"a hundred hands...."

"who would have thought
that a Lamb could,
rescue the souls of men..."

After last night, there was no other song than Selah's "Wonderful, Merciful Savior," that could have possibly keynoted this post.

In front of their camp brothers, I saw one hundred hands raised in answer to this question:

"How many of you experienced a healing this summer?"

It took my breath away. I was not at all surprised that they had experienced the healing power of divine Love. But that - after a reflective pause - each hand was raised. They did not look around to see how their friends or mentors had answered the question. They were not hesitant - only thoughtful.

I will never forget watching this beautiful moment. Think of it. One hundred boys and men who had competed, slept, served, played and prayed with one another - quietly answering this question together. With raised hands and gentle faces -- "yes, I have known the healing power of God this summer."

I will leave this here. No commentary. I just wanted each of you to have a window on this moment of grace. And perhaps, in the privacy of your own home, on a walk in the woods, or in a moment of courage at work -- raise your hand, and shout, or sing, or whisper, "yes, I have known the healing power of God's love."

Have a beautiful Friday.



offered with Love,

Cate

"gentle on my mind..."

"It's knowing that your door
is always open, and your path
is free to walk..."

I love this version of John Hartford's "Gentle on My Mind" by The Band Perry. But it's Glen Campbell's 1967 recording that first caught my heart.

It was 1969 and everything felt at loose ends. Our family had pulled up stakes and moved over 2,000 miles across the country. We were living with relatives while our parents secured housing. I felt so untethered that summer. I was looking for anything I could latch on to, and call my own.

The teenage sons of long-time family friends were kind, respectful, and good. It didn't take long for me to develop a paralyzing crush on the oldest boy. Days were soon filled with tennis, swimming, berry-picking, and playing records in my cousins' basement where we'd talk, and dance, and play cards, while our parents visited upstairs.

I believe that in his eyes - I was a child. I certainly looked like one. Three years younger, and already very small for my age, I was more like someone he should babysit rather than date. But this didn't stop me from dreaming -- the way young girls do. He was kind, but certainly not interested in dating a little girl.

It must have been obvious to my parents, aunts, uncles, and his parents -- to say nothing of my cousins. If he was coming over I was animated and happy. If he wasn't, I sat by myself on the porch, reading novels, and sighed -- a lot.

One day, my very intuitive aunt joined me on the porch. In her hand was a copy of Mary Baker Eddy's small volume, Miscellaneous Writings, 1883 - 1896. At first she didn't even refer to the book she was holding. She simple asked me what was on my mind. And for some reason, I was honest with her. 

 I told her that I was thinking about him.  I admitted how impossible - I knew it was - for us to ever become a couple. Not only was he not interested in dating a little girl, but we were very different. He was an adventurer, a wanderer, someone who saw a horizon and simply had to find out what lay beyond. I, as I told my aunt, was a homebody, a bookworm, someone who sought out small spaces and quiet corners.

My aunt didn't remind me that I was barely old enough to be allowed to stay up late and watch Bonanza -- much less be thinking about my future with a boy who was already shaving and planning a solo road trip to Colorado after college. She spoke with me as if I were a young woman. She addressed -- not the difference in our ages -- but the differences in our dreams.

She reminded me that my dreams were filled with visions of ivy-covered halls at a prestigious university, while his were filled with mountains, rivers, vast open highways, and endless western skies. Without saying much more, she handed me her copy of Miscellaneous Writings, and walked back into the house. Holding it in my hand, I noticed that there was a long slip of soft blue grosgrain ribbon, pressed between two pages. After she left, I opened to where the ribbon had been placed, and found that she'd marked a passage for me to read. It was perfect:

"We should remember that the world is wide;
that there are a thousand million different human wills,
opinions, ambitions, tastes, and loves; that each person
has a different history, constitution, culture, character,
from all the rest; that human life is the work, the play,
the ceaseless action and reaction upon each other
of these different atoms.

Then, we should go forth into life with the
smallest expectations, but with the largest patience;
with a keen relish for and appreciation of everything
beautiful, great, and good, but with a temper so genial
that the friction of the world shall not wear upon
our sensibilities; with an equanimity so settled that
no passing breath nor accidental disturbance shall
agitate or ruffle it; with a charity broad enough
to cover the whole world’s evil, and sweet enough
to neutralize what is bitter in it, — determined
not to be offended when no wrong is meant, nor
even when it is, unless the offense be against God.

Nothing short of our own errors should offend us.
He who can wilfully attempt to injure another,
is an object of pity rather than of resentment;
while it is a question in my mind, whether there is
enough of a flatterer, a fool, or a liar,
to offend a whole-souled woman." 

The first thing I felt was "known." I can't tell you why, at 14-going-on-15, I was so moved by this passage, but it touched me deeply.  And, it was perfect. It was grown up and thoughtful. To think that this aunt --who I admired so much for her dignity, compassion, and grace -- would think of me as a "whole-souled woman," gave me something to hold on to. It was the very anchoring I had been seeking.

