"til I can carry on..."

"Will you remember,
and bring me sprigs of rosemary
be my sanctuary,
til I can carry on,
carry on, carry on..."

Hearing Carrie Newcomer's "Sanctuary," my heart was immediately filled with appreciation for those who have held me during dark days of doubt, pain, or fear -- and sometimes all three.

The more I thought about what made each of them a sanctuary in my darkest hour, the more I realized it was their silence. Their willingness to just sit with me, pray with me, let me weep, or simply let me be quiet without comment. To let me discover the lesson that was waiting in that moment. Yes, this is what made their presence feel like a safe place -- a place of refuge.

Too many times we try to find the right words. Words that will fix their problems, eliminate the source of their sorrow, fill their emptiness, or assuage their grief. Often, words are only a bandaid for our own fear that we have nothing to give. When so many times, what is most needed, is not found in human platitudes -- however lovingly proffered.

In those moments, what our hearts most cry out for -- is to know that we are not alone. For someone to help us wait in the silence for the real answers -- the ones that can only be found within the vast wellspring of what feels like our own breaking heart. Answers that come from this deep spiritual interiority, are the only answers that sustain us, restore our hope, and endure beyond a conversation. These are the answers we feel versus hear. These are the answers that are ours alone.

When the adoption of our first child changed course and his birthmother decided to parent him herself, there was nothing anyone could have said that would have staunched the hemorrhaging of my heart. I had prayed with him, slept with him, sung him lullabies, and fed him by the light of the moon. My heart hadn't waited.  It hadn't held back just because we we'd yet to secure the final legalization of his adoption. He was my son. I loved him.  I felt inconsolable.

After he no longer occupied his nursery, I was bereft.  One day, a very dear friend came by, and quietly helped me pack up the gifts we'd received - toys and small clothing - and send them to his mom.  Once we'd re-boxed the soft mobile, moved the bassinet to the garage, and folded the sheets, she gave me a long hug and then sat with me while I cried.   After she left, I found a notecard, with nothing but this statement from Mary Baker Eddy's Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, handwritten in her careful script.  It read:

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

She hadn't said more than a few sentences during our entire morning together.  But she knew my heart.  She knew, that for me, the word "sin," represented anything that would try to convince me that I (or anyone else) was separated from the love of God. My friend didn't need to say anything more.

She didn't need to share with me her own sorrow over our loss, she didn't need to assure me that another child would come along, she didn't need to remind me that I'd done nothing wrong, or that what had happened to us was terrible. She just needed to point me in the direction of that quiet sanctuary of earnest longings.

From that moment on, when the sympathy of others was too much to bear, I knew where to go, and what to do. And when the loneliness of an empty nursery crashed like waves upon my heart -- it was her quiet heart that I turned to, and found refuge in.

Sometimes the greatest gift we can give one another is the gift of silence, the gift of listening without the need to fix the problem or fill in the holes where words would seem to fit so nicely.

To every friend who has every let me weep in her arms, or has just been willing to sit by the river with me, and say nothing -- thank you.

I love this verse from Carrie's song:

"This one knocked me to the ground.
this one dropped me to my knees.
I should have seen it coming
but it surprised me.

Will you be my refuge,
my haven in the storm?
Will you keep the embers warm,
when my fire's all but gone,
all but gone..."
 

It's the question we ask with our tears. And it is the question that is answered by sisters, brothers, pastors, neighbors, friends, practitioners, nurses, emergency personnel, parents, teachers, residence counselors, hospice volunteers, and so many others who are willing to stop, be still, and let us feel the presence of something shared in the space of that silence. And I -- for one -- am so deeply grateful.

offered with Love and profound gratitude,
Kate

"it's holding tight, and letting go..."

"it's holding tight,
and letting go;
it's flying high,
and laying low..."

Clint Black's 1997 hit  "Something That We Do,"  is something of an anthem for me. So much of the success stories we hear - in regard to love, are about holding on. But there was a time in my life when I really needed to hear that love was also about letting go

As a family steeped in adoption, this was a theme in our lives.  The bittersweet paradox of love. For us to be able to be a family, a birth mother -- or birthparents -- had to let go. And yet, I believed that through the path of open adoption -- the ongoing relationship between birth families and adoptive families -- letting go could also include holding on. I still do.

But when it came to marriage, for me it was all about holding on. Holding on for dear life. And this holding on was not always gentle. Sometimes it was frantic and desperate. In fact, it was often like that for me. I would not be a quitter. And I wouldn't let anyone else quit either.

But I have learned that sometimes love is letting go. After decades of refusing to "give up," one day God asked me, "do you love him enough to let him go?" It had never occurred to me that loving someone could mean not trying harder. But as I let that question sink in, I thought about how much I loved my daughters and what loving them had looked like - from the moment they came into our family.  And it was more about letting go, than holding on.

It started with letting go of my dreams of how I would become a mother.  Then it was sharing them with others: placing them in the arms of family and friends who loved them, trusting a babysitter, leaving them in the Children's Room during church services.  Before we knew it, we were dropping them off at pre-school, sports events, sleepovers, camp, international service projects, expeditions, college...

Letting go wasn't about giving up with our daughters, and it wasn't about giving up on my marriage. It was about loving enough to trust God's tender, constant, unfolding care for each of us. I can only speak for myself, but for me, it was about surrendering self-will and pride for spiritual growth and humility. It was about holding on to my highest sense of living love, while letting go of what I thought it should look like.

