the playground who seems particularly self-isolating and sad. A waitress who is uncharacteristically distracted. A stranger who is weeping on a park bench. A young mom who is clearly worried about paying for the groceries in her arms at the checkout line.

But we are not helpless in these situations, we are acutely aware. We are conscious of a need for compassion, and we already have the heart to do something that will make a difference. In each of these moments we have the right to be still, to listen for guidance, and to act with courage, humility, and grace. Sometimes that action may be a silent prayer of blessing. At other times it may take the form of a kind word, a warm introduction at a cafe table, or the willingness to listen quietly. You will know.

Whatever your life has prepared your heart to see and imagine yourself doing -- do. You just might find that you like yourself better for it.

In her book about the law of Love, Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, Mary Baker Eddy makes this remarkable statement of encouragement:

"God gives the lesser idea of Himself
for a link to the greater, and in return,
the higher always protects lower.

"The rich in spirit help the poor
in one grand brotherhood, all having
the same Principle, or Father;
and blessed is that man who seeth
his brother’s need and supplieth it,
seeking his own in another’s good.

"Love giveth to the least spiritual idea
might, immortality, and goodness,
which shine through all as the blossom
shines through the bud." 

What a promise. Even when we feel like we are the least equipped, the least likely to be heroic or make a difference in a difficult situation -- we aren't. We have might -- both the power and the potential -- to see our brother's need and supply it. This is how we find our own goodness - in helping another.

Dylan's lyrics come alive for me in connection with this inspired promise -- and our capacity to help other:

"how many times
can a man turn his head
and pretend that he just
doesn't see…" 

Perhaps it's time to stop turning our heads away from what is difficult. Often these situations that are so difficult to see, are so painful because they call up feelings in us that we don't understand, or feel all too familiar. But maybe those feelings are really the resurrection of empathy and compassion. And when we honor these feelings, we discover that our hearts have been prepared to actually see when another person needs our help. And by acting with courage and kindness we redeem those old experiences and learn to love ourselves more.

Just something to think about --

offered with Love,

Kate

"all of this is so very holy..."

"I believe there are debts
you never can repay.
I believe there are some words
you never can unsay.
I don't know a soul
who didn’t get lost along the way.
And all I know is I can’t help
but see all of this as so very holy..."

Some moments are so holy that they take your breath away. I was wrestling with something weighing heavily on my heart today. I'd spent all evening in prayer looking for just how to reach out to someone I care very deeply about.

It occurred to me that I could send an email as a first step. I reached for my laptop, which had been virtually untouched most of the day, and opened my mailbox.  Only to find that an email from that very friend was at the top of the list waiting to be read.

I almost burst into tears. It just felt so divinely serendipitous. Then I opened her note and the floodgates burst. She was sharing this link to Carrie Newcomer's live video recording of "I Believe."

If I didn't know that Love unites the universe in one seamless fabric of consciousness, it would have shaken me. The message couldn't have been more perfect.

I was vaguely familiar with Carrie's song, but didn't have the lyrics on the tip of my tongue. However the underlying message of finding holiness in our ordinary moments, had long-lingered since the first time I'd heard it.

So, before listening to the song, I sent a reply thanking her for thinking of me, and promised to watch the video. I pressed "send," returned to her email, and clicked on the link.

That's when I lost it. It was too much. The lyrics were simple, perfect -- healing. I felt as if God's voice has been whispering to my friend, "This is what Kate needs today, will you be My messenger of Love?" And she had answered, "Yes."

I hope she knows how much her willingness to listen for God's direction -- in all things, big and small -- matters in the world. I hope you all do. I can't even begin to tell you how often -- just when I need it most -- someone has "unknowingly" sent a message, a song, a poem, or smiled from across a room, and made all the difference in my day.

In the story of the Good Samaritan a stranger goes out of his way to care for someone he finds broken and alone along the road. He doesn't need to know the backstory, only that the man is hurting and needs to be cared for. He doesn't hesitate.

There are some acts of kindness so meaningful -- which represent a value so great, a worth so incalculable -- that any true measure of reciprocity is unfathomable. All we can do is try our best to "pay it forward" as we continue on our journey.

Tonight, my friend may think she merely heard a song, thought of a friend, and shared a link. But that simple, unvarnished act of kindness was one of the holiest moments of my day. I felt the presence of God. I still do. Can there be anything more wonderful?

so deeply grateful,
 

Kate

"and Love never fails you..."

