"the future feels so hard, and I want to go back..."

"...The past is so tangible
I know it by heart
Familiar things are never easy
To discard
I was dying for some freedom
But now I hesitate to go
I am caught between the Promise
And the things I know

I've been painting pictures of Egypt,
Leaving out what it lacks
The future feels so hard,
And I wanna go back!
But the places that used to fit me,
Cannot hold the things I've learned
Those roads were closed off to me
While my back was turned..."
- Sara Groves

A friend asked me to repost this piece. Whether we are "looking back," in regret or relief, it's still looking back. God's name is I AM -- this is where we find Him. And it is His Voice I listen for in the music of this moment. offered with love:

Okay, so I have become a bit obsessed with Sara Groves' lyrics and music.  But, as my husband says, "she is so good at knowing you."  When I discovered her "Painting Pictures of Egypt," it was like walking past a mirror, smiling at a stranger, and then suddenly realizing you are smiling at yourself.

I listened with rapt wonder.  She was able to put words to the feeling of knowing when you had to leave one place -- the place where you'd lived in hunched sadness -- for a horizon that seemed to hold no oasis or refuge.  It is a journey in which you cross the desert of pain -- traversing the lonely unchartered territories of your own heart, learning to eat locust and drink dew from the crevices in stones -- only to find that you are still just standing at the edge of something even more vastly new and incomprehensible. So uncertain that you begin to dream of returning to the soft comforts of the outgrown, but familiar.

I think this is what the children of Israel may have faced at the edge of the Red Sea.  Having left behind a tortured existence of brutality and slavery, they find themselves in a place where they are free -- but free to do what, when all that stands in front of them is a roiling ocean of resistance and self-doubt.  Pharoah is pursuing them from behind and they wonder why they ever left Egypt in the first place. At least in Egypt they had the fleshpots. 

I have known this kind of questioning.  I have known the terror of "not knowing" what comes next, and the pull of what once was. "At least there were those fleshpots," it hisses. "Hey, you know how to navigate the familiar, endless rhythm of pyramid building. You know how to anticipate and brace yourself for the touch -- however hurtful -- of the slavemaster's whip."

That's when I would begin "painting pictures of Egypt" in the soft golden glow of memory.  The straw and mud pits of backbreaking labor in the fields took on a soft light -- a "Little House on the Prairie" romanticism. Why I could almost hear the swell of a James Newton Howard soundtrack if I listened hard enough.

But in those moments when my Children of Israel-self complains to my Moses-self at the edge of the Red Sea, "why did you bring us here, at least in Egypt I had fleshpots!" I remember Moses' reply, "Stand ye still and see the salvation of our God," which God rebukes with, "Why are you telling them that, tell them to move forward!"

And what those in exile could never have even imagined - a sea splitting in two so that they could cross on dryland - happens right before their eyes.

They had outgrown the lessons of Egypt, and each step forward through the sand brought them to the place where a miracle was waiting.

Like the children of Israel at the edge of the Red Sea, I too have spent far too many days sitting in the hot shifting sands of self-doubt painting romantic pictures of Egypt in the soft glow of memory. When right there, right before me -- within just a few steps of its shores -- a Red Sea was waiting to part and lead me to the promised land. 

Today I have my heart focused on the sea.  I am painting seascapes full of milk and honey, bees and blueberries, lemons and lavender. I am leaving the outgrown in Egypt where it belongs -- in the past.  I am moving forward, one step at a time -- looking for miracles in the sand and the sea.

"...I don't want to leave here
I don't want to stay
It feels like pinching to me
Either way
And the places I long for the most
Are the places where I've been
They are calling out to me
Like a long lost friend

It's not about losing faith
It's not about trust
It's all about comfortable
When you move so much
And the place I was wasn't perfect
But I had found a way to live
And it wasn't milk or honey
But then neither is this

I've been painting pictures of Egypt,
Leaving out what it lacks
The future feels so hard,
And I wanna go back!
But the places that used to fit me,
Cannot hold the things I've learned
Those roads were closed off to me
While my back was turned..."

If it comes too quick
I may not appreciate it
Is that the reason behind all this time and sand?
And if it comes too quick
I may not recognize it
Is that the reason behind all this time and sand?"

with Love,


Kate

"where no fear was..."

"where no fear was..."

This will be a very brief post. My friend, Nancy, shared this extraordinary recording of "Psalm Fifty-three," in Aramaic -- as it was sung in a Georgian church for the Pope's visit.

I couldn't help but wonder, "why the 53rd Psalm?" So I went to my Bible and read along -- not that I thought, for a moment, that I would have the words in the right place - but the sounds were there. Yes, they were plaintive, hungry, hopeful. But it was when my eyes landed on this passage from Psalm 53:5, that I felt it in my bones:

“There were they
in great fear,
where no fear was..."
 

For me, this is the entire message of the 53rd Psalm. One doesn't have to get the words in the right place, in order to feel the power of this psalm in the language Jesus would have known it in.

I can't help but wonder, if, as David wrote this psalm, he wasn't looking into his own heart and feeling the power of self-examination. Was he the "fool" he is referring to in opening passage? Is he the one whom he realizes is seeing his brother man as "corrupt." Is this the fear that he, later in the psalm, realizes - "no fear was?"

I found it so moving to hear this psalm in Aramaic - the language of Jesus, who knew these songs of his ancestor so well. Jesus, who experienced them so deeply. Who, as we know - from his referencing Psalm 22, on the cross - turned to them in times of heartbreak and trial. Would he have recited them, or sung them out from a heart full of longing?  Would he have hungered to know when "the salvation of Israel would come out of Zion, and Israel would rejoice."

Just as these psalms were "at hand" for Jesus, they are here for us -- to turn to in moments of isolation, darkness, and hope.

We - as brothers and sisters in God's love - are as one in our longing to feel His grace resonating through us, and resting on our loved ones, our neighbors, and our global care-community -- as this choir is in its deeper harmonies.

offered with Love,

Kate


You might also like this beautiful recording of our "Lord's Prayer," in Aramaic.

"you are safe..."

"One thing
I can promise you;
I promise
you're safe with Me..."

When I first heard Megan Nicole's "Safe with Me," it felt like a love letter from God.

In light of recent news reports about the latest pandemic threat, safety seems to feel fragile for many people. The other day someone asked me why I wasn't afraid. It was clear form the way she asked the question,  that there was a deep longing for peace of mind and freedom from fear.

