"it's all right..."

"you can close
your eyes,
it's alright..."

There are so many version of this JT classic on YouTube. This morning I got lost while watching covers of it, by artists like Sting, Linda Ronstadt, and others -- but it's James Taylor and Carly Simon's version of "You Can Close Your Eyes," that I always come back to. It brings me such peace.

I have been thinking a lot about how naturally we trust God -- without even realizing it. We lie down at the end of a long day, close our eyes, and surrender the mechanism of the human mind's whirring, to the peace of conscious knowing. We watch our children and grandchildren drift off to sleep, without a concern that they will not wake up. We release ourselves from worry, and rest our hopes, concerns, uncertainty on the presence of Something unseen.

There is grace in this level of trust. It is not something we earn. It is not something we have to work at. It comes so naturally to us. We know it from birth. As a mother, I would lay my tiny infant daughters down for a nap, and the go take a short nap myself. There was no "what if," in the complete surrender I felt, to the rest that I knew would come. I trusted.

This week's Bible study is all about Who and What we trust. It is all about God, and His love for each of us. It is about the grace that doesn't demand some kind of intellectual understanding about the "why" of our trusting.  It is all about the inherent trust that comes from being a child, in the arms of his/her divine Parent.

I remember some years ago feeling like I was in an uncomfortable position -- physically and socially. My body hurt, and my heart hurt even more. Everything felt twisted and upside down. I prayed to feel right-side-up and in control.

That was when I came upon a photograph of a father holding his infant. The baby was being held in what is sometimes referred to as a "football hold."  The baby's head was in the palm of the dad's hand, with her arms and legs draped on each side of his arm. His other hand was supporting both his own arm, and the infant. The child was upside down, and her eyes were closed and her face couldn't have been more peaceful.

I looked at that photo, and for a split second, I could see the baby without the dad in the photo. "Wow, what an awkward position," I thought. It looked as if the baby was hanging upside down in mid air, with no visible means of support. I immediately "got it."

My Father's love for me was just as attentive, tender, and firmly supportive as that infant's. And He loved, not only me, but our children, grandchildren, global neighbors, strangers, and friends -- with the same kind of tender care. I could close my eyes and rest in the constancy of that love. My life might seem awkward and I might feel as though I am hanging in mid-air -- arms and legs dangling -- but I am not. None of us are. And, at the deepest level, we know it.

We can close our eyes -- and its alright.

Whether you are feeling under-supported, or you just aren't seeing how it will all work out, remember that in the deepest part of yourself, you do trust that there is Something or Someone that will hold you while you rest. At the deepest level, you know that you can:

“close your eyes,
it's alright..."
 

Rest your heart here.

offered with Love,

Kate

"a hush of expectation..."

"It's the dawn,
it's the morning,
it's the end of the night,
and the hearts of men
are stirring
to know they're not alone;

there's a hush of expectation,
and a quiet in the air,
and the breath of God is moving
in the fervent breath of prayer..."

Finding a new song by Sara Groves is like turning the corner and seeing the face of a friend. Her  "To the Dawn,"  caught me that way this morning.

Every morning I show up at the feet of Christ in prayer -- listening, listening, listening for our Father's message of purpose, comfort, direction to guide my day.

But I have to admit, I also show up with a sense of hope. Hope for a moment's burst of light. To hear a voice not my own in the silence. To feel the wash of grace. To read a Scripture, and have it come alive with fresh meaning.

When this happens -- whatever time of day it is -- it is morning again. The dawn is breaking and I am fully awake in a new way.

This happened yesterday with such sweet suddenness and clarity that it took my breath away. A familiar Scripture opened up like a time-lapse video of a blossoming rose. One moment it was "oh yes..." -- the next it was, "oh, yes!"

Here is the Scripture from Phillipians:

"My God shall supply
all your need..."

Bur this is how it rose from the page:

"My God shall supply
all your need..."

Ah, the selfless compassion of it all. The inclusiveness of this prayer - so full of brotherhood and care. The God that I love and worship, is supplying all your need. There is no personal quid pro quo with God. We do not simply pray for our own needs to be met. Nor are our prayers ever completely satisfied by the fullness of our own cupboards, or the "demonstration" of our own health and harmony.