"Love will protect,
Love always hopes.
Love still believes,
even when you don't.

Love is right here.
Love is alive.
Love is the way,
the Truth, and the Life..."

Brandon Heath's "Love Never Fails" always comforts -- always gives me hope.

There are days when I have felt like such a failure. In my eyes, I've fallen short. Past mistakes that seem to impact the present, opportunities to be more loving that I let slip through my fingers, a discipline committed to, and not met -- these suggestions leave me feeling unworthy, incapable, and faltering.

If it weren’t for a number of statements of encouragement by Mary Baker Eddy, I think I would have given up on myself a long, long time ago. But in the presence of her profound humility, there is an arresting selflessness and compassion. She brings an understanding of the human condition that shatters self-doubt and hopelessness -- an unfailing love:

“The Discoverer of this Science 

could tell you of timidity, of self-distrust, friendlessness, 

toil, agonies, and victories, 

under which she needed miraculous vision to sustain her..”

and

“The practitioner may fail,
but the Science never.”

 Without Eddy's honest humility -- characterized in statements like the above -- I’m not sure that I would have been able to get out of bed some days.  Sharing that, at times, she has felt humanly inadequate to face the challenges of “just showing up” gives me hope when I, too, feel helpless.

And, humanly, we are all pretty helpless on our own.  But we are in such good company.   John reports Jesus as having once said:

“I can of mine own self,
do nothing,
but what I seeth the Father do...”

When I remember these words, I feel capable again. There is something I can do -- I can do nothing.  Yes, that's what he said, "I can of mine own self do nothing."   Nada. Not a little bit. Nothing.

So what am I capable of?  Well, I am capable of witnessing what the Father is doing moment-by-moment -- through His presence and power.  His omnipotent goodness is operating unspent, at all times, and in all places. That's what I can do. I can see what the Father is doing.  Period.

And to know that God's goodness is a law, a science that never fails -- even when the “scientist” makes mistakes, and come close to blowing up the laboratory -- is a gift of mercy so deeply kind, that it takes my breath away.  Much like the law of gravity, this science is always in operation.

And divine good is a law. It doesn't need us.  We don't have a hand in its operation, in contributing to it, or creating it. It doesn't need the permission of our thinking any more than gravity needs for us to agree with the laws of physics, in order to hold us safely on earth. As Eddy says, "the practitioner may fail, the science never."

This science is the unconditional law of Love in operation. It is a behavioral (rather than theoretical) science. It is the law of "how" Love behaves, or operates, in our lives -- and in our world. It just is, and it just does.  And this Love is so powerful, that It never fails. Surrendering to this Truth of Love's control over Its universe is as easy as trusting the buoying properties of water.

I hope you enjoy Brandon Heath’s "Love Never Fails." For me, there is a blessed reminder in its title alone. To know that even in my darkest moments, foundering on the waters of deepest despair, I can always trust Love.

As long as I am loving -- reflecting God’s nature as Love -- yes, at least in this one thing -- I am not a failure. And, to be honest, this means everything to me.

unfailingly, and with Love,
Kate

"We've all seen the rain..."

"Come with What's in your heart
We all have our cross to bear
The sweet will grow sweeter
And you will be freer still
Come with what's in your heart...now"
Mary Huckins

My dear friend Carol reminded me, through a compelling posting of the song, "Song for Mom: Seven Billion Strong."  that Sunday is Mother's Day. And I couldn't help but remember this post from a few years ago, and Dakota Blonde's beautiful song, "Come with what's in your heart...," that keynoted its message.

  In response to his friend's despair over his own mother's struggle, in "Seven Billion Strong," a wise young man replies:

"there's mothers struggling all over the world,
from Africa to the Middle East.
One thing I think we need to do,
is honor that..."

And they did...with their song, and its message of solidarity.

The following is just one tiny, little glimpse of how bringing what we have in our hearts - right in the here, and now - can enrich, and touch, and extend hope...and healing...to another.

"Come with What's in your heart..."

It was one of those days when I felt as if I couldn't get traction on my best laid plans. I'd spent the morning thinking about "charity." I needed to compile readings for a church service, and I longed for them to have the ring of Truth. What I realized I really needed, was to be moved by a fresh perspective, one that reached beyond the view from my office window.  I wanted to feel the deep drawn breath of humanity. To be filled with its hunger, and its definition of true charity. 

