"humility and manhood..."

"when the dreams
that you're dreaming
come to you,

when the work
you've put in
is realized,

let yourself feel the pride;
but always stay humble and kind.

“it won't be wasted time,
so always stay humble and kind...”

When this post started percolating, it wasn't hard to find a song to give it voice. Tim McGraw's  "Humble and Kind"  couldn't be a more perfect.

This morning I heard a little boy stand up in a gathering of his peers -- and some much older and very much-admired young men -- and say, "we shouldn't just be focusing on our own personal achievements, but we should be helping others too."

It wasn't a big deal in the context of the meeting's purpose - encouraging spiritual thinking. But it was so brave in the context of a current world mindset - one where competition and comparisons seem to thrive, and humility and the celebration of another's gifts, is seen as weakness.

If you know my husband, you know that he is the least competitive man on the planet. I think he has a "genetic" predisposition towards letting the other guy go first, encouraging his "opponent" to succeed, and lifting up the guy in front of him - or behind him, as the case may be. It is what I love most about him. His lack of self-promotion. His natural inclination towards helping others find their place in the world -- even when it means stepping aside himself. In fact, more often than not, I have seen him not only step aside, but have used his own time in that "space," as an opportunity to better prepare that place for his successor. He is a nest featherer -- for others.

And this morning, as I looked around that room full of boys and men, I could see my husband as a little boy. Scrawny-bodied, horn-rimmed glasses, a mop of floppy hair in a nondescript color. Imagining this was not hard, since there were a dozen photos of him on the wall. And thinking about that little boy, my throat tightened - not just with love for him, but for all of the humble and kind men who had helped to raise him to be the man he is today.

Around the world, at dinner tables and in locker rooms, at bedtime and on the playing field, fathers and mothers, coaches and trainers, are being given a platform for encouraging a version of manhood that will be either self-focused, or service-focused. This morning I heard fresh promise in the voice of a young boy. He is choosing to serve others as he navigates a world full of competition and personal ambition.  He is choosing humble and kind. And, he is recommending it to his friends, mentors, and leaders.

Years ago, when our daughter was playing club volleyball, a weekend tournament was being held at a private girls school known for its privilege. The parking lot was filled with luxury cars, and the host team entered the gym carrying monogrammed backpacks. I have to admit that I was a bit intimidated. But when I exited my Jeep, and looked up at the stone wall of their beautiful large sports complex, I saw this quote:

"Humility isn't thinking
less of yourself,
it's thinking of yourself - less."

It caught me up short. I decided I was going to look for humility that entire weekend. And you know, it was everywhere. Those moms arriving in sleek sports cars and tank-like SUVs, were spending their weekend serving home-baked brownies at the snack table. Those monogram-emblazoned team members were cleaning the locker room between games. Their booster club was selling snacks to support a sister-school in another, under-privileged country.

Humility is not weakness -- it is our greatest strength. It is not the conquering of others, but the conquering of selfishness, pride, and arrogance. Humility confidently sets self-concern aside, knowing that one's truest self is spiritually designed, defined, and governed by God. Humility frees us to fully use those God-given talents and strengths for uplifting,  serving, encouraging, and revealing the gifts in others. And in doing so, we improve the world we live in.

Today, I was so moved by the humility of a young boy. Each day I am deeply touched by the humility of good men. Good boys, good men in a good, good world.

Mary Baker Eddy gives some sense of this, in referencing Shakespeare, when she writes:

"Let your watchword always be:
“Great, not like Caesar,
stained with blood,
But only great as I am good.”

Here is to good men, nurturing good boys -- to be humble and kind.

offered with Love,

Cate

"You can do this hard thing…"

"You can do this hard thing,
you can do this hard thing,
It's not easy I know,
but I believe that it's so,
you can do this hard thing..."

When I first heard Carrie Newcomer's "You Can Do This Hard Thing," I was reminded of how much it means to have someone believe in you.