For those who think that this is some version of self-justification, I can assure you that it is not. I have spent countless nights rehearsing that day -- when after years of trying harder and praying more -- God broke through my self-certainty, with piercing clarity, and asked me to love enough, to let go.

It was not the first time God had spoken to me in this way -- so it wasn't a foreign language. Some years earlier, when my husband and I were in the process of adopting our first child -- a son -- his birthmother was prayerfully led to reconsider her decision to surrender. Our adoption agency had made it clear that since he was already in our home, we could contest her change of heart.

But that was the thing -- it was all about hearts. The night before she was to give us all her final decision, I was sitting alone praying about what to do.  And out-of-the-blue God asked me, "Some day that baby will be a boy of twelve. Will you be able to say to him, "your mother wanted to raise you, but we fought to keep you."

My heart surrendered in a moment. And as painfully hard as it was, I never regretted that surrender. Years later, the Voice, and the feeling, were the same -- and I knew. I felt it pierce all the disappointment and pride. All the human will and hardness. I knew it had nothing to do with not loving him -- but loving him more.

Mary Baker Eddy has this to say in her primary work, Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures:

"The sharp experiences of belief in the supposititious life of matter, as well as our disappointments and ceaseless woes, turn us like tired children to the arms of divine Love. Then we begin to learn life in divine Science. Without this process of weaning, "Canst thou by searching find out God?"

For me it read, "Then we begin to learn love in divine Science. Each time I have been asked to let go, my understanding of Love has expanded beyond anything I could have ever imagined.  I have learned more about love, and my relationship to God -- the Source of all love -- by the weaning, more than by the holding on.

And in truth, we never really let go of what we love - only of our sense of personal attachment and possession. We are not the arbiters of love in our lives -- of its presence in our hearts. We love, who and what we love by divine appointment. We can't control that. But we can let God define how we relate to one another, moment-by-moment.

Love is a verb. Nothing can keep us from being love. Nothing can deprive us of our right to love.  It is the one real power we have. Think of it.  No one can stop you from loving them -- from being conscious of, seeing, and calling attention to the best in them. Every relationship in our lives is the ebb and  flow of holding on to what is true about another -- and letting go of what isn't.

Whether it is in the day-to-day surrender of our children to teachers and friendships, or the letting go of what we think define us, and how we live, love, and work together. We are never separated from those we love. We hold them forever in our hearts - as tenderly remembered experiences, through co-parenting, and in our genuine hopes for their future joy in loving -- and perhaps, loving someone new. In this way, there really is no separation, only the surrender of outlines and attachments.

Letting go in love is not a failure. It is just another way of loving someone. Every moment of loving is a remarkable moment of success over self. In this, there is no failed love. Time doesn't validate love. Loving validates love.

I love these lyrics from "Something That We Do":

"We help to make each other
all that we can be.

Though we can find
our strength and inspiration
independently.

The way we work together
is what sets our love apart."

Life is eternal. There will be an infinite number of loves in our lives. May each one bring you nearer to God - the Source of all love. May you know the eternity of loving without possession or attachment. May you feel the power of love as an active, unstoppable, irresistible verb. May you know the love that is both holding tight, and letting go.


offered with Love,

Kate

[photo by Katariina Agnes Fagering - used with permission]

"I knew..."

"I knew
I loved you
before I met you;

I had been waiting
all my life..."

The first time I heard Savage Garden's,  "I Knew I Loved You,"  it touched me in a place that was all about motherhood, and being a girl who loved horses.

Today, our daughters turn 29, 21, and 21. April 25th is a day that takes me apart - and puts me back together in new ways - every year.

As a girl, I wanted to be a mother -- even more than I wanted to be a lawyer. And I wanted that a lot. I didn't imagine my children, I felt them. I couldn't accept that they would never find their way into my arms. Years of infertility and fore-shortened pregnancies left me confused, angry, empty. Why would God put this love in my heart from early childhood, and not give me a way to live it out in my daily experience?

There are dozens of posts on this blog about my journey from empty womb to full arms, but this post, is about knowing, really knowing the presence of something, when everything else is telling you that you are delusional.

It's about refusing to give up, even when all the cards are stacked against you and your bank account screams, "are you insane?" But I knew. I knew that the love I felt in my heart, was not something I could create -- and therefore it was not something I could destroy. And believe me, I tried. There were moments in a lonely bathroom - once a month - when I just wanted the heartbreak of not being pregnant - again, to go away. Moments when I watch another hopeful trimester end in pain and heartache.

But I knew. I knew my God, because I knew this fierce love for these girls.  They were inextricably linked.  When I wasn't sure if there was a God, I was sure that I loved my daughters -- even before I met them. When I wasn't sure there would be daughters, I knew that God was Love and that this all-powerful, ever-present, all-knowing Love would not put that love in my heart without a plan for its fulfillment.

Someone recently asked me if I didn't think that perhaps I was too in love with my daughters. Well, if you ask it that way... No. There is no "perhaps" about it. I love them completely, utterly, unflinchingly.  This love has given me a sense of God's presence that cannot be shaken. A mother loving her children too much? If it were possible to even fathom that concept, then I could conceive of God loving us too much. And if there is "too much," then there would have to be some measure considered "enough."

