"I've had a crush on you..."

"It's not
that you're attractive,
but, oh my heart grew active
when you came into view..."

I've been teary for the past 48 hours. It's caught me off guard. I couldn't find the place where that sadness was springing from. Until I heard Linda Ronstadt's  "I've Got a Crush on You"  -- and I knew. I was grieving the loss of one of my biggest crushes -- Stephen Hawking.

I know -- without a doubt -- that Life is eternal. I know that his wisdom, humor, and intelligence continues to bless the universe -- but that said, there was something about knowing he was "out there" - the promise of meeting him, hearing of another new insight - that kept me on my toes. I loved him.

I am probably one of the few people who binge watched "The Theory of Everything," and has read A Brief History of Time -- just to hear his "voice' -- more than once.

When I was in second grade, I was an awkward bookworm  who had already been to four school since kindergarten. Second grade was especially difficult because we moved after the school year had begun. Everyone had best friends by the time I showed up in a hand-me-down plaid skirt and scuffed saddle shoes -- polished to a spit shine.

I wanted to fit in, to find my place, to belong. But everyone was already paired off into BFFs and crushes. I had neither. There was the cutest boy that all the little girls liked, and then there were the almost cutest boys that all the little girls -- who didn't have long blonde hair that hung to their waist -- pretended to "like." And then there was Geoffrey.

Geoffrey was quiet, awkward, and extremely smart. And I adored him. He was nice to me -- the new girl. He was funny -- in a way that kids who laughed at knock-knock jokes didn't understand. But I understood - and that made me special in a brand new way. He was scrawny, had a big head with floppy brown hair, and enormous horn-rimmed glasses with coke-bottle lenses that magnified his very blue eyes. We were two peas in a pod. He made me laugh and was willing to play chess with me during recess. I was so happy to have a friend.

That didn't mean that I wasn't teased by the playground's own Princess Buttercup and her plain-Jane ladies in waiting, but I didn't care. I liked Geoffrey. One day it occurred to me that they would like him too, if only they could see how amazing he was. So I started talking about him to the other girls as if he was the smartest, funniest, most amazing boy in the world -- because to me, he was.

Before long, they saw that too.  And in that moment, I had discovered my super-power -- calling attention to the best in others. I quickly realized how willing the other girls were to see Geoffrey through my eyes. I just had to be willing to find all of his amazingness, and call attention to it every chance I got.

We moved about six months later, and I wasn't able to stay at that school till the end of the year, but by Christmas most of the other girls - including Princess Buttercup with her long blonde curls - were eager to learn chess and read Dickens to impress Geoffrey.

I left that school with a clear sense of my greatest talent -- seeing and calling attention to the good in others. I also left with Geoffrey's imprint on my heart. I would always fall for the smartest boy with the biggest glasses.

In Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, Mary Baker Eddy writes about Jesus:

"Jesus beheld in Science the perfect man, who appeared to him where sinning mortal man appears to mortals. In this perfect man the Savior saw God's own likeness, and this correct view of man healed the sick."

My favorite -- hugging the dictionary to my chest -- definition of the word "behold" is:

"to see,
and call attention to"

That is my super-power. Seeing the hidden good in others, and then calling attention to it. It is my favorite thing to do. It is like walking into a party where all the people have paired off, or are in conversation groups, and just standing quietly in the room and staring -- with absolute, transfixed attention and wonder -- at a place on the wall. Eventually everyone in the room will be looking to see what I am so focused on, and delighted by. This, for me, is what healing is all about.

I get to walk into someone's "room" and see the presence of God in their lives. Soon they are looking in that direction too -- and so is everyone else.

So back to my crush. After second grade, I knew better than to trust the opinions of my classmates.  Their version of who was "amazing" was their version. And they were more than eager to share it with me whenever I got to a new school.  It usually ratified their own place in the social hierarchy.  If they convinced me that Billy was the cutest boy in the school, and they were dating Billy, well -- that meant something about them.

But, I looked for Geoffrey. Unfortunately, at the high school level, Geoffreys were either too interested in physics to pay attention to the new girl, or I was too gob-smacked by their intelligence to ask them to play chess in the cafeteria. I can still remember the names of all the "Geoffreys" I dreamed of having conversations with -- in every new school.