Sometimes we are placed in situations where we don't have the time or the space to decide how or when to act. These are the moments when doing the hard thing is not hard at all. We race to the bed of a loved one. We stop the bully in his tracks. We swim, because sinking isn't an option.

But there are other times when we must choose. Times, when presented with a course of action that is not urgent, we hesitate, justify, or simply avoid doing that hard thing -- because it is hard.

I have been on this threshold many times. In some cases, I've stood there paralyzed for many years. I've convinced myself that if it were "right," it would be easy. If it were right, I wouldn't be hesitating. If it were right, I'd be eager to do it.

I remember, some 40 years ago, standing on the precipice of a decision for many months. I had been offered the opportunity to move to a new city -- a move which had the  potential for wonderful professional and personal growth. On one hand, I was very afraid of leaving all that was familiar. And on the other hand, I knew it was time. That said, driving away from a town I loved - one that had become home for me - was painful. I remember the night before I was to pack my car and get on the road. I sat in the middle of my empty apartment and like Jacob, wrestled with the decision until the breaking of the day.  And like Jacob, I felt as if something in me was out of joint.

When I finally loaded up the car, and began the 3,000 mile trip across country, I could barely see through my tears. I made it over the first state line,  and pulled into a small inn for the night. I was sure that by the next morning, I would turn back towards "home." I could imagine unlocking the door to my old apartment and curling up in a ball in the corner of the bedroom until I could refurnish it.

This was many years before cell phones, and the closest thing to "call a friend" was a pay phone in the lobby of the inn. At midnight I padded down in my robe and nightgown, dialed the now long distance number of a loved one, and quietly placed the required number of quarters in the slot -- hoping that the sound wouldn't wake up the other guests. When she answered, I burst into tears and explained that I just couldn't do it. I thought she would be thrilled to hear I was coming home. But instead she said, "you can do this, you need to do this, i believe in you."

We talked for another few minutes until she said that I should call her when I'd reached the next state line sometime the following afternoon. I did. Her belief in me was exactly what I needed to find my courage in continuing along the long, hard miles in front of me. In the months that followed, whenever I felt overwhelmed in that very big city where I knew no one, it was that call which echoed in my heart.

Whether it's been a decision I knew had little support, facing a serious illness, navigating a heart wrenching disappointment, or an unexpected sorrow,  it's the feeling I had that late September morning as I headed west -- that I seem to go back to - over, and over again.

The hills of eastern Pennsylvania were a patchwork of green and gold, russet, and a red so deep you could almost taste apples and cinnamon when you looked at it. The sky was a brilliant September blue and the air was brisk with the promise of a first frost. I slipped the sound track from The Sound of Music into the 8-track on the dash and found Julie Andrews' singing "I Have Confidence." I sang it at the top of my lungs as I put the car into gear and hit the interstate.

I was so young, so uncertain, and so naive -- but someone believed in me, and they had faith that I could do this hard thing -- and I did.

Since then I have come to discover that there are a host of Biblical pioneers encouraging us from the pages of scriptural history. I think of Ruth, who ventured, with her recently widowed mother-in-law, into an foreign country and culture. Moses, who returned to what was familiar but as a new person with changed values and allegiances. Or Mary, who witnessed faithfully at the foot of the cross during her son's crucifixion.  These men and women are my heroes.

I turn to their stories - often - when facing the hard things. I like to think that they believe in me. That they know me as  their sibling -- sharing an indissoluble relationship with our common Parent. They have put their journeys on record as encouragement to all of us. And each time we do the hard thing -- in the face of resistance or fear -- we contribute to that chronicle of courage.

I love this verse from Carrie's song:

"here we stand breathless
and pressed in hard times
hearts hung like laundry
on backyard clothes lines.
Impossible just takes
a little more time.

From the muddy ground
comes a green volunteer.
In a place we thought barren
new life appears.
Morning will come whistling
some comforting tune for you:
You can do this hard thing ..."
 