All morning I'd imagined carving out an hour, or two, for returning to our old neighborhood in the city. I thought I'd spend some time recalibrating the lens of my heart. There, the hungry and homeless share the sidewalk with college professors and graduate students.  I knew that in this environment of social diversity, the citations I'd chosen would either ring true with meaning, or fall flat on the face of pretense...rather than practice.

But as hard as I tried all day to make it happen, my visit to the old neighborhood just wasn't in the cards, God had other plans for me. 

A last minute appointment, scheduled just before I had to pick the girls up from school, took me in exactly the opposite direction of what I'd intended.  I found myself in a suburban Starbucks where luxury cars -- rather than shopping carts filled with redeemable soda cans taken from trash bins and dumpsters -- defined the socio-economic baseline.

At first I was disappointed and cynical.  I'd longed to feel the want and woe of a neighborhood in which "need" trumped "want".  I couldn't imagine that I would run into anyone in that Starbucks who needed anything, much less charity.

But, I'd long-learned to trust that God was the Captain of my comings and goings. And that if He had led me there, and it was He who had put this desire in my heart to practically demonstrate, and apply these Bible-based principles...relating to the subject of charity... wherever I was, then this was exactly where I needed to be.

As I sat there praying, I couldn't help but notice, through the front windows, a large SUV pull into the parking lot.  A teenage girl and her mom got out and approached.  The mom was broken. There was no other word for the look in her eyes.  It was clear that there had been harsh words, and the mom's face was stoic, but pained with heartache.  The daughter's face was critical and cold.  The look she shot in her mom's direction was one of disrespect and disdain.  But her mom moved through the space between the car and the front door of the coffeehouse with dignity...reaching deep within herself for love, patience, and poise. 

I admired her grace.  It was palpable in the spite of the daughter's angry sniping at her heels.  All conversation stopped once they entered the store, until mom turned to her daughter and quietly asked her what she would like from the barista.  A curt response followed. And without reaction, the mom ordered graciously, thanking the boy behind the counter when he repeated the order perfectly before completing the transaction. And, as I think back on it, that is just when the lines from Mary's song finally reached in and found me.

"Come with What's in your heart
It doesn't much matter now
we've all seen the rain...
So, come with what's in your heart...now"

As I sat there, I realized that this woman was hungry.  She was as needy as anyone I might have met on the streets of my old neighborhood.  She needed kindness and understanding, and as a mom, I understood.  I was filled with admiration for her poise.  I was overflowing with an awareness of how truly beautiful her patience was in the face of disdain.  

Although I was a bit embarrassed...not sure if she would think I was a bit odd...I rose from my chair and followed mother and daughter out of the Starbucks.  I called to her and she stopped and turned towards me.  I said to her, "You are beautiful.  I couldn't help but notice the dignity and grace with which you hold yourself.  I hope your daughter sees how beautiful you are."  She just looked at me and asked, "you really think I am beautiful?" I said, "Yes" And then I looked at her daughter who had a look of true surprise on her face as she said, "Do you really think my mother is beautiful?"  Again I said, "Yes, I think she is very beautiful...so graceful and beautiful."  With that, her daughter's face softened into a child's and she walked over to her mother and put her arm around her shoulder and said, "I think you are beautiful too mommy."  The mom looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, "You just made my day.  I needed this.  Thank you." 

I learned so much in that encounter.  More than money, food, or a place to live, we all need to be seen for who and what we are.  We need to be seen for what we love and how we love and live. 

I learned that my view of that woman and her daughter was the most valuable thing I could give them.  More desirable and hungered for than gold, or cars, or a mansion on a hill.  And I had lots and lots of that kind of "seeing" to spare.  I had so much I could give it away all day and never run out.

I also learned that I should never prejudge anyone's experience.  Our gifts are needed everywhere we go.  We can never go to, or find, a place that is free of the need for spiritual gifts...compassion, understanding, generosity, kindness, long-suffering, genuine interest in another's life. And sometimes those gifts lead us to the sharing of a sandwich, a bus ticket, and most importantly, a cup of cold water in Christ's name. . 

Mary Baker Eddy says:

"The rich in spirit help the poor in one grand brotherhood, all having the same Principle, or Father; and blessed is that man who seeth his brother's need and supplieth it, seeking his own in another's good. Love giveth to the least spiritual idea might, immortality, and goodness, which shine through all as the blossom shines through the bud."

This passage took on new meaning for me the other day.  I realized that Love gives me...even when I think I have the least to give...might (the possibility to make a difference in another's life), immortality (the tirelessness of invigorating compassion), and goodness (helping someone see the good that is already present in their lives when it seems obscure) to bless the life of someone else.  In that moment of giving I realize how rich I am...I have something to give. 