In her primary work, Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, Mary Baker Eddy gives this definition of enough:

"The depth, breadth, height,
might, majesty, and glory
of infinite Love fill all space.
That is enough."

That's my only definition of enough. When I have loved them with as much devotion, clarity,  joy, and delight as I know God loves all of us, well, then -- perhaps -- it will be enough. But too much? Never.

Loving these girls has been the thing that has given me the best of myself.  Loving them has been a profound gift of purpose, reason, focus, and joy.  Oh, such joy. Unfathomable joy.

Before I actually met each of them, I held them like the feather of a small bluebird in my heart. And I held that hope tenderly and fiercely - knowing that I would someday hear them sing -- and fly. When it was suggested that I might just want to be content with being an aunt, I refused to accept that being an aunt was a compromise.  I knew that I could be a loving, devoted aunt and a good mom. Because you see, I didn't just want to be a mom, I needed to be a mom. I needed to know that the hope within me wasn't separated from its Source -- divine Life and Love.

Three passages from Mary Baker Eddy's writings were my constant companions:

"Do human hopes deceive?
is joy a trembler?
Then, weary pilgrim,
unloose the latchet of thy sandals;
for the place whereon thou standest
is holy ground."

"God grant that the trembling chords
of human hope shall again be swept
by the divine Talitha cumi,
“Damsel, I say unto thee, arise.”

"When the real is attained,
which is announced by Science,
joy is no longer a trembler,
nor is hope a cheat."

Over and over again I would arise from the bed of pain, of  another disappointment, of the death of my dreams. I would find the fragile pulse of that hope, and breathe fresh purpose into its frail presence. It was not about "getting a baby," it was about trusting God to be the only Source of my hopes, my dreams, my desire to live less selfishly.

When I look at this date on the calendar - April 25th, the day that I finally met all three of our daughters - albeit eight years apart -- I can actually feel the way hope whispers in the heart. I remember looking down into each of their little faces and having my breath taken away, my knees buckle, my inner mother-tiger roar. I could feel the pulse of divine Life. I knew them before I met them -- and I know God.



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

"There is no difference..."

"There is no difference...."

This piece is a departure for me.  It strays away from the safe space of song lyrics and inspiration, and wanders blindly into the somewhat foggy lair of my heart, the place where I often find myself when the lights are out, and sleep is evasive.

So, I was watching a film the other night.  I'd never heard of it before...which didn't surprise me. I don't get to watch many movies these days.  But, I needed to stay awake...right up until it was time to leave for a long drive to the airport for a pre-dawn flight...and a movie seemed like just the right thing. 

Yet this movie wasn't entertaining for me.  It was more like an emotional ambush.  One I didn't see coming.  The cast seemed perfect for a light-hearted romp through romance and family dynamics, but whoever cast this one was playing mind games with me. 

Helen Hunt, Colin Firth, Bette Midler, Matthew Broderick...you see what I mean?  Happy, funny, a bit wacky....nope.  Not at all!!

For me, "Then She Found Me," was anything but light-hearted...it was deeply moving, and profoundly thought-provoking. 

Especially the scene in which a newly-married, and eager to parent but not yet pregnant, Helen Hunt engages in an argument with her elderly adoptive mother about whether there is a difference between the way a mother loves her biological offspring, and the depth of love she feels for her adopted child.  Hunt is convinced that she must bear a child biologically to feel "real" mother love, whereas her mother emphatically declares through hot tears, "there is no difference..."

It took me apart.  I will not ruin the rest of the film for you, but suffice it to say, they had me with this scene, and never let go.  Never...

So, what do I think? Without equivocation, I agree with elderly Jewish mother, "there is no difference."  But do I really know this.  No.

I wish I did.  I wish that I could state, as categorically and without reservation, as she did, that "there is no difference..." (her character is also the mother of a biological son)   But since I have never carried a child to term, I can only speak from what I feel so certain about in my heart.  My love for my daughters...and, for that matter, my stepchildren...is no different than the love I would feel for a child that I'd given birth to. 

If there are any differences in the way I love my daughters, I would say that it has to do with my confidence about my role in their lives.  I believe that a birthmother knows, without a doubt, that she has been divinely appointed to be her child's mother.  As an adoptive mother, I feel this, in every fiber of my being, on a deeply spiritual level, but I can't say that I don't worry, every day, that my children wonder, that, if by being adopted, some divine order has been abrogated. 

For me, motherhood has nothing to do with biology.   And I don't say this to demean my daughters' birthparents, or, for that matter, their step parents.  I know, with all my being, that we love our daughters completely, absolutely and imperatively....nothing less.   I do believe, however, that motherhood has everything to do with caring for a child...whether it starts at conception and continues for the rest of that child's experience...or, nine months, nine years, or nineteen years after his/her birth. 

I can't imagine loving anyone or anything more than I love our children.  If it's possible, I don't know if I could stand it.  This love is already too dissembling and all-encompassing. It has dissolved everything I thought made me who I was.   This is a good thing though...I needed to change.  Self-absorbed, myopic, and critical behaviors couldn't exist in the atmosphere of love which motherhood requires, and calls forth, from the depth of our being. 

But is it different? I so hope not.  I pray with all my being that my children have not experienced anything "less," having grown up in an adoptive family.   Because, more than anything else in the world, I want my children to know the best, the fullest, the most extraordinary love that life has to offer. 

