"How great Thou art…"

"Then sings my soul,
my Saviour, God, to Thee
how great Thou art,
how great Thou art..."

We approached this Christmas break with open hearts and willing hands. Our children would be celebrating the holidays with family in other parts of the country, and Jeff and I would be working Adventure Unlimited's Christmas Ranching program. It's one of my favorite programs offered at camp, and it was the perfect answer for us --  spending Christmas together in a meaningful way.

We would be surrounded by people we loved, programs we believed in, and a mission we cherished -- offering a quiet, sacred manger-like Christmas for our guests. And the Christmas Ranching metaphysical theme couldn't have been more perfect, or practical: "Dear Christ, forever here and near…" from Mary Baker Eddy's poem Christmas Morn.

At the last minute my sister-in-law, Laurie, and her daughters -- Kristen and Lily, decided to join us at the ranches. What a blessing it was to share this precious, healing time with them. And it was a healing time -- for everyone. You can't focus on Christ's forever dear-ness, here-ness, and  nearness, and not experience wholeness, wellness -- healing.

For me,  it felt -- from the very first moment staff arrived -- that we were in for a holy week. And as each guest came through the door of the lodge for dinner that first night, it was clear we had each been sent, called, drawn forth -- like shepherds, wisemen, lambs, and doves -- to discover something blessed during our time together.

Each day -- morning scripture study, activities in the lodge, adventures in the snow, traveling in the vans, breaking bread together at meals -- sparkled with promise.  "Dear Christ, forever here and near…" rang through the brisk mountain air.  The fire crackled with it. It was in the whinnying of the horses, the laughter of children, the sound of a hockey puck rushing across the ice.  Each moment gave new birth to a fresh sense of Emmanuel, or "God with us…"

Christmas Eve, while navigating the path from my cabin to the lodge, I took a hard fall on the ice. Immediately, I felt strong arms under me, and a voice saying, "God is Love, you are loved." Moments later, a young man I knew well, was at my side assuring me that I was fine. With his help I made my way to the lodge.  

During the evening's activities, I remembered the promise in our metaphysical theme: "dear Christ, forever here and near." It helped me let go of the false story. It was abundantly clear to me that God was with me, had always been with me, and that I had never fallen out of his care.  Holding to this fact, I stayed conscious and upright. I wrote about this experience in an earlier post, but as I have thought about it further, there were a few other details that I remembered.

For example, the next day I grateful to be able to do everything I needed to do in caring for our guests. And a quote by A.W. Tozer kept coming to my heart:

"What comes into our minds
when we think about God,
is the most important thing about us."
 

Throughout the day, I tried to be consciously aware of what came into my mind when I thought about God.  And I was also conscious of what I felt, when I thought about God. I took moments throughout the day to find a quiet space -- even for a few moments -- to sit still, and let myself feel deeply the peace, awe, joy, wonder, and trust that I was actually experiencing when I thought about God.

And later that day -- after a beautiful meal -- we gathered for a Christmas program that included scripture, carols, inspiration, and this beautiful performance of "How Great Thou Art," by my niece Lily, with my husband on guitar and singing harmonies. This pure focus on God's greatness touched me deeply -- and I felt it.

As I've pondered all that we shared and experienced together during that Christmas week -- staff, volunteers, guests, horses -- I keep coming back to our theme, "dear Christ, forever here and near…" As well as Christ's dear message of "God with us…"

On the first page of her primary work, Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, Mary Baker Eddy defines the prayer reforms the sinner and heals the sick as:

"an absolute faith
that all things are possible to God,
a spiritual understanding of Him,
an unselfed love..."
 

Not a spiritual understanding of our human circumstances or of our thoughts, a spiritual understanding of our human histories or of the motives and intentions of the people around us -- but of God, of Him.

And later in this same book she reminds us that:

"“Truth and Love
come nearer in the hour of woe,
when strong faith or spiritual strength
wrestles and prevails through
the understanding of God."
 

How often have I been distracted into thinking that I needed to understand where I've gone wrong -- where was my thinking out of alignment, how did I identify myself, what mistakes did I need to correct, what sin needed to be repented of, or what was someone else was thinking about me?  What did I need to fix, in order to experience healing, transformation, redemption, salvation? And how often did I fall prey to this mental hunt for what was true -- or false -- about the human picture?  Too often.

But it's never about me. And it's never about you, or her, or them. It's never about our mistakes, circumstances, or our thinking -- it's always about God. If anything is pulling our focus off of the allness and goodness of God -- we need to pull it back.  It's an understanding of God that brings healing.  It's what we know about Him that makes all the difference.

I believe that what comes to mind -- and what I feel in my heart -- when I think about God, is the most important thing about me.  So that's where I'm training my focus -- on Him.

I can't say enough about our week together during Christmas Ranching.  There -- in the sacred manger of "dear Christ, forever here and near…" -- something holy was born, and  took root in our hearts. God was with us. God is always with us - each of us - individually and collectively.