Or as Peter said to the infirm man:

"Silver and gold have I none, but such as I have, give I thee..."

This spiritual giving was foundational to my mother.  When faced with opportunties for charitable giving, or philanthropy...even as a widow with eight young children and nothing in her bank account...she would affirm, for her own edification, as well as for anyone who thought they might try to convince her to hold back her widow's mite, "my children have the right to be generous."  I now realize what she has always understood, that giving is as fundamental as breathing to the human heart.

All you need to do is "come with what's in your heart".  Enjoy this beautiful song performed by one of my favorite Colorado-based folk/bluegrass/country bands, Dakota Blonde, and written by their lead singer and our friend, Mary Huckins. 

What is in your heart...right now...

with love,
Kate

[photo of Carol & Lizzie by Scott MacKenzie 2008]

"Everyday miracles...."

"It's the everyday miracles
that keep my hope alive.
It's the way you move in little things,
that helps me survive..."

I am so loving the message in Sara Groves', "Everyday Miracles," tonight.  It speaks to me of what is most essential.

I've begun to realize that it's the little things which take my breath away these days.  The everyday, the common place, the simple acts of unsought grace found in unexpected places.

One recent weekend was filled with them.  A friend's willingness to put self aside and take me to the airport before dawn, another's offer to transport a fragile item back home so that I didn't have to worry about it surviving two flights...one lovely moment after another...

For the most part, I was aware of these unexpected miracles, because they were directly in my path.  And I was deeply grateful for each instance of blessing. 

But, it was what I was privy to on my last flight that I'd like to write about tonight.  A delayed flight out of Chicago put a large group of us in the boarding area for a few hours.  One fellow wheelchair-bound traveler, was obviously very advanced in years and unaccustomed to his circumstances.  He sat quietly, but it wasn't hard to note his concern about making his connection in the next city.  He politely asked the ticket agent, over and over again, if we were going to make it in time since his son would be waiting for him at his final destination, and he did not have a cell phone to alert him of the delay.

When we finally boarded, he was whisked down the jetway first, and by the time I followed along with my later boarding group, he was already seated next to a young woman and her daughter.  I took the seat directly in front of them.  

During the course of our two hour flight, I was brought to tears more than once by his seatmate.  She was so genuinely interested in his welfare and comfort.  She asked him questions about his life, his family, his concerns.  She made sure he had refreshments and helped him when he needed to leave his seat.  She intervened for him with the airline staff so that they called ahead and had them hold his next flight for ten minutes so that they could get him off of our plane and through the terminal so that he wouldn't have to spend the night in a strange city because of a missed connection.

When we landed I couldn't help but talk to her daughter, since mom was still busy caring for her new friend.  I asked her if she knew what a kind and generous mom she had.  I won't forget her response for a long time, she said, "that's my mom...she is always like that."  There was such a sense of "why, of course.." to her reply. 

It made me realize that this was not a rare moment in her mother's life...this was her life.  And her daughter knew it.  It was clear that she was witnessing miracles everyday in her mom's presence.  Miracles of kindness, serendipitous acts of grace.

I felt blessed.  No less so than if I'd been on the shores of the Gallilean Sea with the Master, on a Lynn, Massacusetts beach with Mary Baker Eddy as she ministered to a lame boy, or seeing a terminal diagnosis reversed through prayer. 

I'm on the look-out for everyday miracles...and, like the heart-shaped stones my sisters and I collect, I seem to be finding them around every corner. 

with Love,

Kate

"Calling all angels..."

"I need a sign to let me know You're here
All of these lines are being crossed over the atmosphere
I need to know that things are gonna look up
'Cause I feel I'm drowning in a sea spilled from a cup

And I'm calling all angels
I'm calling all you angels..."

I heard Train's "Calling All Angels" tonight, and everything telescoped into a moment of remembering.  Like most good stories, it starts, "it was a stormy night..."  But it really was.    When some years ago,  I felt as if I was at the end of what I thought I could endure...emotionally.

For weeks I'd been stumbling through my days in a fog of depression.  I felt lonely, sad, and hopeless.  And the saddest thing was, that even though I was so lonely, I didn't want to be around real people.   All day long,  it was the hazy comfort of my bed that whispered her promise to me like a gentle, kind friend...whether I was in my office, driving to appointment, sitting in meetings, or laughing with colleagues.  In fact, no matter what I was doing, the only place I really believed I could find peace, and therefore, wanted to be, was in that bed.