There is no personal evidence of God's love. My God shall supply all your need.  This is a promise.  This is the heart of Christianity -- whether that Christianity is being practiced by Muslim, Jew, Buddhist, agnostic, philosopher or child. This is the gift of agape love. My God shall supply all your need, according to His riches... Not according to prayerful endeavors. Not according to our unique approach to Him -- a rosary, prayer beads, a call from a minaret, or saffron robes.

This is the prayer of a child who loves his/her parent and sees that parent as universally generous. No favoritism. None of us are "only children."  

When my sister and I were little girls, and our family's coffers were less than modest, my love for her was greater than my own hunger. My parents would feed her. They would clothe her. They would make sure she was safe. That was the promise I clung to.

It is the prayer I am filled with today. "My God shall supply all your need." Someone once said to me, "nobody wins, until everybody wins." Isn't this the most beautiful sense of spiritual family. We are not alone.

Have a blessed day -- brother, sister...

offered with Love,

Cate 

"I'm gonna watch you shine..."

"I'm gonna watch you shine.
Gonna watch you grow.
Gonna paint a sign,
so you'll always know...
As long as one and one is two,
there could never be a father
who loved his daughter
more than I love you...."
- Paul Simon

Songs like this one -- Paul Simon's, "Father and Daughter" -- songs that you might hear at wedding receptions, during daddy-daughter dances...used to make me ache for a dad of my own.  Someone who would walk me down the aisle, someone I could turn to for advice about cars, and electricity, and how to build a picket fence all by myself.   Someone who would stand up for me against the tyranny of a bully, the bullying of a gossip...someone who believed that I deserved better than my even own hopes and dreams would allow.

I didn't have this.  I watched girlfriends get married and waltz across a parquet floor on the arms of their dads, I listened to brides describe their wedding dresses to doting fathers, I longed to be the fallen toddler on a playground, scooped up into the arms of her protective papa.  

But an afternoon in later winter some years ago, started  a seismic shift in my heart... from one of longing, to one of contentment. 

I was standing outside the large auditorium where our church headquarters...The Mother Church...had hosted an all employees meeting about fiscal integrity, wisdom in economy, and thoughtful spending.   I was feeling deeply grateful to one particular member of our governing Board for expressing such clear "fatherhood," when that same dear  man breezed through the doors, into the soft dusky light of a February afternoon, like a zephyr. 

Seeing me standing out of the wind, in a concrete alcove, he stopped to say hello.  I thanked him for his wise counsel during the meeting and mentioned that I'd been touched by the example of fatherhood he'd given that afternoon. 

He turned to a Bible verse that was engraved in the concrete above my head, it read:

"Hear, ye children, the instruction of a father,
and attend to know understanding."

He reminded me that it, the Word of God, had been there all along, every moment, of every day, in my life.  It had never been inaccessible or unreachable.  It had defended my integrity, defined my place in the world, comforted and supported me.  This man, himself, was a loving father, but you could see that he deeply depended on this truth in the way he trustingly parented his own children.  And in that moment, I could feel that I was no different.  He was giving me the same gift he would have given them.   There was such impersonal, but deeply loving tenderness in his care, and counsel. 

From that day forward, I dove headlong into the Scriptures whenever I felt clingy in my relationships, or neglected by the circumstances that had left me without a dad.  When I felt far away from my mom, without a friend, fearful for my children, or uncertain about the future in my most significant relationships.  I searched the Scriptures, because I knew that it was a reliable place, for me, to find the spiritual substance of my relationships...with my father, my husband, my sisters, my brothers, my friends, my neighbors.

Poetry is my native tongue, the language of my heart...So, here is how my heart boiled down this truth:


"Why don't
you hate him?
she asked
brows furrowed in
a mixture of
consternation and
disbelief.

"You really should
hate him, you know...

no little
girl,  as sweet as
you were,
should be
left...and forgotten...
like that

especially by
someone
she
loved
and trusted.

You really have
every right
to hate
him. 