I didn't answer quickly. I din't want to appear cavalier. I wanted to be sure that there was nothing but compassion in my heart. But they had detected something so deep that I felt a spiritual receptivity in their inquiry.

So I explained that in Scripture, when Moses is asked by God to return to Egypt -- the place he had fled for fear of his life -- and free His people from generations of slavery and bondage, Moses asks God who he should tell the Israelites had sent him to do this great thing. The ensuing conversation between God and Moses goes like this:

“And Moses said unto God, Behold, when I come unto the children of Israel, and shall say unto them, The God of your fathers hath sent me unto you; and they shall say to me, What is his name? what shall I say unto them?

And God said unto Moses, I AM THAT I AM: and he said, Thus shalt thou say unto the children of Israel, I AM hath sent me unto you."
 

For me, this is the clearest name for God that I know. The Children of Israel hadn't read the chapter of Exodus. They hadn't heard this scriptural account before. So for them, "I am..." wasn't code for God.  It was simply what it was -- their own sense of conscious being.

The very fact that they could feel that sense of "I am..." was all the authority they needed for their emancipation from slavery.  "I am" indicates the presence of God, and assured their right to freedom from bondage.

And it assures the security of our health. The safest place on earth, is where the "I am..." of your being is present. Because this is where God -- the great I AM is.  Every time you say, "I am..." you are declaring the presence - and power - of God. You are affirming your oneness with divine Love.

A number of years ago, a work colleague and I were having a conversation about feeling safe. I asked him if he'd ever felt afraid. He recounted a time in the early 1970s when he'd been a young man at the height of the Viet Nam War, and his birthdate was assigned a very low draft number. He said that he was a pacifist and besides being opposed to war, he was also very afraid. He thought about filing as a conscientious objector or fleeing to Canada to avoid serving in a war that he was opposed to.

In the midst of this moral wrestling, he called a spiritual mentor who told him that since God was the only "I am.." wherever "I am" was, was the safest place on earth. It stilled his fears, and strengthened his trust in God's ever-present care for him -- and for all the boys, girls, men, and women who would be deployed to serve in Viet Nam.

Soon after that realization, his draft number was called, he showed up for his physical, went through basic training, and was deployed to Viet Nam. He was assigned to an intelligence unit and spent his entire time sequestered in the highest level of security. But every day, he prayed that each man, woman, and child - touched by that conflict - could feel safe in the presence of their own consciousness of  "I am..." -- which always points to the presence of God -- the great I AM.

We are all safe in this knowledge that God's presence is assured every time we think or say, "I am..." In Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, Mary Baker Eddy assures us:

“Security for the claims
of harmonious and eternal being
is found only in divine Science."
 

Divine Science -- the Science that overarches all other natural sciences - laws of nature -- is sovereignly self-enforcing. This Science is based on the irrefutable law of God.  The law that states God's All-in-allness. All good, in all. All purity, in all. All innocence, in all. All safety for all.

I am safe. You are safe. We are all safe...

offered with Love,

Kate

"be the love, that fear flees...."

"fear is a liar..."

Zach Williams'  "Fear is a Liar,"  is the perfect keynote for this very short post.

This morning, while listening for a divinely-guided sense of purpose in my day, it was this short statement that rose from silence:

"be the love,
that fear flees..."

That was it. As short and simple as a message could be. But it was enough. Love always is. Love isn't asking us to battle with fear. Love is asking us to trust Its Scriptural promise that:

"there is no fear
in love, but perfect love
casts out fear..."

Love isn't a weapon we wield in the face of fear. Love is the presence that fear flees in the face of.

This Love is not a human endeavor. This Love is not an emotional magic trick that we pull out of our hearts. This Love is a power as irresistible and irrevocable as gravity.

It is trust. It is faith. It is the Truth in all truths. It is the infant's curled hand around the finger of the father humbled and weeping in the face of her first touch. It is the shelter dog wiggling like a puppy when he knows he is going "home."

This love is a yielding, not a working at something. This love is restful, it is not filled with human effort. And this true and undeniable love, starts with the realization that there is Something invisible and indivisible at work in the universe - and it is not our thinking about Love, it is Love itself.

Fear cannot oppose this Love. In its omnipresence, fear flees. Fear doesn't need to be chased out. It doesn't need to be battled against, wrestled with, or approached with trepidation. Wherever this Love walks, fear flees. And this Love walks in the dark cavernous places of our blindness, with as much confidence as it does in the light of our sacred sanctuaries. This Love knows no place where Its presence is not known, felt, and surrendered to in complete abject awe.

We think we are afraid of something - disease, anger, pain, lack.  For example:  "I am afraid of ______, and when ______ is eradicated, I will no longer be afraid."  We think that when this scary somethingness is reduced to rubble, kicked out of our bodies, replaced with a better version of reality -- we will no longer be afraid. We think that fear is the result of something bad being present in our lives.  Get rid of the something and fear will go away.  Not true.

Fear is not an effect.  It is not the outcome - or result - of disease, lack, hatred, conflict, disaster. Fear is at their root.  But like the weed that it is, its root is benign, surface, easily kicked up from the dustbowl of its nothingness.  It may produce a large head of tumbleweed - but it has no hold.  The cultivation of the heart's rich soil releases it. And with Love's sure release, the dandelion heads of disease, lack, etc. are reduced to their native nothingness.

When we are so transfixed and deeply in love with our one first and true Love - God, fear slinks away. It has no voice, no threat, no power to disturb the heart that rests in the arms of the one Love that it knows nothing can separate it from.

offered with Love,

Cate 

"forever hushed..."

"And echoes
in the sound,
of silence..."

I wrote about this experience in a post from 2006. Having just revisited that post, I realized how much clearer its message is for me today. There is a sound to peace. It is a sound that overarches the noise of pain and fear. It is the  "Sound of Silence."  I hope you enjoy this Pentatonix version of Simon and Garfunkel's classic.

Here is, what I hope will be, a more concise version of this experience:

The routine was the same. Pick the girls up from preschool. Drive home while they stripped themselves of shoes, socks, sweaters. Arrive home. Open the door of the van. Watch them run in the back door. Gather shoes, socks, sweaters, books, totes. Find them in the kitchen, banging their sippy cups on the counter next to the refrigerator while screaming, "I want juice, I'm thirsty, give me juice." Over, and over, again. Day after day.

