"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 

"why..."

"asking, "why God?"
didn't make me a bad Christian,
it made me a kid,
who needs my dad..."

Oh my. Austin French's new song,  "Why God,"  adds one more perspective on a question I have been sitting with for a couple of years.

That question has to do with Jesus' instruction in Matthew:

"After this manner,
pray ye..."

I've explored this injunction from so many angles. I have asked colleagues, friends, and mentors for their insights. I have stopped myself -- over and over again -- from praying out "the words" only. I have asked myself: Is this vain repetition? Are you in your closet? Are you praying to be heard of men -- or women? Are you praying "about God," or in conversation "with God?"

But there was something about  watching Austin's video today, that sent a shiver of something real through me. It has to do with this song's connection to the opening words of the Lord's Prayer, "Our Father..." and this above-quoted line from the video, "it made me a kid, who needs my dad."

I felt it. In that moment I could feel the manner of prayer. I am a child, in conversation with her father. Her (as Jesus called God) "Abba" - which translates, "daddy or papa." It could also be mommy or mama.

I know this feeling. I know how delighted I am to have our children come to us with their questions -- about anything. And I know that it isn't just our best stab at human answers that are meaningful to them, it is more about the way we listen to them -- with our entire whole-hearted love and focused attention.

A parent's love honors their child's questions. A parent does not see the question as a failing on their (or their child's) part, but simply an opportunity to deepen their relationship with one another. Sometimes, there are no words in the answers, and sometimes there are no answers, just oneness.

When our children ask the "why" questions, our hearts open up with such a softness. I can only imagine our Father-Mother God's infinite tenderness when we bring our "why" questions to Him/Her.

And to be honest, sometimes, to feel that tenderness is the only answer we really need. To feel heard -- and held. And often, the answer is simply that feeling itself -- of being in relationship with my Father-Mother God. And most times, it is the entire answer.  "Lo, I am with you - alway."  

Right where the "why" question tries to insinuate that I am asking because, "I don't know..." I find that, I do know. I know exactly where to turn. I know precisely Who to take my hurt, my uncertainty, my aching heart, and my "why" questions to. Asking "why," brings me home -- again and again. This longing -- causes me to curl into my divine Parent's arms -- and to be held.  This deeply intimate connection with God -- is the manner, after which I pray.

That is my "why."  


offered with Love,

Cate 

"You are not alone, I am here with you..."

"Someone whispers
in my ear and says,

you are not alone,
I am here with you...”

Jason Chen's cover of Michael Jackson's,  "You Are Not Alone"  is such a gentle version of this song. A song whose melody seems to be how I hear that phrase "you are not alone," whenever it comes to mind.

I have spent most of my lifetime comforting children who feel alone. As a big sister, teacher in a state institution for children who have been made "wards of the state," school administrator, hospital chaplain, and serving at summer camps - assuring children that they are not alone.

Each child navigates that feeling of alone-ness in a different way. Some become dismissive, some distract themselves with constant movement, and others cry as if their every breath is a labor of love.

But here is what I have learned. This is not home-sickness. This is home wellness. These children have such a full and healthy sense of home and family -- even those who have never known a parent's love -- that it fills their being. I have worked with sister children who have never felt deeply settled and still there is a love for the concept of home and family that fills their being. I have taught in a state-run facility with children who had been institutionalized by their families, and still there is a hope of family and a natural inclination towards warmth, affection, and connection.

It is not something that can be taken from them. It is a deep home-wellness that crosses all socio-economic boundaries. From the autistic 4-year old in a state institution, to the privileged child of loving parents at a sleep-over summer camp, this love for home, family, and being parented by love -- is universal. And it never goes away.

This morning, as I was reading the Bible lesson, I was so moved to realize that the Scriptural precedence for addressing this claim of children feeling alone is right there in I Samuel.

Hannah, after years of barrenness is blessed with a son, whom she names Samuel. And even though she loves him with all her heart, she knows that he is destined for service to God and as a boy sends him to live with Eli the priest from whom he would learn how to love and trust the Lord.

This is where the part of the story - that is in our Bible Lesson - begin:


"And the child Samuel ministered unto the Lord before Eli.