"But I don't.
I say with
a new
born
innocency

I don't have that
space
left in me
anymore

The space that
was once carved out
by violated trust,
loneliness,
despair,
darkness,
and
confusion.

It is full
again

it is full of
me.

And I am innocent.

I am not
empty...at all.

I am complete...
there is nothing missing,
there is no one missing...

I am
wholly whole,
fully content,
deeply loved,
completely adored,
inviolately free.

and I know it.

"No," I say,
"I don't hate him,
I love him..."

I love him,
because,
it is
who
I
am.

there is a place
beyond
forgiveness...

I think
I will
stay
here....

It will be
my
home

it is
where my
real
Father
lives.

Our children have all been blessed with extraordinary dads...kind, gentle, attentive, selflesh, supportive men who will dance with their daughters...and perhaps even our son...at their weddings.  But it is the sense of God as their Father, that these men have given most generously as gifts, to each of our children, that will make the biggest difference in their lives.  Thank you...

offered with Love,

Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"Tender shepherd, tender shepherd..."

"Tender shepherd,
tender shepherd
watches over all her sheep.
One say your prayers,
and two close your eyes,
and three, safe and happily
fall asleep..."

I've always loved the lullaby "Tender Shepherd" from the 1954 musical version of J.M. Barrie's Peter Pan. It seems a fitting soundtrack for this post. 

My 2010 summer at the Adventure Unlimited Ranches is fast coming to a close, and what I have witnessed of God's love, guidance, protection, and care in the lives of campers, counselors, and staff, is staggering.  I stand in awe of His omnipotence and grace.

There are so many stories that are not mine to tell.  I pray that those whose lives have been transformed and healed will find ways to share what they have experienced...during peak climbs, along the river, through on mountain biking trails, and in cabins...with loved ones.  I will hold, what I have witnessed of their journeys, in my heart, in sacred confidence...forever.

This afternoon I was praying about how to say thank you to one of my "partners" in this adventure...the Christian Science nurse, who is also here to support healing in our camp community.  Being able to work shoulder-to-shoulder, and heart-to-heart, with such devoted spiritual caregivers, is a holy gift each summer.  This poem is a song of love to my friend Laura, and, in truth, to each of the nurses I have had the privilege of partnering with over many summers at camp...I love you...



she arrives
in a cloud of stardust,
a moonbeam,
a whisper of
peace,
peace,
always "peace"

her hands are
deft and
gentle...
strong and pure,
ready,
willing,
skilled,
kind...

but it is her
eyes,
her smile,
the touch of something
deeper than
a surgeon's
probe...
it is
a love
that reaches
to still
the aching of a broken heart,
calms persistent pain,
staunches sudden fear...

do not be
fooled, 
do not be
distracted by
the
bandages and
soft cloth she will use to wipe
away the dust and
tears,
they
are not the substance of
her work,
they
are only symbols of
her heart...
so focused on
"binding up the broken hearted"
and
rejoicing in
the baptism
"submergence in Spirit"

in her heart
a manger
becomes a temple,
and the basin of water
is transformed
into
a sacred
font
where all
are bathed,
washed clean,
in
the river of His
pleasures

She is Christ's
servant...
by His side in the
operation of
Truth's curative
care,
comfort's art,
Spirit's touch of regeneration,
Love's first aid...

her balm is laughter
and
she wraps you
in her unfailing
confidence
that
God is All....in all.

Joy rings
out
clear, precise,
laser-like
and
tears are dried in
the warmth of her
beholding,
by the
gentle
breeze of her
movements

a smoothed brow,
a closed wound,
a touch as
soft as the breath of
summer air,
as firm as the mountain
beneath our feet,

She trusts as a
child,
she sings like a lark,
her words are
soft as a butterfly's kiss....

she waits with cool fingers,
she companions with angels, 
she sits in the
sacred space of Mary
while her
Martha hands
care for all
children...
because
in doing so, she 
honors
the boy
who once
brought a message...
of 
"thy sins are forgiven,
rise and walk"

she is my friend,
we are partners,
I am blessed....


this has been one very special summer...thank you for sharing it with me...

rest well tonight....with Love,
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"Like a bridge over troubled waters..."