And perhaps, by encouraging and nurturing their relationships with all their mothers..and fathers, they have been able to experience just that. 

I hope...I pray...

Kate

"this bond between us can't be broken..."

"...for one so small,
you seem so strong
His arms will hold you,
keep you safe and warm
This bond between us,
can't be broken.

You will be here
no goodbyes...

'cause you'll be in our hearts
Yes, you'll be in our hearts
From this day on,
now and forever more..."

I remember hearing "You'll be in My Heart," from Disney's "Tarzan" for the first time in a darkened theater and thinking, I will always love this song.  It will always remind me of this moment.  Well, it always has...until I met Ian Forber-Pratt. 

If you don't know Ian, I hope you will get to know him, just a bit, through this post.  I say, "a bit," because the breadth of Ian's presence in our lives...and the lives of our children, and every other child who knows him...is so vast it would be impossible to encompass in one post.

Ian cares. 

Ian loves.

Ian gives of himself. 

Himself...not things, or money, or food (although he is pretty generous with whatever he has of those as well)...but himself.  His time, his attention, his wisdom, his humility, his heart...is theirs. 

I've seen photos of the day baby Ian first arrived in the United States from India.  His new dad could have held him in one hand.  He was a peanut...so, so tiny.  If there was ever proof that the size of one's body, does not define the expanse of one's affections, Ian is that proof.  For one so small at birth, he is truly a giant among men..just ask any of our kids.

Adopted from India, raised in a home filled...to the brim...with love, steeped in spiritual strength, and devoted to the lives of children, Ian makes a difference in the life of everyone he touches with his indominable life purpose.

Our daughters, like most of the teens I know, met Ian at church, and the bond of genuine love and acceptance was instant.  His spirituality is real, pracitical, fun, and they all love him.   He has given our children a lens on a living, breathing, palpable love, that I don't think they will ever forget.

Game nights at his home, Sunday School sleepovers, breakfasts at church, youth summits...have given them an inside track on what it actually looks like to love God in ways that feels doable.

So, here's the heart of this post.  A window on what...I think...makes Ian tick. 

He is complete.  And he told us about it the other night at church.  He said, he realized that since God is Father-Mother, he is not just a separate individual being roaming the earth.  He is, within himself, a family.  He is a walking family.  And I would add, that since he (like all of us) is a child of God, he is a complete family.  Father, Mother, child....all living, loving, working together, being purposeful...within one  individual. 

Ian seeks no one to complete him.  He loves without need.  He gives without expectation of being reciprocated...because he is already aware of his completeness.  Whatever you give Ian, he appreciates, but not because it fills in any blanks, or meets any needs, but because it furthers your understanding of how well-resourced you are as a generous giver.  He loves watching each of us discover that we are..one, and all, a complete family within ourselves.

Ian's journey is taking him back to India on Tuesday.  Tomorrow our church family will gather to send him off with more love than our little bulding can possibly hold within its brick walls.  I am so thrilled for all the children in India who will be blessed by Ian's presence in their lives.  For the foster care program he will initiate there.  And for the orphanage he will take under his wings.   Just think of how much it will mean to each of those children to learn that they are complete...within themselves.  Complete enough to have so much love to give that they can bless the lives of others.  It makes me weep with gratitude.


But I don't think I will be alone when these tears of gratitude and love continue to flow like a river...for a long time.  Ian' GPS may say that he has gone to India, but he will always be in our hearts...from this day on, now, and forevermore... always...always, and always.

We love you Ian...

Kate, Jeff, and the girls...

Just in case you missed the link to "You'll be in My Heart," above...here it is again...it is so beautiful. Happy Mother's Day...

"wide open like a lake..."

"...Let the noise and clamor cease
Be still and know that He is God
Be still and know that He is faithful
Consider all that He has done
Stand in awe and be amazed
And know that He will never change
Be still and know that He is God
Be still
Be speechless..."
- Steven Curtis Chapman

On a day like today...raindrops streaming down the sides of the birdfeeder outside the kitchen window like giant tears falling from heavy gray clouds, the bare black branches of still leafless trees reaching out with dark knuckled fingers, pointing to an empty heaven...on a day like this, there is no time or space for me.  In an instant, I find myself on a tender journey back to an early spring morning almost two dozen years ago, and I am as empty as a discarded barn swallow's nest.

It is in the sanctuary of this space that Steven Curtis Chapman's "Be Still," reminds me that, as Kahlil Gibran wrote:

"The deeper sorrow carves into our being,
the more joy we can contain."  

That spring, the son we were in the process of adopting had been taken back by his birthmother, relationships seemed shattered, my body was riddled with a life-threatening disease, I'd given up my career to be a full-time mother, and we lived in a remote summer community that was practically empty until June. 

As I sat on the sofa in the living room, looking out at the lake our property sloped down to, I wondered why my body still had the ability to function and move.  I moved my fingers and was surprised to see them express life.  I felt absolutely empty and lifeless within, had already accepted the final stages of my disease, and almost wished it would hurry up and put me out of my misery. 

I'd called a friend, who was also my teacher in Christian Science, the night before and told him that I didn't know why I was still alive.  He had chuckled kindly, and suggested that I sit quietly and listen for God's desire in my life...since, as he reminded me,  I was still living, so I might as well live with some sense of spiritual reason.  I agreed that this might be a good idea, and promised to give it my whole heart.