Oh Lord, my God, how great Thou art…


offered with love,



Kate

"a better story…"

"I want to add to the beauty,
I want to tell a better story..."

I love Sara Groves' "Add to the Beauty." I often find myself singing it, when I'm being handed a script with a storyline that isn't mine. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

On Christmas Eve I was walking down the hill from my cabin, to the lodge, for the evening. We'd been blessed with warm temperatures that day, following a storm that had dropped almost a foot of snow earlier in the week.  Snow had been melting from cabin rooftops and porches all afternoon. But as the sun set, temperatures began to fall quickly. And puddles of melted snow, turned into sheets black ice on decks and walkways.

One minute I was calling out a greeting to a friend, and the next I'd lost my footing and come down hard on the ice -- flat on my back.

The first thought that came to me was, "this is not my script, or my story."  But I couldn't breathe and the pain was excruciating.  Within seconds, I felt strong hands lifting me up, and someone assuring me, "God is Love, and you are loved." But I still couldn't breathe, much less talk. Soon a young man I knew well, reached my side and helped me to my feet. I continued to insist to myself, "this is not my story."

By the time we reached the lodge, the pain was overwhelming, and I had to find a quiet place where I could vehemently claim my right to stay on my feet, and conscious.

Then I remembered an experience I'd turned to -- many times -- when someone called my office, with a very vivid story.

It was many years ago and I was participating in weekly lunch meetings for those who were either interested in entering the public practice of spiritual healing, or those who were already fully vested in this work. We would meet in a large conference room, to share experiences and offer encouragement to one another.

It was hosted by the manager of the department that nurtured the public offices of spiritual healers from around the world. She was a good friend and an even better advocate for this work we both loved.

At this particular meeting someone asked her what had been most helpful to her -- over the years -- when a patient would share the graphic details of physical injury, or illness.

She started by facilitating a brief discussion among those gathered, until the conversation veered off in another direction. Then, a few minutes into the next topic, she said, "Oh my gosh, you wouldn't believe what happened to me the other night?" Then she went on to tell the story of how she'd come out of our office building, just after dark, and hadn't realized that the bitterly cold February winds had turned the daytime-wet sidewalks, into black ice. Within seconds she'd lost her footing and fallen hard on the ice.

We were all looking at her with rapt expressions. Then she stopped, sat back in her chair, and asked us, "How many of you just went down on the ice with me? How many of you could see the whole scene and could almost hear the thud?" Almost every one of us raised our hand.

Then she went on to say, "That, is what I try to remember when someone calls my office, and feels the need to share the details of a particularly graphic challenge they are facing -- emotionally, physically, or financially. I remember to listen with the intent of knowing how to wake them up, but to not go down on the ice with them. I practice not imagining the fall, the anguish on their face, the tears they must have shed, the pain they must be feeling."

I've never forgotten that story. There is a difference between empathy and sympathy. Empathy is being able to stay awake yourself, while gently rousing someone from a nightmare, understanding that they need to be assured -- by someone who is not caught up in the dream -- that the nightmare is over, was never real, and that they are safely awake. Sympathy, however, is getting sucked into the nightmare with them, and then trying fix the problem, or make it better from within the dream.

Christmas Eve, everything begged me to believe that the story of a debilitating fall, was my story.  That it really happened, and now I had to react to it. I was being handed a script: Kate falls on ice, people come to help her, she is able to walk, but is in a lot of pain. Kate prays, gets better, has a testimony to give. Not!

I never fell out of God's care, from his government, or beyond a state of grace. There is a better story: Kate was on the way to the lodge, ran into friends, someone told her, "God is Love, and that she was loved." Another friend offered his arm as they both navigated the beautiful winter night. There was a lovely dinner. There was laughter, gratitude, kindness. There was uninterrupted peace. This is the story I am choosing to have experienced, and the one I will tell.

In her autobiography, Retrospection and Introspection, Mary Baker Eddy shares:

"It is well to know, that our material,
mortal history is but the record of dreams,
not of man’s real existence, and the dream
has no place in the Science of being.

It is “as a tale that is told,”
and “as the shadow when it declineth.”
The heavenly intent of earth’s shadows
is to chasten the affections,
to rebuke human consciousness
and turn it gladly from a material,
false sense of life and happiness,
to spiritual joy and true estimate of being.

The awakening from a false sense of life,
substance, and mind in matter,
is as yet imperfect; but for those lucid
and enduring lessons of Love
which tend to this result, I bless God."  

That night, as I let go of the story and dropped the script, I also let go of the sidebar stories of pain and injury. It was never "my story." There was never anything to fix.  There was nothing to change. No drama to retell. Only the presence of God to rejoice in. I had a better story to live, and to share.

It was a holy night…and the stars were brightly shining.


offered with Love,

Kate