It called to me like the snake, Kaa, from Rudyard Kipling's The Jungle Book, "just come to bed and go to sleep, go to sleep," in a hypnotically soothing voice.  I could  easily imagine what it would feel like to let the drug-like heaviness of sleep seep through my body, and surrender to rest I thought I'd find in the escape of dreams. I fought back, but it wasn't easy.

Day after day, I would show up for my responsibilities and commitments, but the incessant, dull ache of "if only I could go back to bed,"  throbbed just under the surface of my smile.

Then one day I couldn't.  I just couldn't sleep.  At all.  And before I knew it, one day turned into two, which turned into ten.  Ten days without sleep, or more importantly, without the escape from depression that dreaming promised.  And since dreaming only came with sleep.  No sleeping, no dreaming.  I was a walking zombie...literally.

By day ten, I didn't know what to do, or where to go, to find peace, or even just a little bit of rest.  But, because it was a Wednesday night, and "just showing up," had become my default behavior.  I headed, wihtout much hope of it making a difference, to church.

I was alone that night.  Alone in a city with a veritable plethora of church options, and yet I'd never felt more listless and unmoored.  I found myself driving to a familiar part of town...but one that wasn't on my normal radar...and walking into a very small church with only a handful of quiet worshippers. But the minute I sat down, I felt compassion.  I sensed a happiness, a quiet peace that was non-invasive but palpably geunine.  One woman offered me a soft blanket when she noticed I was shivering.  Another asked me if I'd like a cup of water as she crossed the room to get one for herself. 

The kindness was not effusive, but it was rich, gentle, and authentic.  The hymns, familiar and comforting,  were better than dreaming, and the stories of inspiration and healing, shared after the brief, simple readings, were touching and encouraging.  I felt as if I were in the company of urban angels.  There was no drama, no hierarchy, neither a hesitancy to share honestly, or a chomping at the bit to get the next word in...it was as divinely choreographed as the innocent interplay of children taking turns. 

They didn't know that I was ready to collapse with exhaustion, and suffering with acute depression.  I didn't say a word that night, but I felt as "listened to" as if I'd poured my heart out and the entire congregation had surrounded me, held my hand, and tenderly dried the tears I was really just too sad, and tired, to even weep that night.  No one said a word, or asked a question...but I could feel their openess of heart.  It had called to me.  Without a word it had invited me to step into their company and rest upon the spiritual love that united them.

I left church, that evening, feeling more rested than I had in weeks.  And later I slept peacefully for the first time in days. 

Because of a last minute office call, I had to join our church service, remotely, by phone last night.  The same tender, sweet persuasion that called me into their congregation years ago, poured, undiluted by technology, through the phone lines....some things never change. 

I needed a sign from God, that night...some years ago...to let me know She was in still my life...I found Her heart beating strong, in that company of angels...  Uniting with that heavenly host...in silent service, and as an active witness...is a blessing more lovely than dreaming. 

I am so grateful...

Kate 

"in the arms of the angel..."

"You are pulled from the wreckage
of your silent reverie...
In the arms of the angel,
may you find some comfort here..."
- Sarah Maclachlan

I know I've used Sarah's "Angel" as the keynote for another post...but I can't argue with my own angels when they suggest a song in connection with a recalled spirtual experience. 

Mary Baker Eddy defines "angels" in Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures as:

ANGELS.  God's thoughts passing to man; spiritual intuitions, pure and perfect;  the inspiration of goodness, purity, and immortality, counteracting all evil, sensuality, and mortality.

So, here's another angel-based true story, exactly the right companion for this very special song.

It was a perfectly cloudless, early autumn Colorado day.  Standing ankle-deep in soft September grass, just under the shadow of the Collegiates, I was awash in wonder.  The voice of the Arkansas River...whispering her song through the air with a sweetness that swirled and pooled around me like a diaphanous, silken scarf...was so close I could almost feel the spray gathering, like dewdrops along a blade of grass, on each strand of hair.   

The day couldn't have been more wonderful.  Long-held hopes were on the verge of being realized, our children were all happily engaged in activities and interests they loved, and each challenge faced only turned us more quickly to that inward "kingdom of heaven," where the only peace worth pursuing was imminently, and infinitely, available every moment. 

I turned my face upwards to soak the long, hot rays of the sunlight into the depths of my being.  This was a good day...a very, very good day. 