"When you're weary, feeling small,
When tears are in your eyes,
I will dry them all;
I'm on your side. when times get rough
And friends just can't be found,
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down.
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down..."
- Paul Simon

Saturday morning I witnessed a moment of love and courage that took my breath away...again.  Camp is full of those moments, and this summer is no different.   Moments when someone lays there own self-interest down to become a "bridge over troubled waters" for a camper, a friend...a cousin.

Saturday was Sunday for Sky Valley campers (the 3rd through 8th graders whose schedule accommodated Sunday School on Saturday this session).  Part of the Sunday tradition is an early morning 5K (or 3.1 mile) run through the South Woods.  Our daughters, Emma and Clara, along with their cousins and friends, love to participate in this opportunity to run through the woods, around the Round Up corral, down the road that bisects the high school level part of camp, and through a gaunlet of cheering high-schoolers on their way back down to Sky Valley.

I love it because it is a mid-camp opportunity to see the girls and to cheer on my nieces and my daughters' friends.  Clara came through the gaunlet with her friend, Cecily, smiling and strong.  I asked her where Emma was, and she indicated that her sister was somewhere behind her, so I stayed put waiting for her to come down the road.  When I caught a glimpse of her running along side her cousin, Tatiana, I was surprised to see tears in her eyes.

She avoided running through the bridge of raised arms...teens whooping and hollering...and ran straight towards me.  She collapsed into my arms in tears.  Tati stood next to us, rubbing her back and assuring her that she would be fine.  I walked her to the porch of my cabin and Tati followed, nursing her heart as we went.  In the midst of her tears she encouraged Tati to return to the race, telling her she would be okay. 

Then her tears really started to flow.  When her sobbing quieted a bit she told me that she wasn't crying because of the painful blisters that had screamed at her through the race, the cramps in her side that had taken her breath away in the middle of the woods, or the upset feeling in her tummy that made her want to lie down.  No, she was weeping because she was so amazed and grateful that her cousin had given up the possibility of winning the race to stay with her all along the trail.

This meant so much to Emma.  Perhaps it is because Emma loves to win races.  She is fast and she likes to compete.  The thought that her cousin would slow her pace to little more than a walk to care for her was heart-breakingly remarkable...and healing...to her. With a much-appreciated ride from a loving bunkhouse mom, Emma returned to Sky Valley already feeling much better.

While we waited for her to be picked up at my cabin, I explained to Emma that her cousin had won more than a race that day.  She had won the respect of everyone who knew what she had done.  She had won the love and admiration of her cousin, her aunt, and anyone who had discerned her sacrifice.  She had won a battle with the ego that always wants us to care more about self-interest than others.

Tati was my hero that morning.  She taught my daughter a lesson more important than how to win a foot race.  She taught her the true meaning of courage.  The root of the word "courage" is the Latin "couer" or heart.  Whenever we let our hearts speak more loudly to us than the voice of self-interest or personal accomplishment, we are at our most courageous best. 

"...When you're down and out,
When you're on the street,
When evening falls so hard
I will comfort you.
I'll take your part.
When darkness comes
And pains is all around,
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down.
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down.

Sail on silver girl,
Sail on by.
Your time has come to shine.
All your dreams are on their way.
See how they shine.
If you need a friend
I'm sailing right behind.
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind.
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind."

Thank you Tati, I love you...
Aunt Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

[photo credit:  Lila June Jones...Tati's mommy]

"I see the moon...."

"I see the moon
And the moon sees me
The moon sees somebody
I want to see
God bless the moon
And God bless me
And God bless the somebody
I want to see…"

My friend Maria reminded me of this lullaby the other day, and I can't seem to stop myself from singing it through my chores and into the middle of the night.  It has helped…a bit.  It has made the earth with it's wide oceans, far-off lands, and distant shores…seem somehow smaller and more circum-navigate-able. 