And it came to pass at that time, when Eli was laid down in his place, [that] the lamp of God went out in the temple of the Lord, where the ark of God was, and Samuel was laid down to sleep;

That the Lord called Samuel: and he answered, Here am I. And he ran unto Eli, and said, Here am I; for thou calledst me. And he said, I called not; lie down again.

And he went and lay down. And the Lord called yet again, Samuel. And Samuel arose and went to Eli, and said, Here am I; for thou didst call me. And he answered, I called not, my son; lie down again.

Now Samuel did not yet know the Lord, neither was the word of the Lord yet revealed unto him.

And the Lord called Samuel again the third time. And he arose and went to Eli, and said, Here am I; for thou didst call me.

And Eli perceived that the Lord had called the child. Therefore Eli said unto Samuel, Go, lie down: and it shall be, if he call thee, that thou shalt say, Speak, Lord; for thy servant heareth.

So Samuel went and lay down in his place. And the Lord came, and stood, and called as at other times, Samuel, Samuel. Then Samuel answered, Speak; for thy servant heareth."

Today, this story has come alive for me in a new way. Samuel was just a boy. Just a child. He was alone in the dark. The person who was his care-giver -- not his parent -- had put him to bed and he kept getting up and asking if Eli wanted him.

Eli said, no, I didn't call you, go back to bed. Sweet persistent Samuel. He returns again and again to Eli's bedchamber. Until Eli finally realizes that God was speaking directly to Samuel in the dark. Comforting, assuring, inspiring him directly, tenderly -- by name.

My heart burst. Each and every child in the world -- whether at sleep-over camps with well-appointed cabins, or in refugee camps on hostile borders, can hear their name being called, can feel the calm comfort of that loving Voice speaking directly to them -- assuring them that they are not alone. This Voice is the voice of God, divine Love. This voice not only speaks to them of their Father-Mother God's presence, but of their own spiritual maturity and purpose.

Hannah, Samuel's mother -- who had yearned for this little boy with all her being -- must have known this presence herself. She must have known that God would reach out to her son and call him by his name -- just as he had heard her weeping, seen her own tears, and sent her a son. For she was His child too.

I will be holding this story close. It touches me deeply. For all children -- and their parents.

offered with Love,

Cate

"Lord, remind me..."

"When children play on Christmas day
and snow is flung,

When I feel I haven't had a friend
since I was young,

When I'm feeling tired of myself
and everyone,

Lord remind me,
Lord remind me..."

I was looking for an Amy Grant song to keynote an earlier post when I stumbled upon this exquisite song by Jon and Valerie Guerra on Amy's Facebook page.

Sometimes a song comes along that begs its own post, "Lord Remind Me" is one of those songs.

The holiday season -- from Thanksgiving to the year's end -- has always been my favorite time of year. I cherish long-held traditions and nurture new ones that have found purchase in the sweet soil of our family home. The tree goes up the day before Thanksgiving, White Christmas. Little Women, The Holiday, and Love, Actually fill the screen that weekend. Then comes the Christmas music -- too many favorites to note. 

But my favorite "tradition" comes between December 1st and the 25th, when I pray with each of the twenty-four questions in the chapter, "Recapitulation" from Mary Baker Eddy's textbook for spiritual healing, Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures as my version of an advent calendar. One question deeply pondered, each day, as we move towards Christmas -- and every year it transforms me.

But this year, although I have dutifully carried out each of these traditions -- as well as a few more -- I have felt a bit detached. Perhaps it's because its the first year that none of the children were here for me to lasso into choosing the tree, watching White Christmas, or baking pies.  And although I have felt a bit sad, I wasn't really doing anything about it. I was aware that the tree went up too quickly and I was alone in the kitchen while I baked cookies and listened to White Christmas, but I chalked it up to our version of empty nest syndrome after over three decades of day-to-day parenting.

That was when I fell upon "Lord Remind Me," and fell to my knees. The true meaning of Christmas came alive in me. This wasn't about trees and cookies, films and carols. It wasn't even about traditions long-loved. It was about something timeless and humbling. It was about remembering that nothing was impossible to God. It was about forgiveness and healing, about kings that kneeled before a baby, and a boy who trusted angels. It was about a girl who said, "yes," and the message of "on earth peace, good will to men."