And I would drop everything, and get them juice.

Until one day, I stood in the kitchen looking at them and thought, "why don't they just get their own darned juice?" Good question. So I just stood there. I didn't rush to get them what they wanted, but just watched what was happening. And it occurred to me - quite quickly - that they were only screaming because they knew that they didn't have the authority - or the strength - to open the refrigerator, hold the heavy pitcher, and pour the juice without spilling it. They knew that I did, and they were trying to convince me to do what they wanted me to do.

They weren't screaming because they had power, but because they felt powerless.

So, I took a deep breath and said, "Girls, put down your sippy cups, put your shoes and socks in the mud room, hang your sweaters and backpacks on the hooks, go potty, wash your hands and come back downstairs, and I will get you juice. And they did it. Just like that.

As I stood there -- somewhat in shock -- I just knew this was a more profound insight for me, than how to manage our after school routine.

I had been in pain for days. A voice had been screaming in my head, "I am in so much pain, I cannot think." Over and over again. But all the while, I had been thinking. It hadn't been able to stop me. I had been thinking. I had been loving. I had been reading, and praying, and helping others.

It was as much a helpless, incoherent sound as the girls' urgent screaming had been. It was simply trying to get me to give up, lie down, go to sleep -- or worse. But, it couldn't make me do those things. It could only try to convince me to do those things myself. And I had been refusing -- but barely.

When I saw that pain -- and for that matter, fear -- were not powers, but powerless voices, I stopped thinking that they had information for me. They were sounds, rather than conditions. They were not informants.  They didn't have some underlying meaning about my life, my body.  They were not leading me to a "why."

With this realization, I began to stand up to them in a different way. I no longer felt bullied. I could look at each situation with dominion. I was not a victim of the noise. The noise had no authority. No embodied entity to push me around.

That experience happened almost twenty years ago. It has been a milestone in my understanding of the insidious nature of pain and fear. These passages - among many - from Mary Baker Eddy's Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures have been the edifying authority in my understanding of how to silence their inarticulate voices:

"It requires courage to utter truth; for the higher Truth lifts her voice, the louder will error scream, until its inarticulate sound is forever silenced in oblivion."

and

"Spirit will ultimately claim its own, — all that really is, — and the voices of physical sense will be forever hushed."

Truth -- not Kate thinking about Truth --  is lifting her voice with supreme command and declaring: "God is All-in-all." And in the face of Truth's authority, the inarticulate sound of pain, fear, doubt is forever silenced in its own oblivion. Love hushes the screaming of the physical senses, and peace is forever Sovereign.

offered with Love,

Cate 

"My hands are holding you..."

"I'll be
by your side
wherever you've fallen,

in the dead of night,
whenever you're calling;

please don't fight,
these Hands
that are holding you..."

It's been a long time since I've listened to Tenth Avenue North. But this morning it was their,  "By Your Side,"  that inspired me. Another mass shooting, another tragic "natural disaster," -- and my heart was reaching out for something to hold on to. And Tenth Avenue North came through with the reminder, that I don't need to hold on to God -- His hands are holding me, and mine, and all.

Sometimes, we hear a horrifying story of mayhem or loss, and we almost feel like we can't process it. It's too big. It makes us feel vulnerable and shakes our sense of personal peace. We send our love and prayers. But the human mind itself is incapable of knowing how to "think" about it all. So it doesn't. It files it away for "later."

I remember once hearing an NPR [National Public Radio] interview with a social anthropologist, one afternoon while inching my way through rush hour traffic. She was explaining the phenomenon of an entire country rallying to support a single family facing a devastating loss, while almost ignoring the plight of millions of refugee families facing famine in Africa - where thousands of children were dying of starvation each day.

She explained that this grief was too massive for the human mind to process. So it looked for something it could actually feel empowered to do something about -- a single family felt "doable." Hundreds of thousands did not. So in order to not "go mad" by the breadth of the grief, the human mind sets aside what it cannot process. I got it.

But this explanation still didn't answer my own heart-wrenching question -- how can I turn away from photos and reports of starving families? What can I do? How can I pray? It did feel like "too much," -- because it was. At least it was for the human mind.

Tenth Avenue North's song this morning was just the reminder I needed to get back on track in responding to each and every tragic report of fear, pain, lack, disaster, and loss. To see that each individual -- from the starving Syrian refugee, to the corruption-enticed Wall Street trader [who so afraid of loss that he would even consider compromises his integrity] as held by God. Held in comfort, and held in check.

Again and again, I go back to this "Daily Prayer," by Mary Baker Eddy:

"Thy kingdom come
let the reign
of divine Truth, Life, and Love
be established in me,
and rule out of me all sin,
and may Thy Word
enrich the affections
of all mankind
and govern them."

This is my prayer throughout the day. This is my prayer when I am awaken in the night. This is the prayer that springs immediately into the space of every question.  It is my prayer for myself, and for "all mankind."

I know that it was this "Daily Prayer," has been my prayer in the darkest hours of my life -- whether during an attempted assault, or facing the loss of a child. To know this prayer intimately, was to know peace.  It strengthened my core confidence in knowing that the affections of the man who had threatened my innocence were being governed by the Word of God. And that this Voice had been speaking directly to his heart, causing him to self-arrest his behavior.  

To feel this prayer in an hour of loss, was to feel the Father's love for us - and for our child. To actually feel that this love was eternal; not validated by time, or space, or form of family. Untouched by sin [separation] and established in Soul.

Because I have felt held by the Word of God -- when I least expected it - I am able to know - with all my being - that this same presence is filling the consciousness of every man, woman, child, and creature in all of creation.

Because I have felt this Love shift my behavior, guide my actions, purify my motives, and heal my wounds -- I know it is at work in each human heart. This divine presence is stilling all conflict. It speaks in every language. Wherever we are, whatever we seem to be going through - alone, or in the midst of thousands - we are held.

This prayer has been the voice of God -- holding me, healing me, correcting me, encouraging me -- and mine, and all.


offered with Love,

Cate 

"under His wings..."

"How can you run
when you know?"

Today on Facebook, a friend shared this video of Crosby, Stills, and Nash's  "Ohio."  It is still a chilling reminder of a day I will never forget.