"…It seems to me
That God above
Created you
For me to love
He picked you out
Of all the rest
Because He knew
I'd love you the best…"

When our daughter was very little…I mean very, very little…even before she was born, I would sit in the rocking chair, looking out at the lake just beyond my window and sing this song to her.  I would imagine her from where I was on the shores of the Atlantic, and her nearly 8,000 miles away in South Africa, the moon reflecting as brilliantly on her face, as it was on the dark, still surface of Long Pond outside my window.  I was always astonished at how present it seemed.  It was almost as if the moon were actually floating on the water, instead of 238,855 miles away in orbit around the earth.  There was something so comforting about knowing that from where I sat in my little cottage near shore, I could easily see the moon, whose light was capable of touching both of us. 

I was thinking about this last night as I lay in the dark praying for our children.  Just as the moon is not the source of the light I see reflected off it's surface, I am not the source of the love that has nourished and tenderly cared for our children.  Just as the sun is the source of the moon's light, so is God the source of all the love that our children have experienced through our loving of them. 

The light that I saw reflected on the surface of the lake, was actually only the moon's reflection on the water, of the sun's reflection on the moon's surface.  All that lovely light was just on a never-ending journey of bouncing around touching everything in sight. And it's illumination was not diminished.  It shone just as brightly on the water's surface, as when I looked up at it from where I sat in my rocking chair in the dark.   It wasn't diminished by distance, or by how many surfaces it had bounced off of along the way…it still had enough light to send a path of incandescence along the surface of the water like a yellow brick road to the shoreline at my window's ledge.

Last night it struck me that even though our is in South Africa, every bit of love that I reflect in caring for her sisters…who were sleeping soundly beneath their quilts in their bedroom under the eaves...was reaching her.  It was like the moon's light.  My love doesn't have its source in me.  It originates in God and I am just one reflection in it's undiminished bouncing of light and affection as it finds its way to her heart. 

I could trust that as long as I was "shining" the light would reach her and would be just as brilliant when it arrived in her room, as it is when I tuck her sister's into their beds and sing them lullabies…my breath brushing the hairs at the nape of their necks with every verse…my fingers laced in theirs under the covers.

I could trust that my daughter could feel that same love last night…just as present as the moon's light felt on the surface of Long Pond from my rocker by the window on those nights, almost twenty years ago, when I sang to her from 10,000 miles away even before I had held her…in her bed near the Cape of Good Hope, under a Southern Cross sky.  

Love reflected knows no distance…it just bounces, and like a red rubber ball, picks up momentum and force with each surface it touches along the way…

"…I see the moon
And the moon sees me
God bless the moon
And God bless me
There's grace in the cabin
And grace in the hall
And the grace of God
Is over us all"
-     traditional folk lullaby
-     additional lyrics by Jean Ritchie

"He's got the whole world in His hands..."

He's Got the whole world in His hands,_
He's got the whole world in His hands,_
He's got the whole world in His hands,_
He's got the whole world in His hands,

He's got the wind and the rain in His hands,_
He's got the wind and the rain in His hands,_
He's got the wind and the rain in His hands,_
He's got the whole world in His hands,

He's got the tiny little babies in His hands,_
He's got the tiny little babies in His hands,_
He's got the tiny little babies in His hands,
He's got the whole world in His hands

He's got you and me brother in His hands,_
He's got you and me sister in His hands,_
He's got you and me children in His hands,_
He's got the whole world in His hands…"

He's got my little bitty baby…who is now a beautiful tall woman…in His hands.  I pray this prayer everyday. 

Having a child living overseas brings Myanmar, Nairobi, Darfur, and Zimbabwe as close to you as your own heart.  When you hear her voice, in your ear on the phone from 12,000 miles away and your entire being feels her presence as if she were sitting next to you, the world suddenly shrinks like a deflating balloon. 

Global crises that once seemed so far away, so insurmountably "distant" are as close as your child's laughter is to you everyday that you are living with eight time zones and a vast ocean between you.  The first time she calls and isn't feeling well you realize that time and space cannot dull the ache of not being where she is to sing her to sleep and make her bowls of Cream of Wheat "with lots of brown sugar." 

I thought about this yesterday as I watched a young professor, who was teaching here in the states, interviewed about his parents and siblings who were still in Myanmar.  You could see the heartache in his eyes, you could heart the concern in his voice.  This was not a man who was relieved to be here away from the devastation, this was a man who wanted to be with his family helping his brothers find shelter for their parents, helping his sister carry her young children to safety.  To that young professor, Myanmar is not a world away…it is as close as his heart.