Is there anything we need more today? Is there any message more timely, or a time more hungry for this message?

As Jon and Valerie sing with such reverence and humility:

"when I hear the news,
and hear another war's begun,
and I wonder if God's
on the side f either one,
I hear bullet, nail, or handcuff
you bore all of them,
and in the light
my heart's as dark as anyone's.

Lord remind me, Lord remind me
that the shepherds head the angels
break the silence in the field,
that the wise men found a baby
and they could not help but kneel

Lord remind me, cause its Christmas
and I want to remember..." 

And I do want to remember. I want to feel the power of this story drive me to my knees. I want to feel it change my heart and break through any sense of brittle self-certainty and icy indifference that might have gathered, like frost, on the tender places where I want to feel the heartbreak of my brothers and sisters in Aleppo, or Chicago, or Washington, DC.

There is a sweet, holy cry for the Christ to enter the manger of our hearts in this song:

"Tell me, how He loves me,
tell me, how he wants me,
tell me the story
like I've never heard before..." 

This is the part that broke through to the softest, deepest part of me. The words split me open and love for Him spilled from every part of my being. To think what he gave. To remember what he did. To know his love -- it is everything.

"...and I'll sing it
like the angels sing it,
with my whole heart sing it,
to Him who's worth
a thousand songs and more..." 

Hymns and carols came alive in me. My heart was an angel's heart singing from the stars. I walked out into the cold night and sang for him who loves us so. I lifted my voice in praise, and hope, and humble adoration for the child who brought kings to their knees, and for the man who would be king of kings.

I sang through tears of repentance and joy:

"Glory in the highest,
glory in the lowest,
glory that shines when nothing
seems to shine at all

Glory in the highest,
glory in the lowest
glory, Immanuel..." 

And isn't this the message of messages, "Immanuel..." which is translated, "God with us..." So tonight, I raised my voice to the heavens and sang, "Glory in the highest, glory in the lowest, glory Immanuel..."  Then, a flock of geese rose from the lake, circled above, and -- I like to believe -- carried that message in their own voices to the far corners of the earth.


offered with Love,

Kate

"healing moral injury…"

"I am a good child,
born of God's grace,
whatever would try to claim
deliver me, Almighty One…"

Today, I discovered this post, "Beyond PTSD to Moral Injury," on Krista Tippet's On Being site, and it "had me at hello."

I love the word "moral." Especially since discovering Mary Baker Eddy's definition in her textbook for healing,  Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures:

"Moral. Humanity, honesty, affection, compassion.
hope, faith, meekness, temperance." 

Immediately I wanted to call Krista on the phone and say, "No. No, no, no - hope can't be injured. You cannot wound compassion." I wanted to send her a link to Michelle Armstrong's beautiful song,"Unfallen." A song that speaks so gently to the heart of both the wounded -- and the wounder.

Eddy's definition of "Moral," has helped me in so many ways. It continues to bring me to my knees in gratitude.  Realizing that no matter how deep the wounds, nothing can deprive me of my right to act with moral courage -- right now -- has been an untold gift of grace. No matter what I may have done to another -- or what may have been done to me -- I cannot be kept from acting with compassion, meekness, hope and faith -- today.

A few years ago I wrote a piece titled, "An active Moral Imagination." Writing the piece was very healing for me. It provided a space for revisiting memories that had always brought me sadness. It gave me a lens through which I could reclaim the word "moral," as a vital part of my daily ministry.

To be moral, is to be dynamically hopeful. To be moral, is to be actively humane, to have a living  faith [trust], to be temperate, meek, honest, affectionate.

To be "moral," was not about what we are not doing -- lying, cheating, lusting, abusing substances, being vengeful.  To be moral is to be engaged in doing something that serves God, and blesses others. And nothing on earth can injure or violate our right, or ability, to do that.

In fact, if I were lying in a bed - unable to move a muscle or even speak a word - I could still express compassion in my prayers for others. I could still think with affection, I could still bless my neighbor by holding out hope for the future of our planet, I could still be temperate in my thoughts, consciously meek.