Almost 50 years later, this passage - in my own copy of Miscellaneous Writings - is always marked with a slip of grosgrain ribbon and marked with blue chalk. It has seen me through arguments with my sister, break-ups, not getting "the job" I'd thought was mine, political disappointments and dissent, as well as  countless opportunities for humility, meekness, and grace.

The boy -- he went on to become an extraordinary young man of substance and adventure. Me -- I still love books, quiet spaces, and the simple things of home, spiritual service, and family. That summer, my aunt helped me let go of the wrong anchor, to find my true grounding in what was enduring, changeless, and beautiful. I will always be grateful.  Each person that comes into our hearts, can forever remain gentle on our minds.

offered with Love,

Kate

"Just the two of us..."

"Just the two of us
We can make it if we try...
Just the two of us
Building castles in the sky
Just the two of us
You and I..."

You may think this is a love song.  You are right.  It is a love song for my husband and his son. And by the grace of God, our son.

Jeff is a gentle, kind man who, with is former wife, Beth, has raised up a gentle, kind, smart, funny, thoughtful, loving, socially responsible son.  Jeremy turned twenty-one on Monday.  He is now a wonderful man.  I have been so blessed by his presence in my life.

For a number of years, Jeff and Jeremy were "Just the Two of Us" (I love this version with Will Smith and his son -- I REALLY hope you will watch it as it is part and parcel to this piece!).  They shared a home, a car, household chores and time.  The peace and mutual respect they held for each other was palpable.  Their home was modest and definitely a guy-inhabited space, but visiting them was almost oasis-like in the absence of tension or selfishness.  Each bent over backwards to anticipate the needs of the other. 

As a friend, I always felt blessed to be invited for a game of Scrabble or dominoes, or to join them and other friends for a rousing gathering at Starbucks or a local performance by one of our children.  Theirs was a world that was foreign to me. My world was so full of girls, women, and "the feminine."  And I liked it that way.  Or at least I thought I liked it that way, somewhat to the exclusion of all masculine models of behavior.  I soon discovered that I still had some serious learning to do about the wholeness of each man, woman and child... the fully balanced qualities of the masculine and feminine in individual completeness.

You see, I never thought I would be a good mom to a son.  I didn't think I got boys.  They were a mystery to me.  I thought they moved largely, and boisterously,  through space, and I always felt like curling up in the corner of any room I had to share with boys.   As a girl I always had the sensation that they'd sucked all the air out of any space we had to share...classrooms, parties, work-spaces, relationships.

I was always so, well, almost desperately, grateful when each of my daughters happened to be girls.  I felt like I understood girls.  Wasn't I, one of five sisters?  Girls made sense to me.  They were soft and quiet - gentle and graceful.  More thoughtful and intuitive.  Right?   As I said, I still had so much to learn.

When we were expecting Emma and Clara I had a dream, just before they were born,  that they were boys.  I woke up in a cold sweat.  I knew I could do anything but twin boys and was extremely relieved when they were born later that day...and were girls.

It wasn’t that I didn’t like boys. Much to the contrary. It was just that, to me, they were just like a lush, vibrant foreign culture, whose language I didn’t speak. I loved listening to its loud musicality. Much like Italian. It was colorful and best experienced with food or in an open-air “performance”…plays, sporting events, opera in an amphitheater, speeches made from the back of a jeep (think General Patton)…but much too flavorful and spicy for my blood on a daily basis. Especially if I was going to be responsible for its cooking and seasoning. I had a simple palate. I always admired mothers of boys. They, somehow, seemed more serene to me. All that energy and they were still able to think…miraculous! 

But back to this story.  Long before my husband and I went from being friends, to life partners, I knew his son, Jeremy, as one of my daughter's good friends.  He was funny and sweet.  He was the kind of boy that girls love to have as a best friend.  He was a good listener, thoughtful, and someone you could count on.  In middle school, I can remember hearing my daughter laughing from her room...long after lights out...because she was talking to Jeremy on the phone. 

Funny thing, his dad was like that too.  We'd all been friends, fellow parents, and colleagues for years.  It was easy to see what a gentleman he was in his relationships with men, and women, alike.  I remember thinking, having known his dad -- Jeremy's grandfather -- that all three of them were truly lovely men who took after their divine Parent.  They were attentive friends, good-humored colleagues, and thoughtful family members.   I'd observed each of them in diverse settings, and always felt as if I was in the company of great kindness when they were around.

Jeremy's dad and I were married just before Jeremy's senior year of high school.  And since his mom lived out of state, we were blessed to have Jeremy live with us.  It was a wonderful year.  We had a great flat in the city, we made soup, shared omelettes, played late night games of highly competitive Scrabble,  and tried to figure out how to share one bathroom as a family of five.  Jeremy was a great "big brother" to his new sisters.  He drove them to school each morning and stayed unruffled when they were bouncing off the wall.  They were, without question, "in the company of great kindness."