And I did.  I sat in the same place, practically in the same position, all night long with my eyes closed just listening and praying.  I heard nothing.  Nothing.  It was an inspiration-free zone.  My thoughts felt as empty as my body and my life. Deteriorating health, all alone, no job, no purpose...and most devastating, no baby.

Dawn came, and with it the realization that I hadn't heard anything and I was just as empty and in pain as I had been the day before.  I felt exhausted and hopeless.  That was when Winnie, our sweet puppy "daughter," sidled over and nudged my elbow with her nose...over, and over, and over again.  No matter how many times I suggested she "just go lie down,"  she kept returning.  So, I gave in and pulled on a pair of jeans under my flannel nightgown, a pair of boots over my wool socks, and opened the breezeway door leading out into forest just beyond the brick-paved walkway. 

Winnie was a hunting dog, so her normal path from "here to there" was to weave her way through the brush and bramble...stopping every few moments to point a squirrel or flush out a bunny.  But this morning she made a b-line for the lake's shoreline.  And once she arrived, her nose was down and her entire attention was focused on whatever was at the water's edge.  And no matter how many times I called to her, she ignored me and kept her complete focus on whatever she saw in the shallow water at the edge of the lake.

I made my way down the hill, reached her side, and got down on my haunches to see what had her attention.  But all I could see was my own face clearly reflected in the still surface of the lake at dawn...and everything that was just below the surface...tiny minnows, pebbles, and bits of grass. 

That was when a divine message finally came through, and it came through with such striking clarity that I was knocked back onto my bottom.  "This is what I want you to be...as still as this water..."like this lake*,"...  In this stillness you will be able to see what is true within yourself, and anyone who is in your presence can see the truth of who they are in the stillness of your being, a stillness that only reflects truth and never attracts attention for your ego...or their's."   

And then, on the heels of that message,  in that very moment a strong wind picked up and within seconds the entire lake was choppy and disturbed.  And at the water's edge all was foamy and obscured.  I couldn't see my own reflection or anything below the surface. 

The message continued, "And this is what happens when you allow yourself to be stirred up by emotion, anger, and drama."  The message was as clear and pointed as it could have been.  As Winnie wandered off into the nearby bramble to search for bunnies, I stayed at the water's edge transfixed on the moment, begging for direction.

"But just tell me what you want me to be, and I will be the best "it" there has every been.  If you want me to be a mom send me a child.  If you want me to be a wife, bring my husband home.  If you want me to be a career woman, tell me what job to focus on.  If you want me to be a healer, a poet, a lawyer, a writer, an artist, a publisher, a teacher...just tell me, and I will be it, and I will give it my everything.  Just tell me!"

But God said, "You aren't supposed to be just one thing forever.  You are my All-in-all.  You have all that it takes to be whatever I need you to be at any given moment.  You cam be all that you have asked, and more that you can ever even imagine.  Just like the water in the lake...just as every single drop of water is made up of H2O.  Two hydrogen molecules and one oxygen molecule, you, as my reflection...my child...are all that I am.  You have the same elemental balance that I have...I am Principle, Mind, Soul, Spirit, Life, Truth, and Love to the infinite degree and measure, so are you.  You are not a portion of my being, but the allness of all that I am."

I was suddenly reminded of a statement in Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures by Mary Baker Eddy which assures each of us that: 

"As a drop of water is one with the ocean,
a ray of light one with the sun,
so God and man, divine Principle and idea,
are one in being."

I got it.  I could be anything God wanted me to be in any moment.  Just as a drop of water could be refreshing, nourishing, cleansing, purifying, buoying, serve as ballast, revive a man thirsting in the desert...depending on the demands of the moment...I had all the qualities and attributes as part and parcel of my being in infinite measure, just waiting to be drawn upon.  In a fishbowl a drop of water is the breath of life to a little goldfish. On the tip of your tongue the same drop of water is refreshing, on a child's dirty face it is cleansing, It's individuality and identity are defined by the demands of a moment and the context it finds itself in.  The water doesn't decide to be refreshing, it doesn't get a degree in being cleansing and then is only capable of serving in that capacity.  Any drop of water is able to do any water-like function.

God was telling me that this was true of my identity....and not only mine, but it was the truth about each of us...impartially and universally.  We are all identical with God's character and nature.  We don't bring a measured portion of God's allness to each moment as our unique identitiy,  talent base, or skill set.  The moments and opportunites themselves, draw from our infinite individuality what is needed or required of us in any given moment or situation.   And sometimes it is what we least feel we have to give, that we most need to learn about ourselves...humility, grace, patience, meekness, kindness, non-judgment...which we find being  called forth.

All I needed to be was still....not just peaceful, quiet, and motionless, but constant, changeless-in-my-allness, and nevertheless...nevertheless than the allness of God's being in each and every moment.  This never-the-less-ness was the river-like being, the selfhood and identity, I would one day realize was my only purpose and calling.  That was over two decades ago, and I think that I am just starting to "get it".

A friend recently gave me this poem by poet, William Butler Yates, as a blessing...and as a gift:

"We can make our minds
so like still water
that  beings gather about us
that they may see
their own images,
and so live for a moment
with a clearer,
perhaps even with a fiercer life
because of our quiet."

Thank you dear friend...