Reading the above article, "Beyond PTSD to Moral Injury," I was flooded with so many opportunities to actually engage my moral compass -- to be moral. As I read each comment at the end of the article, I was absolutely filled with compassion, overflowing with faith, eager to reach out to others with an honest response about my own healing of "moral injury."

The world will tell you that those who have been abused, violated, or exposed to severe trauma are broken. Broken in a way that is almost impossible to heal without scarring. The deeper and longer the wounding - the harder to heal. The bullied, become the bullies. Those hurt, hurts others. The abused, turn into abusers. But I am here to tell you that is just not true.

Every abused, bullied, traumatized, wounded, or angry man, woman - and ye, child - hopes that they will find freedom from the guilt, and shame, and terror associated with the injury. And the very presence of that hope, is the power of moral courage asserting itself. You can't just get a little bit of hope. If it's there, it represents just the tip of the iceberg -- and it - hope - is always there. To quote Emily Dickinson:

"Hope is the thing with feathers,
that perches in the soul,
and sings the tune without the words,
and never stops, at all..." 

Resilient hope, persistent faith, unwavering compassion, relentless honesty...

I've seen the most wounded teen hope that she will someday be a loving mother. I've held a weeping soldier whose humanity won't let him forget that he was once a boy, who loved his brother. I've listened to the shattered spirit of a convicted child molester, who wanted to help others from the confines of a state prison cell. I've watched, while the most hardened among us, kneel to nurse an injured animal.

There is no moral injury -- perpetrated or felt -- that can't be healed. There is no shame so sharp and pointed that it can burrow it's way deeply enough to trespass on who we are at our spiritual core. There is no act of violence that can corrupt our essence. No regrettable choice that can undermine our right to be moral, right now -- to treat others humanely, to be honest, to show affection, to extend compassion, to be hopeful, to have faith, to be meek, to live with temperance.

And sometimes, that seeming broken-ness gives birth to a new light. From the depths of the shattering comes a new compassion, a deeper willingness to understand another's heartache, a gentling of pride, a fathomless humility.  A more profound desire to of care for animals, children, the broken-hearted among us.

No matter which side of the injury you (or a loved one) seem to be on -- the wounded, or the one who regrets having wounded others -- this line from Michelle's song is a prayer of hope:

"I am a good child…" 

That's the truth for each of us. We're all just children. There are no "adults of God." And we all have a divine Parent who holds us tenderly, loves us unconditionally, and gives us an infinite number of ways to express our freedom from moral injury -- every moment, of every day. We never run of reasons to hope.

with so much affection....


Kate

"Mary, did you know..."

"...Mary, did you know
That your baby boy will one day walk on water?
Mary, did you know
That your baby boy will save our sons and daughters?
Mary, did you know
That your baby boy has come to make you new?
This child that you've delivered
Will soon deliver you..."
-Greene/Lowry

I have thought about this verse from "Mary, Did You Know?" (enjoy this Kathy Matthea version...my favorite) a good deal over the past few weeks.  Both in light of my visit to South Africa where I spent just more than two weeks with my daughter,  and most recently after reading Laura's fascinating and thought-provoking post last week, "Book Review: Do you Know Who Your Children Are?"   I am convinced that our children...who we think are put into our lives as helpless wee ones for us to care for...are really what will save us from ourselves.

As I sat with my daughter on the beach each day...or lay next to her at night before we fell asleep...it became so obvious that this daughter had been critical in giving birth to the best parts of the woman I have become.  My love for her has demanded more honesty, integrity, courage, and true love...than any other person, place, activity, purpose, or thing in my entire life.  

This child that I thought I would play a critical role in "raising"...has raised my expectations of myself.  She has made me want to live in accord with higher standards of womanhood than I could ever even have imagined before she came along.  She, and her sisters,  are the reason I have persisted in my quest for a better understanding of grace.  They are the impetus behind my struggle for a better sense of moral courage rather than a blanket acceptance of cultural paradigms that, in some ways, are as beloved...and defended... as hallowed sacraments.