We all have a divine Parent who believes in us, encourages us, and knows we can do all thing through Christ who strengthens us. Our lives bear witness to this. Our stories -- like those of spiritual pioneers before us -- lift a lantern to those who are standing on that threshold, feeling paralyzed by fear and self-doubt. We can be their: "you can do this hard thing…"  And they will.

offered with Love and with encouragement,

offered with love,



Kate

"She loved me like a rock..."

"When I was a little boy
And the Devil would call my name
I'd say "Now who do,
Who do you think you're fooling?"
I'm a consecrated boy
I'm a singer in a Sunday choir

Oh my mama loves me, she loves me
She get down on her knees and hug me
She loves me like a rock
She rocks me like the rock of ages
And loves me
She love me, love me, love me, love me..."
- Paul Simon

Okay, it may seem like a stretch, but this afternoon while driving to an appointment, I turned on the radio and Paul Simon's "Loves Me Like a Rock" started playing.  Immediately I found myself thinking about Jesus and his mother. 

She loved him. Oh, she loved him.  She got down on her knees, and hugged him.  It made me cry.

Last weekend I met some moms and dads who love their teens...deeply.  They'd volunteered for a conference focused on nurturing the spiritual lives of teen thought-leaders.  These moms, dads, and adult mentors gathered on a college campus in the heartland to celebrate spiritual leadership and its  promise of peace, health, and collective prosperity in an ever-expanding global community.  It wasn't hard to see how much they loved them.   I could imagine each one of those teens...with an adoring adult on his/her knees hugging them, loving them, believing in their gifts, celebrating the remarkable thinkers they are...knowing that they can accomplish all good, because they are all good. 

I could see each of these adults at the wedding in Cana encouraging a young healer's friends to have faith that the water would become wine.  I could imagine each of these precious parents, adult friends and mentors as silent invisible "women" ministering unto their teen's mission and purpose with prayers, and hymns, and spiritual songs all along a dusty road...sometimes steep, often winding, rocky, and rugged.  I could hear their calls of encouragement, their whispered prayers for protection and guidance.  It wasn't hard to see Jesus' mother encouraging each adult to not lose sight of the vision, to remember what they'ev always known...God is with them...the kingdom of heaven is within every child.

As I drove home from the conference my route took me from the meandering beauty of the River Road ...sailboats gliding lazily, water skiiers laughing as they sliced through the water leaving a wake behind them...to the heart of our city's streets - miles of concrete, hot with Labor Day's humidity and humanity.  The "get down on her knees and hug me" kind of love for teens wasn't as easy to see, but it was palpably there in urban neighborhoods.  Moms, aunts and grandmas sat on cement stoops braiding hair, drinking sweet tea, and encouraging their sons, daughters, and neighbors to "be safe", help one another, and do something good for someone else.   Dads, uncles and grandpas grilled, washed cars, mowed lawns and by example taught their children that family matters, your neighbors deserve your respect, and your word is your pledge.  I've lived in this neighborhood, these were my neighbors, their children were, and are, dear to me. 

As we get down on our knees and hug our children...of all ages...this week, sending them off to school for the first day of sixth grade...or grad school, I pray we see the world as a place full of children with hopes and dreams...and parents who dream with them in kabbutzes, villages, and cities...in burkas, suits, or sarongs.   As we recall our own first dreams for our children's future, their first hopes to become president, physicist, inventor, fireman, or mom...I pray we can stretch our mental arms even further until they reach around all the children of the world...of all ages.  Just like our Father-Mother God who asked a unwed teenage mother over 2,000 years ago to believe an angel, walk with dignity, trust a promise, and never lose sight of a grand vision for His child.

I hope you have a wonder-filled weekend and that we can all find a moment to get down on our knees and hug a child's dream...any...and every...child's dream.  It's never too late to love them, love them, love them...

with Love,
Kate