With that thought, my cell phone started ringing and I excused myself from the company of a guide I was exploring new mountain terrain with.  We didn't know eachother well, but in the course of our conversations, I'd already explained that in my work, I provided spiritual support to people who were in need. And, that if a call came in I would need to step aside and take it...no matter where we were, in conversation or in navigating the landscape.

She was gracious in moving, well out of hearing range, as soon as she heard the phone begin to ring, and after taking the call I returned to where she was standing.  She could tell immediately that the call had not been the kind I'd expected.  I was on the verge of tears.  The call had been about a loved one in crisis. And rather than being the one to offer support, I was the one who longed for a strong spiritual "shoring up."

She asked me if I needed anything, and I blurted out, "I need to pray..."   Her response was instant.  She asked me if I would like for her to pray with me.  I said, "yes."  And before I could even take in another deeply drawn breath, this "angel," whose religious-affiliation, philosophy of life, and/or take on the relationship between Jesus and God were completely unbeknownst, and unimportant to me, took my hands in hers and began to pray aloud.  I was immediately comforted, grateful, and humbled. 

She didn't ask about my religious leanings, whether I loved Jesus, or if I wanted her to pray silently or audibly...she just prayed.  There was no priestliness, or hierarchy in her response.  It was clear, in her heart we were both obedient children, humble servants of a loving God.   Her words were filled with innocence and grace, and they flowed as effortlessly, and as purely, as the waters of the Arkansas River.

Her courage, in offering to pray with me, was full of the kind of primitive spiritual fellowship I longed for in my sense of community.  I was deeply touched.  I wanted to know this woman...forever.   I hope I will.

The urgency of the caller's situation was quickly down-graded.  But this story isn't about that.  It is about the courage of an angel who didn't hesitate...for one second...in offering to meet me where I was and walk me out of a dark moment into the light of Love.

I pray each day for this kind of boldness in Christ.  Thank you, dear "stranger" for your fellowship and compassion...for binding up my wounds and pouring in the oil of your gentleness, your consecration to what you know and believe, and your charity towards a fellow traveler.

with Love, 
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"I know I'll often stop and think about you..."

"...Though I know I'll never lose affection,
For people and things that went before,
I know I'll often stop and think about them,
In my life I love them all..."

Last Thursday I wr0te a piece, "It feels like it might be hope," describing the impact a friend's mother had made on my life following Dad's sudden passing just after my graduation from high school. A time when my life changed in the breadth of a heartbeat.

At the end of that post, I promised to tell about how her kindness, actually altered the course of my life, at the end of that summer, and why, I continue "In My Life," to often stop and think about her.

Here goes: 

Summer was coming to a close, and as the golden light of an early August evening began to soften as we moved towards autumn, my anxiety about the future grew.  What would I do after the park closed on Labor Day and Helen no longer needed an assistant?  How would I pay rent, and help buy school supplies and new shoes for my siblings...much less pay for heating fuel as winter approached?  Would I have to go back to waitressing full-time, in addition to another minimum wage job.  How could I work three jobs, when worrying about putting food on the table for 9 people kept me awake, tossing and turning, night after night?

One morning I came into the coffee-perfumed office at the State Park, and found a note from Helen, "let's talk at lunchtime."  This was surprising.  Helen was usually the first person to sweep me out of the office at lunchtime so that I could enjoy an hour on the beach with my friends.  She defended my "down time" like a mother tiger.  For her to assume that hour for herself was surprising.  I wondered what I'd done wrong.  I'd planned to ask her, but our morning was full of tasks, leaving little time for talking.  The most I could do was slip a note on her desk to let her know that I would love to have lunch together.

At noon she grabbed her purse, my hand, and on the way out the door, told the Head Ranger that he would have to cover the office for the next hour, as "the girls" were going to lunch.  He didn't argue...no one argued with Helen.  She was so kind that we'd all do just about anything for her, and steely enough,  that we yielded to her dictums with absolute trust.