As I've watched news footage from Myanmar following this most recent cyclone's sweep across a sea of humanity, or of felt sickened by the media's coverage of violent civil unrest in an African country north of where my daughter lives, I breathe a prayer of longing for my neighbor's peace. I am so grateful to know that, even though the crises feels to those with loved ones in the midst of distant devastation and unrest, God is even closer.  God, Love bridges the gap between father and son laboring to save a family.  God as Mind imbues each of them with ideas, solutions, and yes, prayers that heal and save.

God comforts the heart of the mother whose daughter is not feeling well continents and oceans away while at the very same instant soothes the daughter who is feeling so far away from her mommy.  His love floods both the mother's…and the daughter's… thought with memories of childhood healings and the words to a forgotten, but well-loved hymn that can still the storms of worry and sadness, bringing peace to each troubled breast.   Both mother and daughter can rest as children in God's very wide-reaching divine arms.  The arms of this divine Mother stretch, as Mary Baker Eddy says in Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, "across continents and oceans to the globes remotest bounds" gathering us all to Her divine bosom.

Today my prayers for the mothers, fathers, grandparents, children, business owners, monks and emergency personnel in Myanmar are not for a nameless, faceless sea of humanity ten thousand miles away.  My prayers are for His sons and daughters, my brothers and sisters who are as close to me as the sound of my daughter's laughter…or tears…in my ear when she calls to "touch base"  at the end of her day.

We are all just "little bitty babies" in His hands.
Kate

"There's no place like being known..."

"Oh, there's no place like home for the holidays
'Cause no matter how far away you roam
When you pine for the sunshine of a friendly gaze
For the holidays, you can't beat home, sweet home..."
-Al Stillman

It was the week before Thanksgiving, 1979, and it was going to be the first year in my life that I would not be with my mom for this favorite holiday, or to be more accurate, my favorite day of the year. 

Since dad's passing, she and I had worked together like left, and right, hands. We were a team, caring for and supporting, my seven younger siblings. And although her recent move to another state 1,200 miles away, had been a step of progress for us all, I was feeling lonely and adrift.

But then, I think we all were.  My next younger sister was on the opposite coast, and my brother was in the Air Force and stationed in a completely different part of the country. We were each feeling like loose halyards on a tallship's mast...each flapping aimlessly in the wind. 

The five youngest children were with mom in the Midwest, but it was a new community and they had only been there since the beginning of the school year. They'd yet to make any friends who might include them in weekend activities.

  Thanksgiving for our family was all about being together...praying, cooking, going to church, and playing games.  I didn't know how to "do Thanksgiving" without my mother…and I didn't want to learn. 

Long distance phone calls were expensive in those days, and I knew my budget would only allow for a short visit after the rates went down on Thanksgiving day. then, at the last minute, my sister was able to scrape up the fare for a plane ticket to fly out and surprise mom, and although I was thrilled for her, I couldn't imagine not being there too.  It was almost too much to bear when my brother called to tell me he'd been able to catch a flight from his base to the airport near mom, so now he, too, was going to be there to surprise her. 

I was a teacher, and since our Thanksgiving break was limited to a four-day weekend, it was hard to justify the exhorbitant cost of a ticket, for such a short visit.  It was money that could be better spent on mom's utilities or to help with the many other expenses associated with raising six children as a single working mom.

The plans I came up with for my weekend seemed like the "best under the circumstances," and I was determined to be at peace with them.  Even though a long-term relationship had recently ended, and I wasn't sure where I belonged emotionally, if it wasn't with my family.   So, in light of my new social standing,  and, as yet, shaky emotional landscape, I had volunteered to serve Thanksgiving dinner to the boys and girls at the state institution for developmentally disabled children where I was a teacher. 

Afterwards another teacher and I were going to go to the movies.  Yes, I told myself, it seemed like it would be a good plan.  And I could always look forward to calling mom, and the kids, in the evening once the rates went down…it was going to be okay...really.