Then he graduated from high school, left for camp, spent his "gap year" establishing residency in California, and following a summer at camp, started college over two thousand miles away.  He was gone from the day-to-day rhythm of my life, just as quickly as he had entered it.   I missed him. 

But last spring, Jeremy came home for a visit.  It was wonderful.  Even though his dad was working out of town, he still came home, to be with the girls, and with me.  I was nervous and honored.  Nervous that I probably still wasn't such a great mom for a boy, and honored that, even with his dad away, he would still come home to us...to his pre-teen sisters and me.

That week was amazing.  Every moment he was here, was as if his dad -- who I missed terribly -- was home again.  Jeremy anticipated the girls', and my, needs.  Even before I could, "arrive" at the moment when I would have remembered that we actually had a need, he was "on it."  The dishes were emptied from the dishwasher before I got up in the morning.  The recycling was taken out.  He was dressed, and ready to take the girls to school, before I'd even pulled a pair of sweatpants under my nightgown to warm up the car in the morning. 

I had forgotten what it was like to have him home.  He appreciated every little kindness.  I discovered that the meals I prepared were "delicious," and he was still willing to play Scrabble with me, long after midnight. 

When he left at the end of the week, I bawled.  I have missed his company more than he knows.

When I mentioned to his dad that his visit had been one of the most wonderful weeks of the year, Jeff smiled and told me that Jeremy had actually decided to come for a visit, with the intent of anticipating how to make things easier for me -- for all of us.  I felt it.  It meant the world to me.

He and his dad -- and his grandpa -- have all learned how to be whole, complete, perfectly balanced men from their Father-Mother, God.  They have taught me so much about accepting this wholeness in everyone, as a divine gift.  God has promised us that:

"Before they call, I will answer,
and while they are yet speaking, I will hear."

His Robertson "sons" have followed beautifully in their Father's footsteps.  He has raised up gentle men, who are teaching me how to be a gentler woman.

I love, love, love all of our children, but it has been a divine surprise to discover the unbridled gift of having a son.  I am so grateful that he has let me love him, and has been patient with me as I've learned to how to be part of his life.

Thank you sweet boy. I love you, you are wonderful in so many ways.
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS


Jeremy doing something he loves -- slack-lining.

"Let them in..."

"Let them in, Peter
They are very tired
Give them couches where the angels sleep
And light those fires…"
-John Gorka

Each week's episode of ABC's This Week with George Stephanopoulos concludes with an "In Memoriam" segment devoted to a roll call of American service men and women who have died in Iraq since March 2003.  The count as of this morning is 3,431.  I cannot refrain from shedding the tears of deep gratitude for their selflessness...and for the sadness I feel at the loss represented by the list of names, ranks, ages and hometowns of these brave young men and women that scroll across the screen and etch themselves into the landscape of my heart. 

I lived through the Viet Nam war.  I knew the names and faces of too many boys who never came home.  I could recall the sound of their laughter each time a photo from my high school yearbook appeared in our local newspaper's obituary section.  In one case I remembered, all too tangibly, how one of these dear brave boy's hands shook nervously and were "way too soft for a boy who worked on a farm" as he held mine during a high school dance in the late spring of our sophomore year.   Seeing his photograph...crooked boyish grin, cornhusk cowlick, and wide green eyes full of  young hope...was more than I could take that summer afternoon 35 years ago.

I feel the same leaden weight of sadness each week when I hear the first haunting, yet somehow sacred, strains of the now too familiar music that underscores the latest installment of another "In Memoriam" segment. For the family and friends of those who have received news that a loved one has been killed in service to his/her country (any country), my prayer remains, "May you feel the deep confidence and measureless peace that comes from a knowlege of God's eternal,  ever-presesnt, enduring and all-embracing, love for, and as,  each of His children."

As I think about Memorial Day 2007, I am reminded of the song, "Let Them In" written by John Gorka.  This song was later recorded by David Wilcox on his 1991 Home Again CD.  On his website Wilcox indicates that "Let Them In" was inspired by "a poem found in a hospital in the Philippines during World War II. The nurse that found the poem kept it all these years until the recent war (Desert Storm) brought out all the memorabilia. Luckily her daughter sent a copy to John."

I will let this song speak for my heart today:

"Let them in, Peter
They are very tired
Give them couches where the angels sleep
And light those fires

Let them wake whole again
To brand new dawns
Fired by the sun
Not wartime's bloody guns

May their peace be deep
God knows how young they were
To have to die

So give them things they like
Let them make some noise
Give dance hall bands not golden harps
To these our boys

And let them love, Peter
For they've had no time
They should have trees and bird songs
And hills to climb

The taste of summer in a ripened pear
And girls sweet as meadow wind
With flowing hair

And tell them how they are missed
But say not to fear
It's gonna be alright
With us down here

Let them in, Peter
Let them in, Peter
Let them in, Peter."

In Memoriam…and in Love,

Kate