It was Monday -- a beautiful, early spring day in rural New Jersey. I was in typing class when our Assistant Principal came to the door and called our teacher into the hallway. He returned ashen-faced and visibly shaken. He announced that when the bell rang we were to go to the school auditorium.

I remember looking down at the rows and rows of "the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog" that I'd just typed, as a warm up for that day's dictation. When I looked up, there were tears streaming down our teacher's sideburn-framed cheeks. I was terrified. We'd lived through the Kennedy, King, and Kennedy assassinations, what could possibly evoke a teacher's tears -- again?

I looked across the room and questioningly caught a friend's eye. She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. I returned to my typing, but all I could think about was, "what now?" The windows were open and the scent of peonies wafted in on a soft breeze. To this day, the scent of peonies is the scent of paradox.

After the bell sounded for a change of classes, we filed into the hallway and made our way like lemmings towards the auditorium. For some reason, I needed to find my sister. She was a year younger, but she was my rock. I thought if I could sit with her, whatever news we were being gathered for would be less frightening. But when I finally caught sight of her, she was on the other side of the auditorium surrounded by friends.

The room was eerily quiet. We didn't talk as we waited for the principal to take the stage. When he did, although his suit was its normal crisp perfection, he seemed disheveled. He ran his hand through his hair as he paused at the microphone. It made me feel frightened. Like when my mother cried, or my dad sat staring out the window after paying the bills.

Before he spoke, he cleared his throat, paused, and cleared his throat again. Then he explained that there had been a terrible tragedy at a university in Ohio. The National Guard had opened fire on protesting students and four of those students had died. Others had been injured. We were instructed to return to our next period classes.  I noticed that our principal's shoulders shook - I assumed he was quietly weeping - as he left the stage with his head down.

We were in shock. We'd never heard the story of Kent State - it hadn't happened yet.  It wasn't in our rolodex of possibilities.  We'd heard of recently graduated classmates being killed in Viet Nam, but this was in Ohio - only two states away.  We'd never been exposed to news of our own government killing college students.  We were so close to being college students ourselves. For me it was only two years away. For the youngest among us, four years. We didn't speak, we didn't move. I remember thinking, "this is what shock feels like."

This was 1970. There were no trauma counselors. We were dismissed from the auditorium and told to go to our next class. At the end of the day, we boarded school buses for home, changed into gym clothes for track practice or field hockey, or we made our way to the same auditorium for play rehearsals.

It felt like walking through water. We had no further information. We wouldn't have any more information unless our parents let us watch the nightly news, on one of three channels at 6 o'clock. The newspaper wouldn't arrive until morning. There was no cable news, no internet, no online resources, no Facebook posts, or breaking news updates. Just the 6 o'clock news and the morning paper.

Had there been a coup? Had war been declared in Ohio? Were children -- and yes, we still thought of our friends in college as children -- now the enemy of the state? Was the consequence for disagreeing with your government, death by firing squad?

It would be days before we saw photographs. It would be months before we'd get anything more than cursory information. It would be years before we'd know how that day in May, would change the landscape of our collective experience as students - and parents.

The massacre of student protesters on a grassy knoll at Kent State University would alter the course of history. Within a week millions of high school and college students went on strike, others marched in protest at the Capitol, and many of us wrote out our grief in poetry, songs, and essays.

As with the assassinations of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy, I turned to a resource I'd come to trust -- my Sunday School teacher. I had to wait six days, but I knew she would give me a spiritual way to process what I'd been living with for almost a week.

On Sunday, she too was still shaken by the event. I loved that she wasn't stoic and matter-of-fact about it. Her response was honest. She told me that she'd been praying all week about how to talk with us about what had happened in Ohio. And then she asked us how we had been feeling. She didn't tell us how we should feel.

I don't remember all of what we discussed that morning, but I do remember leaving church with a sense of courage about standing up for what is right and good. I also left with her encouragement to memorize the 91st Psalm. And I did. It has stood the test of time. It reads:

"He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most high shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.

I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and fortressL my God; in Him will I trust.

Surely He shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence.

He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust: His truth shall be thy shield and buckler.

Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flight by day; nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that casteth at noonday.

A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.

Only with thine eyes shalt thou behold and see the reward of the wicked.

"Because thou hast made the Lord, which is my refuge, even the most High, thy habitation; there shall no evil befall thee, neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling.

For He shall give His angels charge over thee to keep thee in all thy ways."

Over the next two years I would participate in a number of protests, and this Psalm would be my marching song. In the ensuing years it has been my companion whenever I have felt threatened or afraid. I do not run when I know that something needs facing. I stand with angels -- who have charge over me, and mine, and all.

offered with Love,

Kate

This video from Dan Rather's report on the event is helpful in understanding what happened that day  "Kent State." 

"but if not..."

"I know You're able,
and I know You can;
save through the fire,
with Your mighty hand;

but even in You don't,
my hope is You alone..."

This week's Bible lesson includes the story of the three Hebrew boys -- Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego -- and their time in the "fiery furnace." I love this story. I love these boys.

Mercy Me's recording of  "Even If"  always brings their story alive for me.

My favorite part of this story happens even before they are tossed into the flames to walk about unsinged - with "the form of the fourth." It happens in a conversation they have with King Nebuchadnezzar who has confronted them about their resistance to bowing down to his idols whenever they hear music -- even at the expense of being tortured and burned in a furnace:

"Is it true, do not ye serve my gods, nor worship the golden image which I have set up?

O, Nebuchadnezzar, we are not careful to answer thee in this matter. If it be so, our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from the burning fiery furnace, and He will deliver us out of thine hand, O king.

But if not..."

Yup, that's the part I love. "But if not..."

Theirs is not a blind belief. It is not a blind self-certainty that says, "God will deliver us from the fire -- we just know he will." No, it is about loving and serving God -- even if that means the immolation of their bodies.  Bodies that never defined their sense of being.

There are two things that have inspired me in a new way from this story. The first is the king's demand that, "at whatever time you hear the sound of the the cornet, flute, harp, sackbut, psaltery, dulcimer, and all kinds of music, ye fall down and worship the golden image that I have set up. And whoso falleth not down shall be cast into the midst of a burning fiery furnace."

Isn't this what false laws about health, finance, relationships, government - threaten every day. At what time you feel pain, fall down and worship: listen to, and heed the advice of - materials laws, or you will be cast into the furnace of death.