But that afternoon, a week before Thanksgiving I wasn't so sure I was ready to "go it alone." Then I got a call from the my former sweetheart.  He wondered if I would like to meet him for bagels at our favorite bagel shop.  I said, "yes,
while wondering why we were doing this to eachother. 

It had been so clear, earlier that fall, that our relationship was changing, and that we needed space to figure out who we might be without the other. Neither of us knew how to transition from the two "halves" that we'd been since high school, into two wholes. But perhaps this was a first steo.

As I sat there waiting for him, I thought about all the Thanksgivings that we had shared at my mom's house.  I was so grateful for his willingness...over the years...to eat two big meals. 

He also came from a large family with eight children, and they were just as deeply devoted to their own family traditions, as we were.  Thanksgiving day for him had become a day full of driving between our family homes.  And as an avid football fan, he would often miss crucial moments in televised bowl games that his brothers would have to tell him about later. 

By the time he arrived at the bagel shop that day, my heart was full of appreciation for the years he'd sacrificed relaxing at home, for driving an hour to be with my family too.

  And as much as I knew that it was right for us, as a couple, to be going our separate ways, I was profoundly grateful for every moment we had spent together, as teenagers and young adults. In many ways we had helped each other just grow up. 

As he walked in, I immediately noticed the bouquet of flowers he was carrying. I was very concerned that he wanted us to discuss our relationship.  It was something that I was not yet prepared to do.  I knew that we needed much more time to sort through our feelings. And I wasn't ready to have that conversation yet. 

But as he sat down at the table, I realized that this wasn't what he had in mind.  The look on his face was one of absolute glee.  It was disarming.  And as he handed me the bouquet of flower tied with a wide satin ribbon, .  I could tell that he was barely able to contain his excitement. He pressed me to open the card that he placed in front of me, even before we ordered our food.

When I did I was speechless.  It contained a plane ticket to the Midwest, and one hundred dollars. 

He explained that since we wouldn't be spending Thanksgiving together that year, he wanted to be sure I was with my mom and siblings

.  He had worked it out with my sister and brother. We would all meet at the airport once our flights had all arrived, and we would be picked up and taken to mom's front door together, so that we could surprise her. 

The one hundred dollars was his gift. He wanted me to be able to help mom with the expenses of the weekend, once I got there.

  It was all worked out. Another volunteer would take my place in serving dinner to the children that day.  He had called the restaurant where I waitressed as a second job, he had made sure that my shifts were covered. 

I was going home for Thanksgiving!!.  In fact, he'd even made arrangements to get time off from his own job, so that he could take me to, and pick me up from, the airport about an hour away.  I was stunned. 

I knew how hard he worked at his job…and how modest his salary was.  I knew how many phone calls he must have made to arrange all the details.  This was not a gesture…it was a priceless gift of love.

He knew me.  He knew my heart.  This was one of the most selfless and generous gifts I had ever experienced. But for some reason it was unsettling.  I felt vulnerable and naked, I was the one who was supposed to be "the giver".  What did he want from me? 

But then I looked across the table, and into his eyes, and I knew immediately that  all he wanted was for me to know that he understood…and that he cared.  He wanted me to see him for the man he really was…generous, thoughtful, intuitive, and good.

I did go "home for the holidays" that Thanksgiving.  The look of surprise on my mother's face was priceless.  The hours of family warmth, love and laughter were nourishing and revitalizing.  And when my flight landed that following Sunday evening, he was there waiting at the gate (you could still do that then). 

I returned to my teaching invigorated and happy.  Eventually, he and I went our separate ways, a decision that was right for both of us.  But he'd given me another glimpse of what it felt like to be loved, and known. 

God had placed yet another angel in my life's path. And even though I have many lovely memories from that relationship, this is what I remember most when I think of him. 

The story of that Thanksgiving is rich with lessons of love.  This is just one of them…but it is the one I think of each time I remember that year. I am still so touched by his unconditional generosity and kindness. He knew my heart. 

To be known is to be loved.

His gift has given me over three decades of happy memories, but most of all, it gave me a glimpse of what it means to be truly known by another person…it is a gift I hope to recycle year-after-year.

with Love,   
Kate