My baby girl...who I love with every fiber of my being...came not just so that I would have someone to love and care for - and that she would have someone to love and care for her - but to make me new.  She came to make me want to be new and fresh and wise and innocent and good...especially good...every day since her birth.  She came to deliver me from any self-indulgent complacency with my own idiosyncrasies and peculiar way of doing things.  She came to arrest my devolution into self-righteousness and pride.  She came to remind me that I want to be better because I want to give her a better example of loving authentically and living with integrity. 

My baby girl has walked on the unstable water of my mortal insecurities, frailties, and the wishy-washiness of opinions and demanded that I know my God and stand on Truth with absolute trust in His nature as Love...because I want it for her. 

Whenever I have sought a true centering, an unwavering conviction that there is a God, it is my love for my daughters that I rest upon.  This love is so overpowering that I have no response but to yield to its demand on me to be my most God-like.  It has owned me from the day I knew that to "mother" was what I wanted more than anything else in the universe.  This love has borne me, carried me into places I would never have gone unbidden from the moment I knew I was being asked to parent my first child.  This love has strengthened my resolve when I felt like collapsing, released my rigid grasp when terror kept me holding on to something other than God, and caused me to surrender everything in fidelity to its call.  This love is the one thing I am absolutely certain I had nothing to do with creating...and can do nothing to destroy.  It is the thing that leaves me praying every moment of every day:

"Behold, the handmaid of the Lord,
be it unto me according to Thy will."

Dear Father-Mother God...thank you for these daughters, Your unspeakable gifts,
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

"Some children see him..."

"Some children see Him lily white,
the baby Jesus born this night.
Some children see Him lily white,
with tresses soft and fair.
Some children see Him bronzed and brown,
The Lord of heav'n to earth come down.
Some children see Him bronzed and brown,
with dark and heavy hair."

It was a bitterly cold day in December and we were living in a Boston suburb west of the Back Bay.  My regular commute to the office had been detoured and we were being re-routed through a section of the city that I had never seen.  Abandoned buildings, boarded up windows, graffiti-covered walls, homeless men, women and children huddled under threadbare blankets and around trashcan bonfires.  It took my breath away.

Playing on the car radio was a song that, believe it or not, I can't remember the words to…or the artists…but in that moment it was asking a question I needed to consider…what would Jesus look like if he did return to us today?

As I sat in traffic I started looking around me.  Was the old man draping his ragged blanket over the shoulders of a child this returning Christ?  Was the little girl sharing a donut with her mother, as they waited in the cold for in in-bound bus, the Messiah?  Could the crossing guard smiling at the stream of youngsters as they crossed a busy intersection on their way to school, be the risen saviour?

"Some children see Him almond-eyed,
this Savior whom we kneel beside.
some children see Him almond-eyed,
with skin of yellow hue.
Some children see Him dark as they,
sweet Mary's Son to whom we pray.
Some children see him dark as they,
and, ah! they love Him, too! "

As we inched through traffic I looked everywhere for indications of this Christ…and they were everywhere.  One driver letting another driver ease into a line of traffic.   A woman picking up trash as she walked down a litter-filled city street - depositing it into trashcans along the way.  Teens helping younger siblings with backpacks and putting on  mittens that had fallen off. 

Finally making it to the front of our line of cars, waiting for the light to turn green at a busy intersection, I was feeling a new expectancy about my day…my life, when a young boy in jeans and a worn parka, carrying a heavy backpack,  started through the crosswalk.  I realized that I was just a bit too far over the line and backed up a bit so that he didn't feel as if the safety of the crosswalk had been encroached.   As he passed my car he turned and quite literally radiated a smile of appreciation in my direction.  It was pure and sweet and shone like the sun from within him.

I felt touched by a divine hand.

" The children in each different place
will see the baby Jesus' face
like theirs, but bright with heavenly grace,
and filled with holy light.
O lay aside each earthly thing
and with thy heart as offering,
come worship now the infant King.
'Tis love that's born tonight!"
- Wihla  Hutson & Alfred S. Burt

He continued on his way to school, and I to my office.  Suddenly, it was Christmas and I had witnessed the birth of the Christ…anew, in the streets of Boston that morning.  Like the shepherds and the kings, the cattle and the sheep...I had a gift to bring...my wakeful heart.
Kate