At what time you see a smaller number in your bank account, fall down and worship the golden image of false economic forecasts, salary projections, working for "the man," -- or you will be cast into the fire of poverty, hunger, homelessness.

At what time you hear the sound of alarming news, rumors, or opinions of any kind -- bow down to anger and resentment, or you will be vulnerable, thought ridiculous, or cast into a pit of despair that you will never be able to pull yourself out of.

But these arrogant ultimatums have no power behind them. They can only attempt to threaten and bully us into capitulating to their demands. They cannot stop us from loving, from extending our compassion, from trusting in good, from refusing to become bitter or hopeless. There is so much more to this insight -- but I will leave it there.

The second insight has to do with the boys' experience after having refused to bow down.  The story follows that, "Then these men were bound in their coats, their hosen, their hats and their other garments, and were cast into the midst of the burning fiery furnace." And Nebuchadnezzar seeing them walking about in the fire says, "Did we not cast three men into the furnace? Lo, I see four men loose..."

I have written before about this fourth man who is, as Nebuchadnezzar exclaims, "like the Son of God." But today's inspiration is about the men themselves being loosed from their bindings.

Nebuchadnezzar had these these sweet boys cast into the fire - bound. But they are seen walking loose of those bindings. And later we learn that although they are still in the fire -- loosed from the bindings: coats, hosen, hats, and other garments -- those very bindings are not changed, nor do they even carry the smell of fire.

Even the bindings themselves - which were used by the king's men to hold them captive - were spared from the effects of the fire. Because their original purpose was good -- providing cover from sun, protection from the elements, covering their nakedness -- they could not be transformed by hatred and fear, into the trappings of their captors.  The clothing that had given them the freedom to walk in the desert sun protected from exposure, could not suddenly be used for restraint, or contribute to their destruction.

Even true purpose of the fire itself was good and pure -- cooking meals, providing warmth, heating water, giving light. It's goodness could not be bound up in a false garment of pain and destruction -- or have its purpose twisted by fear and hatred.

In her primary work, Science and Health with Key to the Scripture, Mary Baker Eddy writes:"

"The everlasting I am
is not bounded nor compressed
within the narrow limits
of physical humanity..."

Not only were they not bounded by their garments, but neither was their sense of "I am." Their consciousness of Love -- of being, was never bounded nor compressed within the narrow limits of physical humanity. They knew that neither the demands of the king, or the belief that their lives were bound to, or within, bodies, garments, or physical laws -- could bind or restrict their right to love and trust God.

And when the substance of their trust in the "form of the fourth" was apparent, even the king and his princes, governors, captains, and counsellors could actually see that God was with them -- right in the midst of the fire. Nothing that they had done to those boys, could separate them from God's loving presence. They had always known it, now everyone else knew it too.

The last six months have given us ample opportunity to say, "but even if..." Not as a means to an end: "if we say no to the king, we will be lifted out of this fire." But with a sweet sense of "God is here -- with us all -- in the fire." We are loose from the bindings of fear, false laws, and the demanding dictates of personal sense.

I love these boys. I am so grateful for their example of a deep-centered knowing, an unwavering sense that God was with them -- wherever, whenever, whatever -- always.

offered with Love,

Kate

"fear is a liar..."

"When he told you - you’re not worthy,
when he told you - you’re not loved,
when he told you - you’re not beautiful,
that you’ll never be enough;

Fear - is a liar..."

I had never heard of Zach Williams. But after watching his  "Fear is a Liar," video -- his music ministry in now on my playlist.

I love the message of this song. It resonates with everything that I have come to trust. Fear is not a condition. It is a proposal, a suggestion, an invitation, a lie. And it is never in you -- or me.

In First John, Chapter 4 we read:

"There is no fear in Love."

But this isn't what we are led to believe.  It is the opposite of the narrative we are sold continuously.  For example, I remember, as a young mother, feeling vulnerable because I loved my daughter so much. I interpreted the fierce feelings I experienced every time she was out of my sight as "fear." I thought that I was afraid, because I loved her so much.

One morning, when she was getting ready for preschool, I was almost paralyzed by feelings that I interpreted as fear. I thought that my fear for her safety and well-being, was weakening my ability to pray effectively for her. As she ate her breakfast, I opened my Bible at the kitchen table. It fell open to the above passage from I John. And for the first time it struck me that this was not a suggestion, but a promise.  I only needed to accept it.

I had a choice to make. I either believed that I loved my daughter, or I believed that I was afraid. I couldn't have it both ways. There is no fear in love. If I loved, I was not afraid. Period. Well, I absolutely knew that I loved my daughter -- I had not a single shred of doubt about that. So then it followed that I had to absolutely know -- with all my being -- that i was not afraid.

Now that didn't mean that I wasn't experiencing some pretty strong feelings.  I was. So if those feelings weren't fear, what were they?  I realized that needed to move John's inspired promise, from the inspirational to the practical.  I took the time to be still and asked what those feelings might be, if they weren't fear. It came so quickly it almost took my breath away. I knew in an instant that those feelings were a fierce love -- ones that made me feel as if I might dissolve. But that dissolution was not a falling apart, but the falling away of the ego. It was a complete surrender of self-determinism, to the presence and power of God. It was an on-your-knees submission to grace.

In that moment, fear proved itself to be a liar. It had been insisting that because I was afraid, she was vulnerable. It was saying that because I was afraid, I was a sub-standard mom. It was hissing that because I was afraid, it actually meant something -- and that something, was not good. But I was not afraid, I loved her -- and I loved her fiercely.

Fear is a liar. It terrorizes and bullies. But it cannot carry out even one of its dark threats. All it can do is suggest to us that we fold up our tent and go home. That we turn tail and run. That we curl up in a fetal position and self-sabatogue our relationships, well-being, hopes, and dreams by -- well, by just not showing up.

That's where love comes in and flicks fear away like the nothingness it is. Love is fierce. A mother doesn't curl in a ball when her child needs her. A teacher doesn't run from someone threatening her classroom full of kindergartners. A father doesn't worry about his own well-being in defending his daughter's honor. Love is not afraid -- ever.

Fear is a liar because it tries to tell us that we are weak, vulnerable, and fragile.  But Love -- fear's opposite -- gives a mom the power to lift a car off her child's foot.  We all love.  And love is the greatest power in the universe. The tiniest infant loves. The most abused puppy responds to love. The most notorious criminal will give himself up to protect his mother. Love always wins. Fear always lies -- and loses.

In Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, Mary Baker Eddy, says that the angel Gabriel has:

"the more quiet task of imparting a sense
of the ever-presence of ministering love"

And then, right on the heels of this statement she says:

"The Gabriel of His presence has no contests.

To infinite, ever-present Love, all is Love,
and there is no error, no sin, sickness, nor death."

And therefore, there is not a modicum, a morsel, or a molecule of fear. To infinite, ever-present Love, there is no fear. It is not that Love fights fear and wins. There is simply no fear in Love -- or to Love. It cannot exist in the atmosphere of Love, anymore than mold can exist in sunshine, or darkness can live in the light.

Fear is a liar. And when we know this -- we stop letting it push us around. We stand up to its bullying and refuse to surrender to it's ridiculous threats. Because the Love is true, fear is a liar.

offered with Love,

Kate

"Thy will be done..."

"I'm so confused.
I know I heard You
loud and clear.
So I followed through,
somehow I ended up here.

I don't want to think
I may never understand,
that my broken heart,
is part of Your plan.

When I try to pray,
all I get is hurt,
and these four words:

Thy will be done..."

This afternoon, I stumbled on Hillary Scott's beautiful song,  "Thy Will." And in the span of watching her video, I was transported -- sitting alone, in an almost empty flat in the middle of the city -- wondering how I got there.

Only months before, I'd been a modestly well-respected wife and mother living in a 3,000 square foot multi-level house in a suburban neighborhood. Now here I was. And I couldn't imagine how eleven months of listening humbly and importunately for God's direction -- and getting it, loud and clear -- could feel this terrifying, confusing, and lonely.

I was not -- at all -- unclear about what God had said to me. I'd felt His Love-impelled power of it in every molecule of my being. I wasn't naive, I knew it would not be easy, but I also knew that it was the most loving thing that I could do for everyone in my life. So why, if I had been obedient to Love's unexpected direction -- did it hurt so badly? And it did. It hurt in the marrow of my being.

This wasn't how being Love's bidding was supposed to feel. And I had no doubt that I had heard God's voice -- mostly because the message with so clearly not what I thought God would say. But in the instant I heard it, without cross-questioning it, I fell on my knees and wept aloud:

"Thy will be done."

I was not naive. I knew that in my circle of family, friends, colleagues, and acquaintances, what God was asking me to do would be questioned, judged, speculated and whispered about. I just didn't think it would be as devastating as it was.

I had truly hoped that my devotion to God would have spoken for me. That those who knew me would have at least asked me, "what the hell are you doing?" Then I would have, at least, had someone's arms to weep in. But instead, it seemed as if everyone was quite willing to assume that I'd gone off the rails and blown it. The shame was crushing.

This isn't about the what I did, or why. Because, to be completely honest -- the only why is, "God said." And exactly what God said, is still so deeply holy for me that I cannot write about it. If you were to call me, and it seemed spiritually relevant, I would tell you -- it's not a secret. But to type it here -- or anywhere -- has not been something I can do. It's just too sacred.

Sitting alone at my kitchen table in the city that day, I begged God for direction, "Dear God, how do I defend myself from all the swirling misinformation and judgment?" And God's answer was just as clear as his earlier direction:

"He opened not his mouth
in defense of himself."

I got it -- thoroughly, and quickly. If I wanted to follow Christ, I had to be willing to be questioned, scoffed at, speculated about, and misunderstood. It terrified me. Didn't God understand that I was the ultimate people pleaser. Didn't He get that my early life as a stepchild -- who was forced to ingratiate herself in order to "earn" the right to be sheltered and fed -- had made me this way.

Disappointing people was my greatest fear, making them happy was my drug. And here I was disappointing everyone I loved and knew. Again, I turned to the writings of Mary Baker Eddy. I opened her primary text, Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures to page one and read:

"Prayer, watching, and working
combined with self-immolation,
are God's gracious means for accomplishing
whatever has been successfully done for
the Christianization and health of mankind."

And yes, in my copy of the book, the word "self-immolation" was bolded -- or at least it was that day. I knew what it meant. I'd been studying Eddy's work for decades. I knew that she recommended this practice of "suicide by fire," six times in her writings. And no, I didn't think she was encouraging me to grab a can of kerosene and a match -- she was urging the self-inflicted destruction of the ego.

In that moment, I understood. It wasn't going to be good enough for me to have my ego slayed by childhood circumstances, other people's choices, or chance. It was imperative that I took ownership of this humbling walk into the fire.

So I did. The ego wanted to run, to find a small rural community in Kansas to disappear into. To take my daughters (something I would never do) and change all of our names. Buy a farm and raise chickens.  But I knew better.  I'd lived that nightmare as a child.  Love demanded that I stay, walk with grace, live with courage, love with compassion, serve without hesitation, parent with dignity, and own my spiritual journey -- however scary that was.

It was not easy. In fact, there were many, many nights when I cried myself to sleep begging God to give me courage and strength to face the next day of averted glances, dismissal, and scorn. And He always did. My relationship to Jesus and Mary Baker Eddy was more strengthened by this time -- than any other experience in my life. I turned to their words and examples of grace -- continually -- for clues on how to navigate my own life.

Over and over again, I came back to:

"Thy will be done.
Thy will be done.
Thy will be done."

Long before this time -- when going through a physical challenge that had driven me to my knees -- I called someone who had been such a wonderful spiritual mentor. I needed encouragement, I needed for him to promise me that what I was going through was not spiritually right -- and to tell me that I could expect to be free of it. He didn't say those things. What he said was that "someday you are going to look back, and miss these days of being so hungry for God's touch in your life."

I thought he was mad-as-a-hatter at the time and told him so. But you know, he was right. The hard times -- those days when we are on our knees longing for answers, praying to feel the presence of grace -- they are the very best days.

Someone asked me recently why I do what I do -- take calls from people who are in pain, fearful, sad, confused. They couldn't understand why I would be so happy to get up in the morning, if I was just going to spend the day on the phone, Skyping, reading texts and emails from people who were struggling.

This is why. These challenges are not personal. When I am willing to sit with someone who is needing a "friend" to witness what they are facing, and willing to discern what is true -- I get to hear the angels with them. I discover how ripe with divine blessing our lives are when the fruit is most heavy. I get to watch the ego being slayed by the presence of divine Love.