Then one day I came across A Brief History of Time in the local library. I saw Stephen Hawking's photo on the flyleaf. He was Geoffrey all grown up. I didn't see the wheelchair, the physical toll that ALS had taken on his sweet face. I just saw humor, intelligence, floppy hair, and a big pair of horn-rimmed glasses. I checked the book out and read it twice. I didn't understand much of what I was reading the first time through, but I could hear his "voice."

I loved knowing that he was in the world with me. I loved thinking that he was surrounded by people who loved him, and cared for him. I loved that he was humanly flawed, and emotionally available enough to fall in love, to be a father, and to make mistakes. I didn't care that we didn't share the same beliefs about God, we shared the same love for big questions.

I will miss a man I have never met -- a man I knew at the very core of my being. I will miss thinking we might meet someday and "talk" about what it was like for him in the second grade. I will miss asking him if there was a mousy little girl who believed in him and played chess with him while the other boys chased Princess Buttercup on the playground and threw balls at small children.

I will miss you Stephen Hawking. May we meet in the next chapter. I still have so many questions...

offered with Love,

Kate

"As the ruby, in the setting..."

"...As the ruby in the setting
As the fruit upon the tree, 
As the wind blows over the plains...
So are you to me..."
- EastMountainSouth

I love this song...love, love, love it.  "So Are You to Me" has been one of my favorite love songs, since the first time I heard it performed by Kat Bode and Peter Adams.   And although it was used to keynote an earlier poem (on this blog), it serves to underscore a different message in this piece, for reasons that I hope will be obvious.

Today, as I was thinking about about Mary Baker Eddy's statement:

"Jesus beheld in Science the perfect man..."

it was this song that I came to mind.  

Over the years, I've have loved hearing it performed during marriage ceremonies. But I could easily see that it is not just a lovely romantic wedding song. It is a song about the kind of love that Jesus shared, so generously...impartially and universally...with everyone he came in contact with.  He loved them enough to behold their perfection (their wholeness) right where they were, right in front of their own eyes. And in doing so, it was possible for them, and others, to see the beauty, power, and grace within themselves. Innate spiritual resources that had the power, and potential to heal, and to bless . 

Not long ago  I wrote about an etymological discovery I had made.  I'd found a definition of the word, "behold," that read:

"to see, and call attention to"

And tonight, as I write this, I am realizing that this is a perfect, and accurate, description of what we do for those we love.  We are "the setting" in which their beauty and brilliance...their color and depth...is revealed, exposed to the light of love's illuminating grace, held high for all to see...each facet full of reflected, dancing light.

I see this in the lives of spiritual thinkers -- mothers, nurses, partners, husbands, healers, parents, teachers, healers, coaches - who see the good, the presence of God, in the lives of others...calling attention to it, for that very individual, and others, to see, experience, and appreciate.

I have experienced this kind of love.  I think that the first time I knew how it felt to "be the ruby in the setting" of someone's love, was with my younger sister.  She was so talented and confident.  She was willing to audition for roles, try-out for dance teams, put herself forward in ways that I was not able to do.  But what she would do...once she "made the team" or "got the part"...was to bring my talents to the attention of coaches and teachers so that I too would have opportunities...opportunities that I would never have had the courage to explore on my own.

So, why has this song become the pure and perfect, quintessential love song for me?  Because, I think, this is what real love is all about.   Holding our loved ones aloft, up to the light, high above even their own view of themselves, so that all of their unique spiritual gifts can be recognized, valued, and used for a holy purpose.

My daughters had a camp counselor last year who did this for them.   She saw that each of the girls had a very different, but equally remarkable, way of working with horses.   She identified one child's deep-settled calm, and placed her on a horse that, in partnership, would reveal how that same peacefulness...coupled with a growing inner confidence...brought out the best in their horse/rider partnership.   She recognized the spirited fearlessness in our other daughter, and put her on a horse that would enjoy her exuberance, while demanding that she develop a sense of quiet strength in her movements.


Each of our daughters' camp counselors have showed a deep, and abiding, love for them that I will never forget.  I think about what I have learned from them...often...in my own relationships with others -- my husband, my daughters, those who call me for help,  friends, colleagues, and those I meet in the course of my day.

When we really love another, we are willing to "be the setting," and not the gemstone.  My sister was never afraid to hold my gifts up to others, and point out how I could be a blessing, a contribution, a jewel of great value to their experience. To truly love another is to not only see, but to "see and call attention to" what they may not...at that moment...be able to see in themselves.

This is love...real love,
Kate