In stillness...always and never-the-less,
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS


*And here are the lyrics to Sara Groves' "Like a Lake" (linked above):

"so much hurt and preservation
like a tendril round my soul
so much painful information
no clear way on how to hold it

when everything in me is tightening
curling in around this ache
I will lay my heart wide open
like the surface of a lake
wide open like a lake

standing at this waters edge
looking in at God's own heart
I've no idea where to begin
to swallow up the way things are

everything in me is drawing in
closing in around this pain
I will lay my heart wide open
like the surface of a lake
wide open like a lake

bring the wind and bring the thunder
bring the rain till I am tried
when it's over bring me stillness
let my face reflect the sky
and all the grace and all the wonder
of a peace that I can't fake
wide open like a lake

everything in me is tightening
curling in around this ache
I am fighting to stay open
I am fighting to stay open
open open oh wide open
open like a lake "

[photo credit: Gabe Korinek 2010 all rights reserved]

"I surrender, I surrender..."

"...Constantly my mind and my heart is racing
All by myself trying to solve all these problems I'm facing
Looking to man trying to find hope
But man will never know the depth of my struggles
I was depending on myself
To give myself a hand
But when depending on myself
Fell time again
And that's why I'm standing here alone
With no one else
Lord, I realised that I can't fight these battles by myself

I surrender
I surrender
I surrender to you Lord
I surrender
I surrender
I surrender to you Lord
I surrender
I surrender
I surrender to you Lord
Coming out with both hands up
I surrender..."
-     R. Kelly  "I Surrender"

I was looking at the topical index on this blog and discovered that the subject of "surrender" is the one I have written the most about in the last few years.  It made me smile.  33 pieces that focus, in some way, on the subject of surrender.  The second was "adoption"....hmmm.  Not surprising...they go together.  They are so inherently linked that I can no longer imagine one, without the other.  Mary Baker Eddy says, in her article, "The New Birth":

"...The new birth is not the work of a moment.
It begins with moments,
and goes on with years;
moments of surrender to God,
of childlike trust and joyful adoption of good;
moments of self-abnegation, self-consecration,
heaven-born hope, and spiritual love."

As an adoptive mom I had to learn to surrender...surrender my romantic models of what it meant to be a mother, surrender control of the process, and over and over again...surrender my children to...well, not being "my children"...but children I share with everyone that loves them and cherishes their identity, worth, and promise....everyone that "mothers" them. 

Surrender and adoption characterize every little (and big) corner of my life.  My family, my work, my home, my calling, my prayers, my friendships, my place in the world...everything. 

And yet, as often as I have written about surrender, I have never told the story about how I learned one of my first big lessons in surrendering control, yielding my "right" to have a hand in things that are not mine to direct, and letting go of my plans for what being "right" needed to look, feel, and sound like...even if it's just in my own "head."

I hope you'll bear with me, but it starts with the first time I had a full body massage.  I had completed work with a new client, and in the envelope with her payment, was a note in which she extended a generous invitation.  She asked that I please accept the gift of her professional services...an aromatherapy massage.

At first blush (and I really mean blush) I hesistated for a number of cultural reasons...but only briefly.  She had become a loved member of my community circle through our work together and was offering a gift from her heart and her life...I could only accept her gift in the way it was intended...and I did.   But then my real hesitation started to scream...I didn't want to undress and be touched by anyone...much less a new friend I had begun a professional relationship with!  But over and over again I couldn't help but remembered the sincerity of her offer and her use of the word "gift."  And so I put my extreme modesty aside and called to set up an appointment for as far out on the calendar as I could without making my avoidance issues obvious.  But each day, that appointment drew closer and closer, until her name was staring up from the pages of my calendar and I couldn't cancel it gracefully.

I arrived at her studio...then housed in a lovely old vicotrian mansion near my home...one cold, gray late November afternoon. I was a shivering, teeth-chattering nervous wreck.  I was about to get naked with a peer.  This was a very new experience for me.  I was not at ease with my body.  I was not comfortable with having my body seen, much less touched.  We were friends, but this was a bit more than I was ready to do for a friendship.  I almost had myself talked out of the massage and into a quick cup of hot chocolate...my treat of course...at our neighborhood coffeehouse, when she came into the waiting room and greeted me with a steaming mug of herbal tea, the perfume of lavender and eucalyptus oil trailing her every soft step. 

I found myself at ease in the glow of her gentle eyes and shy smile.  I could see that this was a stretch for her too.  I was not a "client" that had come to her for therapeutic services, I was a new friend she had courageously offered her gifts to.

Once in her small, but warmly lit and softly scented studio she showed me where I could hang my clothes and invited me to make myself comfortable on the massage table between crisp white sheets and warmed quilts. 

When she returned to the room I was again tense and nervous.  I had never been comfortable with being touched and this was going a bit far.  But I decided if I was going to do this...and there was no graceful way to back out at that point...I would be a very good massagee...I would anticipate when she needed resistance, cooperation, I would be chatty...like I was with my hairdresser...entertaining and curious about her life, her children, her dreams.  I would be the best client she ever had. 

Once she began, however I wasn't a bit comfortable.  I was feeling like a failure.  I wasn't getting it right and I knew it even though she never said a thing.  I would push back against the pressure of her hands on my shoulders, I would hold in my stomach when she had me turn on my back, I lifted my head when she attempted to softly roll my neck from side to side...and I talked and talked and talked. 