God's will for us is to know Him in every moment of our lives. In I Thessalonians, chapter 5, verse 18, we are encouraged:

"In everything give thanks,
for this is the will of God..."

When we are willing to let go of a mortal, ego-centric sense of pride, accomplishment, acceptance, approval -- we find that everything -- and I mean everything -- is simply an opportunity to drawn nigh unto God and feel His nearness.

To those family members and friends who held me, let me weep, comforted me, trusted and encouraged me during those years -- I will never, ever, be able to say thank you with enough depth. My gratitude is unfathomable.


offered with Love,

Kate

"fear has to face the God you know..."

"O my soul
you are not alone,
there's a place where fear
has to face the God you know..."

There are spiritual experiences that defy being framed adequately by words. Mary Baker Eddy once wrote about this inability of words, saying that, "she lisped in numbers, for the numbers came." That is how I feel.

Sometimes it is more the sound of a song, than its words, that represent the heart's story. That is the case for me with this experience. But Casting Crown's beautiful "O my Soul."  speaks to the grace I felt, but can still barely hint at.  There is no way to adequately describe the full breadth of what this healing means to me.  But I will try.

For weeks I was in constant pain. Day and night. Nothing brought comfort or relief. The symptoms were aggressive and frightening. I was being bombarded with suggestions of specific diseases -- names, prognoses, timetables. And as frightening as it was, I had to get up each morning and persevere. I had to constantly ask myself, "Kate, what can you do -- right now?"

This moment-by-moment stepping into what I could do -- was all that kept me from abject terror. I was still a mom with the day-to-day responsibilities of raising our youngest children. I had work that I loved and am devoted to. Patients that I was committed to seeing spiritually. I needed to be able to go on. But it was getting more difficult. Day and night I prayed, claiming my spiritual freedom from the specific symptoms.

When I found it hard to think clearly I called a Christian Science practitioner to pray with me. Her unwavering clarity about my spiritual wellness was a lifeline. I can't tell you the specifics of what she said, but one night it became utterly clear to me that I was playing a metaphysical game of whack-a-mole. I would address one symptom, or suggestion of mortality and physical vulnerability, and another would raise its ugly head. Each symptom brought with it, a whole family of reasons to be afraid. I would get on top of one fear, and another would taunt me anew.

That night, as I was lying in the dark praying, the thought came so clearly, "This is not about what you think you are afraid of, it is all about the fear itself."  Typing that sentence now - and reading it - it looks so benign and so "well, of course -- duh!?!?!?" But in that moment,  it was such a big thought, so radical, so paradigm-shifting -- that it took my breath away.  I could see that fear existed without the symptoms, without the specific suggestions, without any reason for the fear.  Fear was the "enemy," not what I thought was causing my fear. Not what I believed I was afraid of.

The symptoms, the names of the disease, the prognosis, the "what-ifs," the pain that had grabbed my attention and had not let go -- were not the cause of fear. Fear was the cause of the symptoms. Like I said, I am lisping in numbers here. It is so much bigger for me than what I can possibly describe.

In that moment, everything took a turn. I wasn't trying to get rid of a disease, its symptoms, or its evidence -- so that I would not be afraid. I was going after fear itself. I stopped thinking that I was afraid of something. Or that fear was the by-product of a scary physical situation. Fear was the master manipulator -- suggesting symptoms, names of diseases, reasons it all "made sense" : heredity, contact, association. Fear was creating a story that justified itself, and reasons for its hold on my thoughts. Fear was keeping me focused on getting rid of symptoms that fear had compiled, and then added up to present as a forgone conclusion which it called a frightening disease. Fear kept me chasing after decoys. But I was no longer duped, I was going after fear itself -- not its minions.  I knew I was on the right track.

Yet that was only the first "aha" of the night -- the next one was even more vital. And it came so swiftly that I gasped. It wasn't me going after anything. This was God's "battle." God, Love, loved me. Love had never left me alone. Love had never neglected me. John gives us this promise in Scripture:

"there is no fear in Love..." 

The presence of Love in our hearts, destroys even the possibility of fear in us. Because Love is so clearly present in our hearts and lives, fear just cannot be. Love and fear can no more coexist than light and darkness. It wasn't a matter of me loving in a certain way, so that I could eradicate fear from my life.  That was God's province.  I felt love,  I knew the power of love, I had witnessed the presence of love -- therefore fear had never, could never, and would never be able to exist in this Love-based environment. The kingdom of God that is my heart and fills my life. Love destroys fear -- period. And I was as sure of the presence of love in my heart, as I was of my own existence.

Each time a symptom would assert itself, each time the name of a disease would suggest that I was doomed, each time the thought would come, "I am afraid of..." I would reaffirm -- I am not fear-susceptible.  I am Love-based, Love-filled, Love-aware, Love-driven, Love-defined.

I found myself turning to Mary Baker Eddy's autobiography, Retrospection and Introspection, for courage, and confirmation that what I was glimpsing -- was true. In the chapter, "The Great Discovery," she writes:

"Science saith to fear, “You are the cause of all sickness; but you are a self-constituted falsity, — you are darkness, nothingness. You are without ‘hope, and without God in the world.’ You do not exist, and have no right to exist, for ‘perfect Love casteth out fear.’" 

She didn't say perfect love casts out disease, pain, sickness, symptoms, etc. But that perfect Love casteth out fear. She didn't say that the patient, or the practitioner, saith to fear, "you are nothingness..." But that Science saith to fear, 'you are nothingness...'' Science is doing all the talking.  Science, the laws of God, saying to fear, you are nothing. Moment-by-moment I felt my trust in this Science -- in this law of God operating, universally and without partiality -- grow and strengthen.

All symptom-based thinking, all disease-based treatment fell away. This had nothing to do with symptoms, pain, or disease.  This was all about God saying to fear,  "you are nothing." Not me.  Fear didn't have to face me, it had to face God -- the God I know to be all-powerful,  ever-present, always knowing Love.  Silly fear. 

And yes, this symptom-based thinking is insidious.  For example:  I remember at one point thinking that I should reach out to someone -- for spiritual treatment -- who had faced the same symptoms or disease, and found healing. As if the symptoms, or the name of a disease, would lead me to a healing perspective, or a healing solution.  As if a disease could inform my search for spiritual tender-kindness, absolute confidence in the presence of Truth.  Those who needed healing hadn't sought out Jesus -- to heal their leprosy -- because he'd been healed of those symptoms himself. They didn't seek him out because he had been blind, lame, deaf, lunatic. Experiencing disease didn't recommend him -- Love did. And his understanding of Love rendered fear nothing.