Once out the door and driving down the road away from the office, we were like girlfriends playing hooky.  Something her daughter and I had done a time or two our senior year....and paid a high price for when our parents discovered our adventure.  Once we were seated at the counter of our favorite deli, we ordered our salads and gratefully accepted two icy glasses of TAB before Helen launched into her reason for taking me to lunch.   She swiveled her red vinyl and chrome stool in my direction,  and with the same mother tiger fierceness in her eyes I'd seen before, she squared her shoulders ready to "take no prisoners".  Then she took a deep breath, and in an uninterrupted stream of loving imperatives, she laid out her plan for the next chapter in my life.  There was no question about whether I would take her advice and she knew it.  She'd already proven that her wisdom, love, and intuition were impeccable when it came to helping me figure out the summer.  I had only to listen and agree to do my part when it came to the next season.   I think she must have known that, my mom was so busy with caring for seven school-age children, and that I was starving for direction and guidance.  And like a wonderful aunt who was only trying to help her widowed "sister," she came with a banquet.

As my best friend's mother, Helen knew that I'd walked away from a full-ride scholarship to my "university of choice" after Dad's passing, and she knew that my future as the oldest child, would require at least two full-time jobs in order to pay the rent, and feed our family.  So she had a plan. 

I would take the State civil service test for clerical and administrative jobs.  Once I learned my scoring placement on the list, I would be able to look at the civil service jobs list of positions available throughout the state, and apply for jobs based on my placement. 

She promised to help me through the entire process.  She would drive me to the test in the state capital and wait for me to finish the three hour test.  Once I learned where I placed, she would help me go over the job listings and weigh out my options.  She believed in me.  It made all the difference.

That next week she drove me to the test, waited with me, took me out to dinner afterwards, paced the office day-after-day as we waited for my scores, and encouraged me to "think positively."

When my scores placed me in the top one percentile on the list, I had my choice of any administrative job in the state.  Helen was happier than I was.  She had a plan.  I would apply for a job at a state college or university where, as an employee, I would not only have benefits, could save in a state retirement program, but I would also be eligible for what we both knew was the real key to my hopes for the future....a college education.  Under the state college/university system, I would be able to take a certain number of free college classes each term.  And Helen had also learned that as long as I was signed up for at least one class, I could live in the dorm, thus having an authentic college social experience, as well as inexpensive, safe on campus housing.

Together, over coffee, we decided which jobs I would apply for, and then she helped me prepare for my interviews, decide what to wear, and which of the jobs...if offered...I would accept.  My goodness, she was so optimistic. 

But she was right.  I was offered a job at a wonderful college. I would serve in the office of the Academic Vice President, an exciting, intellectually stimulating position. I was charged with coordinating elements of the faculty tenure, reappointment, and promotions process. And later, I would have the privilege of working with a noted scholar in the development of an extraordinary speakers' series. Everyday, I was surrounded by amazing thinkers, and I was encouraged to try my intellectual wings by remarkable educators and activists for social change.  It was thrilling to walk across campus, to work, each day, attend classes after work, on one day have a student-based social event to drop in on, and on the next evening be invited to a faculty party or dinner gathering in "the city."

I was able to "have a life," while still being able to help support my family and provide for their needs.  I was at a college that embraced and encouraged me to see myself as the vigorous thinker I was, and to be shepherded through the process of  applying for college credits I may have earned through "prior life experience,"  and/or scholastic merit. 

When I left that college to begin a teaching career, with a state institution for severely and profoundly handicapped children, I was such a different girl than the hopeless and despairing, but tough-it-out, child Helen had taken under her wing . 

I loved teaching for a state-run institution, as it allowed me to give something back to the state  that had given me so much hope for the future.  Throughout my tenure with the institution, I was able to continue my education, begin graduate studies,  receive my teaching certification, and work with children who taught me more about myself than I ever would have learned at any ivy league college or university. And it was Helen who helped me navigate each opportunity, decision, move, and success with grace.  She was my friend...and an angel who never let me get away with giving up on myself or the power of hope.

"I know that I will never lose affection
for people and things that went before.
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life, I love them all."

Helen was not a big church-goer.  In fact, I don't remember ever hearing her talk about her religious convictions, or her church affiliation.  Helen could have been Christian, Muslim, Jewish, or Hindu...or not affiliated with any religion at all...and it wouldn't have mattered one bit.  She still gave me back my faith in goodness.  I don't know how she could have made a bigger difference in someone's life.  Her kindness gave me hope.  Her generosity reminded me that there must have been a God, a benevolent higher power, a divine Father-Mother interceding in my life when the future looked bleak, and I didn't know where to turn. 

I think Helen's example says it all.  Her willingness to be aware of my heart, invest in my dreams, care about my life, be concerned about the demands being placed upon my young shoulders, and to want to make a difference for one young girl, changed my life forever. 

thank you Helen...I often stop and think about you...alot...
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"...they're kinder..."