Finally, I said, "I am so sorry that I'm not a good client.  I just don't have much experience at this and I don't know what to do to help you."

She softly said, "nothing...you need to do nothing.  Just surrender to my hands.  I think this will be the hardest thing you have ever done, no? But, I can only do my job if you aren't trying to do my job too.  Shall we start over?" she asked.  I started to cry.  Silent tears ran down my temples and pooled in my ears.  She never mentioned them, just dried them with a soft towel and helped me learn how to surrender.

I learned that I could completely let the weight of my head fall in her hands and trust her to not twist it off my neck.  I learned that when you agree to let someone care for you, you must not try to take control or attempt to anticipate their next move so that you can work with them in providing what you assume will be helpful...resistance or cooperation.  I learned that it is important to just let...let your self...your self-determinism...go, and allow your life, your plans, your body be moved into place by Someone else.

It was one of the most instructive two hours of my spiritual life.  It was like a practicum in surrender...a lab on yielding.  I am still returning to that afternoon on a massage table...underneath cool sheets and a warm quilt...when I need to remember the posture of letting go, surrendering to God's care, Her plan, Her strategy for aligning the body of my life, my work, my family, my world, with Her intent.

Often when I am lying on the floor of my "office" praying, I am mentally and spiritually re-enacting that time when silencing the need to hear the sound of conversation to assure me that I am doing my part in a relationship, yielding my desire to be "helping" the real Doer, and surrendering to Her touch, Her moving of my heart...the body of my affections...and adopting the direction of Her intent...the greatest good...for me, and mine, and all, made all the difference.

I have included a link to R. Kelly's "I Surrender" it is so powerful.  I hope you will take the time to listen to it, perhaps even while you are reading this piece...

with love...and in surrender,
Kate

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I was. 

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

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

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

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

with Love,
Kate

"As long as I have a heart..."

"…As long as I have a heart
You've a safe place to dream in
A tree to carve your name in
As long as I have a heart
As long as you need a love
That time won't take away
Baby you have it made
As long as I have a heart…"
-Henry/Wilson

I was talking to my daughter today.  She is on the other side of the world in  another hemisphere.  At night she looks up at the Southern Cross.  While we are shivering in the bitter cold of winter, she is enjoying a sunny beach.  But when I think of her, and especially when I am talking to her…and the sound of her voice is filling all the space within my heart and head…I am not in a place defined by geography.  There are no latitudes and longitudes mapping out our locations.  We are one.

Her laughter is the most beautiful place I have ever been.  Her thoughts…the expanse of her dreams, the simple undulating rhythms of her day…are the landscape of this mother's heaven.   When she speaks I can feel her small fingers entwined in mine as tangibly as when we crossed streets on our way to Kindergarten when she was five.

Today, this song from Kathy Matthea's 1987  "Untasted Honey" CD sang through my heart all day as I thought of her.  My heart became her homestead the moment she arrived…tiny, strong, beautiful, feisty, funny, alert, and full of questions from the very start…she was (and still is) all of my dreams come true.

This heart of mine stands ready to yield its resources, accept the seeds of her dreams, provide shelter from the winds of doubt and frustration, remind her that we both are under the sovereign governance of a supremely good God, and welcome her home…always.

Because of her, I have learned that there is no time in this land of Love.  I have discovered that Love knows no distance and cannot be defined by space.  Love has only one address…the heart.  This heart never tires, never plumbs the depth of its capacity to respond, never thinks in portions, never holds on to what doesn't bless, and never lets go of her child's hand.  This heart is the home she can never leave and will always be there to find respite and refreshment in.

As long as I have a heart….she, and her sisters, have a home that will never change.

"…My love will always hold you near
No matter where you go…you're here…"

Kate

"Baby mine..."

"Baby mine, don't you cry.
Baby mine, dry your eyes.
Rest your head close to my heart,
never to part, baby of mine..."
-Churchhill/Washington

These lyrics from "Baby Mine" which Mama Jumbo sings to her baby in Disney's Dumbo, leave me speechless (and weeping) everytime I hear them.  In an instant I am transported back to a day that is etched on my heart indelibly. I am sitting in the back of an enormous Land Rover in the middle of the the African bush on photographic safari.  It is late Spring and we are less than fifty yards from a mother elephant and her baby.  Our guide reminds us that rampant poaching has made this picture of African serenity rare.   I am holding my three week old daughter in my arms and the connection between the four of us...mama elephant and her baby, me and my daughter...echoes across the veld and through the dry red African air like a call to prayer.  This song sweeps across my heart and I am as taken apart by it then as I was the first time I heard it in a dark Marshalltown, Iowa movie theatre when I was 8. 