The specifics of a claim -- poverty, pain, hatred, disease, anger, death -- are distractions. They are not at the root of our fear. Fear is at the root of their symptomology. And fear is nothing. It is without hope -- without God in the world.

This healing has been one of the most beautiful awakenings in my life. And yet, if you had asked me before this experience if I thought that I already understood the truth of this Truth -- I would have said, "well of course, yes..." But I hadn't -- really. And you know, as profound as this insight feels,  I know that this Truth will just continue to evolve and grow even deeper in me.  But tonight, I am just so deeply grateful for what I have begun to glimpse -- day-by-day.  As I said, I lisp in numbers...


offered with Love,

Kate

"If I survive…"

"Mother,
do not cry.
Queen of Heaven,
protect me always.
Hail Mary,
full of grace..."

Those words, etched on the walls of a Gestapo jail in Auschwitz, inspired composer, Henryk Gorecki's "Symphony of Sorrowful Songs." It could have been the soundtrack of my childhood.  Its tone -- low, sad, and sweet. If I had heard it then, I might not have felt so alone.

But actually, it was a small book that gave me hope, courage, comfort, and forbearance. I can remember standing in our middle school library and seeing the word, "Night" embossed into the faded cotton spine of Elie Wiesel's book, on the eye-level shelf in front of me.

I took it down with shaking hands, and opened it with trembling fingers.  I knew in an instant that it was my book. That he was my hero. I knew his story. Everyone did in those days. But to know that he had written a book about night -- the most terrifying time of day for me -- was a gift of supreme grace.

No, my monster didn't come with guns and swastikas. My family wasn't murdered. I did not live in a rat and flea-infested barrack with hundreds of other prisoners. But for me - a small girl with a quiet heart - my hell felt just as dark and hopeless.

I borrowed "Night" from the library that day and took it home in my plaid book bag. I remember slipping it under my pillow and knowing that even if I couldn't read it right away, it was there to remind me that I was not alone in the night. The fact that others had faced even more torturous events - had survived, had gone on to become advocates for innocence, and had rediscovered their relationship with a God they'd once doubted - was a lifeline for me.

With a small flashlight, deep under my covers, I read and I cried -- night after night. It was Elie's honesty that gave me the strength to hold on to my sanity. It was his survival that emboldened my hope.

You see, it was one thing to suffer years of abuse and then have it suddenly end when my abuser discovered his relationship to God. It led me believe that God was now protecting me, and that if I only kept a keen hold on that divine link -- I would be safe. But when a life-event triggered the abusers return to his old behaviors, I was deeply shaken. Where was God?   Nothing I did - no prayer I prayed - seemed to be able to arrest his steep spiral into self-hatred and the hatred for others that followed.

I had no one I could talk to.  No one except the authors I'd made my best friends in the night.  I still took all my sorrow to them.  Elie Wiesel, Charles Dickens, Jane Austin, those wonderful Bronte Sisters…   The abuser's threats to the lives of those I loved, kept me silent and compliant. I was afraid. But I was not alone, there had been millions of girls and boys who'd faced villainous torture and paralyzing fear -- night-after-night -- in places like Auschwitz, Dachau, Treblinka.

Wiesel shares in "Night," a conversation that he had with another prisoner.  It gave me a safe place to take some of my own questions:

“Why do you pray?"
he asked me, after a moment.

"Why did I pray? A strange question.
Why did I live? Why did I breathe?

"I don't know why," I said,
even more disturbed and ill at ease.
"I don't know why."

After that day I saw him often.
He explained to me with great insistence
that every question possessed a power
that did not lie in the answer.

"Man raises himself toward God
by the questions he asks Him,"
he was fond of repeating.

"That is the true dialogue.
Man questions God and God answers.
But we don't understand His answers.
We can't understand them.
Because they come from the depths
of the soul, and they stay there.
You will find the true answers,
Eliezer, only within yourself!"

"And why do you pray, Moshe?"
I asked him.
"I pray to the God within me
that He will give me the strength
to ask Him the right questions.” 

I prayed for God to give me the right questions. I prayed that I could let go of the "why" question:  Why me? And instead, begin to ask questions like, What can I do to protect my sisters? How can I be brave? Who am I? Where is my goodness?  The questions themselves refocused my thoughts and gave me courage and strength.

Then, in a 1981 New York Times interview, Wiesel would again come to comfort my wounded heart, diffuse my anger, encourage my hopes, and give me a path towards the freedom I longed for. He said,

“If I survived,
it must be for some reason.
I must do something with my life.” 

Once again, it met me where I was, and walked me forward out of a particularly dark chapter.  I knew that Elie had also struggled with his faith. And yet, he had persisted and prevailed.

Today, with the news of his passing,  my heart is both heavy and grateful. I will miss the dream of one day meeting him. I will miss the conversations I have imagined. I will miss asking him a million questions. But I will not allow myself to miss out on asking God to help me ask the right questions for each day's journey out of darkness and into His light-filled purpose for me.

Someone recently told me that I needed to forget the past, and move on. Like Elie, I do not believe that this "forgetting," is my path. Forgiving, yes. Forgetting, no. When I am remembering, I am holding something in consciousness. In that moment it is not in the past, it is very present. By recognizing this, I can decide how to think in that moment about that "memory." And in doing so, with Love's help, I can reclaim it for good.

I would never think to tell someone to forget -- to wipe something out of their conscious awareness -- anymore than I would tell someone to forget Jesus' crucifixion, or Mandela's imprisonment. Not when we are given the opportunity to reclaim those moments for God. To deny evil its claim as a creator. By this reclaiming -- we realign out lives with one divine Cause.

Each of us will experience something that has the potential to carve out in us a space of compassion, non-judgmental, alertness, humility, courage, patience, gratitude, vigilance. For me, the dark chapters were only context -- not content. I am made up of better things. And yes, my faith was tested -- but it was not found wanting. I have been through the valley of the shadow -- but I didn't stay there. And every step of the way, God was with me. It was all for some reason.

Thank you Elie Wiesel for being there in the night. Thank you for reminding me that every life has purpose. That every moment has a reason.

offered with Love,

Kate