"Its unfortunate
and I really wish I wouldn't have to say this,
but I really like human beings who have suffered.
They're kinder."
- Emma Thompson

This will be a rare (but I am sure welcome) "brief" post today...

This weekend was all about kindness.  Anyone who reads this site may be saying to themselves "duh, isn't that all you ever write about anymore?"  Well, maybe…but this is one of the subjects I am most moved by these days and the one that has made the greatest impact on my heart.  Simple kindness.

Saturday we were blessed by a walk in the bitter cold and a modest, but wonderful, meal at our favorite neighborhood Thai restaurant with a couple I really didn't know very well until recently.  What brought about our "date" was quite simply...kindness.  Theirs.

Like so many people in the world today, I too have faced  moments when judgment, criticism, harsh opinions, and cold disdain swirled around me like the debris that followed poor little "Pig Pen" everywhere he went, in one of the late Charles M. Schultz "Peanuts" cartoons.  There are times when any one of us might have made decisions or taken steps in our lives that may have left us asking, "What was I thinking" or left others wondering about our motives, sanity, or wisdom. 

However, once those decisions are made or the steps have been taken, we all have choices on how we will move forward with grace.  We can face misunderstandings head on with corrective information,  change our course, “get out of Dodge”, or let God use these moments in our lives as opportunities for us to learn some vital spiritual lessons that can only be discovered in the context of discomfort.  Recently I had the opportunity to choose the fourth option.  As it’s turned out, this path was likely the most demanding of the choices at hand.  Yet to have failed to learn what I have learned through this experience--even just this one lesson related to kindness--would be tragic to me.  And even now I wouldn’t (even if I could) turn back the clock and retrace my steps, possibly taking a less challenging course,  if it meant relinquishing this lesson.

A song from the Christian Science Hymnal says it with such gentle authority:
                                             

"Jesus knew the law of kindness,
Healing mind and heart of blindness..."          
- Nikolaj F. S. Grundtvig

For me there is profound wisdom in this statement.  In my case, what I had most needed as a Christian Science healer at this juncture in my life was not more respect, admiration and affirmation of my worth or success.  What I really needed was to be healed of any blindness to the power of kindness.   To be thoroughly healed of the ease with which I could dismiss the capacity kindness has for lifting and healing the broken hearted and the bruised.  To not shrug off the power of even one small,  simple act of human kindness.   To recognize what it can do to elevate sentiments of unworthiness to the comprehension of one’s true status as a child of God, an heir of Christ, a full citizen of heaven on earth, a dweller in the secret place of the most high, a rich and fertile kingdom, the land of milk and honey...that lies waiting for cultivation within each of us. To discover that Christianity is a verb and that it looks, feels, and walks a lot like...you've got it...kindness...day in and day out.

There was no better way for me to learn these lessons than to have the warm blanket of profuse and generous kindness pulled out from under me in an instant...so that I found myself shivering in the bitter cold air of judgment, disinterest and disdain.  Then, and only then, did I understand what it really meant to have one gentle, humble heart offer a sunny smile following a score of sideward glances of scorn or just averted eyes.  To know the sweet warmth of a kind inquiry about our welfare extended with authentic care and sincere interest, after an evening when others had avoided the need to even say "hello".  

Well, as the weeks and months went by,  the lessons started to sink in with such deep suffusion that I found myself moved by the smallest things.  I was no longer so impressed by well-articulated and inspired speeches.  I was suddenly moved to tears by a shy hello proffered by someone who a year earlier may have barely felt like they were in my periphery rather than the focus of this piece.  Broad compliments that had once made me feel loved and admired were now too rich... like an opulent feast that I could not take in for its richness.  I found that I was more than satisfied with a genuine "thank you" as simple as a piece of toast and a cup of tea. 

And these simple moments of breaking bread were the kind of "meals" I wanted to now be known for serving with grace myself.  I no longer aspire to be the Martha Stewart of inspired living and speaking...but to become more like:

"the humble servant of the restful Mind"*
who
"steals in silently in on an errand of mercy."*

Our dinner companions from this weekend are so dear to us…dearer than they may ever know.  They join a small but precious new family of friends whose place at our table is cherished.  Many of you have a seat reserved...the toast is warm, the marmalade sweet, and the tea kettle is on.

Come dine...

"The poor suffering heart needs its rightful nutriment,
such as peace, patience in tribulation,
and a priceless sense
of the dear Father's loving-kindness."*

[* from the published writings of Mary Baker Eddy]

K