These are not animated Disney characters.  There are no colorful circus tents, talking giraffes, dancing crows, or silly clowns that would soften the blow of watching a mother elephant being taken from her child.  The love is very real here.  I can actually feel the tenderness that flows through the soft curl of her trunk around her baby's chest.  It is as if we share some primordial energy causing my arm to softly curve beneath my daughter's back when I see her trunk tighten around her baby's foreleg.  We are two women and two babies.  We are mothers and daughters, devoted parent and child, trusting infant and Love-impelled mom.  There is no hierarchy of species, there is no sophistry in our communication.  We are moved by something divine...

here is the poem that fell onto the page that night...I found it in an old journal today...

loving you is not a
choice

it is a divine imperative

it is
an insistent demand

a
moment of undeniable
spiritual impulsion
on
the sea of our
deepest inner longings

it is the
coincidence
of the human and the divine

the
"as in heaven…
     so on earth"

the Word
     made flesh

the kingdom of heaven
within

the Emmanuel
    or
"God with us"…in me

it is all that is
good
and pure
and
holy
in
the universe

it is the
holy kiss

the
song
of
Solomon

it is voice of
the turtle
heard in our land

it is
the desire
that is prayer

the sweet agony of
Gethsemane,
Calvary…..
          the morning meal
          on the shores
          of the Gallilean Sea

loving you is not
a choice

loving you
came
in an
empty manger
cold and
lonely
yet
full of
grace

loving you
is not a choice

it is as
choiceless as
the flower turning
toward the light

the leaf
turning its
veins to the rain

the roots
digging deeper for
water

the dew
lifting
to echo
the open
call
of the sun's
demand for morning

it is a force
from within

the sweet pull
of
the moon upon
the water's body
of complacency
making  it
kiss the
shore in
a crescendo
of foam
and fury


loving you is not
a choice
it is
free of
decision…
reason…
pros and cons…
hypothetical "what ifs"

It is…
simply…
what is

i love you "baby mine"...
Mum

"How can I tell you..."

"How can I tell you that I love you,
I love you
but I can't think of right words to say
I long to tell you that I'm always thinking of you
I'm always thinking of you,
but my words just blow away,
words just blow away…"
- Yusuf Islam (Cat Stevens)

I have an mp3 version of this Cat Stevens classic just sitting on my desktop so that I can play it whenever I wish to feel the tenderness of its timeless message.  It's been covered by many wonderful recording artists over the last 35 years, but my favorite is a version done recently by Ben Taylor (yes, Carly and James' son…it's a dynasty!), and it's this version that I play when I am hungering for something to re-boot my heart.

It was Ben's voice that I heard playing through my heart this morning as I pondered the ideas shared in a post titled "Communicating Love: my first stint as a grandma" on my friend, Laura's, blog.  I hope you'll take the time to read it before going any further, but in case you are in a hurry, for me, it boiled down to the question, What if "what makes up family ties [other] than eye color or height or bone structure. [is] How we express affection… We can bring people into our family circle by extending that affection outward and sharing with others until all families are interconnected in Love…[and what if we were to] Spread the forms of affection we value, rather than the ideologies or traditions that divide us. [and then] When we meet new friends, [we could] introduce them to the things that make us feel most loved."  (I have tried to give you a snippet here…but you really will love to read her entire piece…it is short, sweet and profound….and I think it will help you understand what I am trying to say too!)

I have been thinking about this all morning.  What if we thought that the most important thing we had to share with another person was the HOW of our loving.  What would happen if what someone took away from a meeting or encounter, was not our opinions, concerns or ideologies, but HOW we express affection.

One example, for me, has been a increasing affection for my daughters' stepmom.  I had known her for some time as an acquaintance and colleague, but it has only been in sharing the office of "mom" with her, that I have discovered HOW she loves.  Each day our daughters pass along, through their expressed affection for us, some of the ways in which we each express our affection for them, and through that sharing, I have grown to feel a genuine appreciation of, and love for, her.  She has introduced new traditions of loving into our family that have made us richer for her presence.

Yesterday our daughters came home after their first day back at school with Christmas gifts they had made, but had forgotten to bring home, before their holiday break.   I was so touched by a large card that said at the top:  "Why Clara and I Love you…".  This is every mother's dream gift…a list of those things that have endeared you to your children…does it get any better?  The first sentence read:  "We are grateful for you because…."   What followed was an inventory of sweet and funny things like: "You are the funniest/embarrassing person we ever met…"   I was so touched. 

I had just finished reading the entire page when Emma innocently chirped in that they had given the same letter to their stepmom.  At first I was a bit surprised.   That is until later in the evening.  I was working in my office when Clara came in and scooched onto my lap to snuggle.  It was then that she saw the letter sitting on my desk and picked it up. She explained that she and her sister had decorated it themselves and then she began to read it aloud to me.  As she came to each of the items: peace in the midst of noise, readiness to rock and roll, an artistic approach to things, etc.…she affirmed audibly to herself...and to me... that yes, both her stepmom and I were great at doing each of these things, and didn't I think it was cool that we were so much alike. 

I told her, quite honestly, that I did.  Perhaps it was then that I realized perhaps one of the reasons the girls think we are so much alike is because of what we are each learning from our daughters about new ways of expressing love. That some of these traditions and customs...lullabies, recipes, approaches to holidays and routines... which they have learned (and are learning) from each of us, are enriching our homes and families...individually and collectively.  They are cross-pollinating our lives with "love customs" that will become shared, making us truly one big family because of the commonalities in how we love….how we express our love and affection for eachother…and for others.

So, thanks Laura.  Your post from today has helped me see that it is in how we express affection, rather than a shared name, similar features, agreed upon ideologies, or even the number of years we have shared the same address that makes us a family, a community, a "people".  Or as Randall Williams sings in his song from the recently released "Praying for Land" CD titled Draw the Line:

"It comes down to how we love,
not where we draw the line..."

Kate