"there's room at the table..."

"Let our hearts
not be hardened
to those living on the margins,
there is room at the table
for everyone..."

Sometimes a Carrie Newcomer song, like "Room at the Table" is all it takes to readjust the balance of things -- on the side of humanity.

Being the granddaughter of immigrants is a common badge that I share with millions of men, women, and children. I know that this does not make me "special," but for some reason I've always felt special because of it. My connection to Ireland feels less diluted because I know that I've actually been held by grandparents who'd made that long voyage across the Atlantic. I've imagined that my eyes are a particular shade of blue that is only found in tide pools at the base of the Cliffs of Moher. I dream of Irish poets and feel most "in my skin" when the the sky lowers into a sea of slate gray and is heavy with rain.  I want to believe that I would understand Gaelic at a cellular level, and that Celtic music echoes through my veins.

I know that I don't look foreign to my neighbors. My maiden name doesn't alarm anyone. I don't have to hide my ancestry, or worry that I will be called a lazy Mick -- like my grandfathers did. I rarely hear jokes about my countrymen.  And I don't have to wonder if my grandsons would be employable if their surnames were decidedly Irish.

But it is never far from my heart that I am the granddaughter of Irish immigrants. About ten years ago, my sister did research I'd never done. She traced our family tree, was able to find an early New York Times newspaper article about our grandmother, and laid out a soft map of how we'd found our way from the west coast of Ireland to Ellis Island, Brooklyn, and rural New Jersey. She photo-copied documents and photos, and sent them to me as a birthday gift. Those papers are precious to me.

But how would I be feeling today if the United States felt threatened by Ireland and my status as a citizen were at risk? What if my daughters were detained, threatened with deportation, or held for questioning about their religious beliefs -- just because our family entered this country as immigrants? Would I be proudly sharing our family tree with my children? How would I explain to them why it mattered that their Irish-Catholic great-grandparents and their Irish-Protestant ancestors may have once embraced beliefs that now put them - and their sense of home - in jeopardy.

I read news reports, watch videos, hear heart-breaking stories of immigrants being persecuted for no other reason than because of their country of origin or religious lineage.  And it takes everything in me to stay calmly focused on solutions rather than weeping with frustrated rage. So far, I am able to keep the paralyzing feelings of sorrow and helplessness at bay, and pray without ceasing.

We are all children of one Father-Mother God. I remember hearing an interview with a Messianic Rabbi some years ago. The interviewer asked him a question that I'd long-wondered about. He asked the Rabbi why Jesus -- a good Jewish boy who knew the Torah, went to temple, was known to have spent time in conversation with lawyers and rabbis, and was doing good things in the community -- was not a legitimate candidate for the Messiahship by the temple leaders of his time.

The Rabbi replied that a Messiah was more than a just good Jew. A Messiah needed to be a nationalistic leader. He needed to defend the Jewish nation as "the chosen people." He needed to believe that they alone were the rightful heirs to "the promised land," and that it should be his sole responsibility to serve "the lost sheep of the house of Israel." Whether this was a theologically accepted view of "why," or just this Rabbi's take on it, it made sense to me.

At the beginning of his ministry, it seems that Jesus is on track with this path towards fulfilling his Messianic calling. But there is a decided shift that seems to take place. In one instance, we see him dismissing a Canaanite woman who asks him for help. Yet this is a mother, and she doesn't slink away after having been rebuked for her boldness in approaching the Master. She questions him, "are not even the dogs worthy of the crumbs that fall from the master's table?" And he humbly reconsiders his response to her, saying: "O woman, great is thy faith..." 

Before long we see him referencing Samaritans -- strangers -- in his parable about how to treat others. He tells those following him that a Centurion "gets it" and that he has "not seen such great faith -- no, not in Israel."

In traveling from Judaea to Galilee, crossing through Samaria, he asks a woman to draw water from a well that he might quench his thirst, and spiritually assuage hers -- her surprise is unfeigned, the Jews have no dealings with Samaritans -- but he did. He acknowledges the gratitude of Samaritan, who who returns to give thanks when the nine others - who are healed - do not. 

He allows himself to be touched by a woman with an issue of blood, calls her out of the crowd, and celebrates her faith -- an act unimaginable in the culture and times he has grown up in. He recommends the behavior of a publican who shows greater humility than a Pharisee, and when the Romans and Greeks come seeking him during a feast, he knows his time has come. He has boldly crossed the borders of geography, ethnicity, gender, and socio-religious norms. His leadership has endured beyond his own brief span of "time in office."

I still have so much to learn from this man who, as Mary Baker Eddy writes, "defined love." I think I will be discovering new ways to love through the Scriptural record of his actions -- forever.  His admonition to "go and do likewise" in following the footsteps of a good Samaritan who cares for a wounded stranger, puts him on his own donkey, and provides for his lodging and board as he recovers -- is clear. His suggestion that if we have done "these things -- feed, shelter, care for -- one of the least among us, we have done it unto [him]," leaves no question, for me, about how we are to treat others.  The examples of his humanity never cease to humble me in my own efforts to love generously, share selflessly, and pray without ceasing.

If I am leaving the least among us out of the feast,  if my heart is hardened to the plight of those living on the margins, I have lost my way. At this table that has been prepared for us, in the wilderness of a messy world, there is room for everyone. May we never forget that we -- or our ancestors -- were once waiting to be welcomed.

offered with Love,

Kate

"broke wide open…"

"something changed inside me,
broke wide open, all spilled out,
till I had no doubt,
that something changed..."

I know that I have already used Sara Groves' beautiful song, "Something Changed." But it is the perfect song for this post. Actually, it is the perfect song for my life. So much has changed inside of me.

There have been so many seismic shifts in the way that I think about love. Yes, love.

Recently a friend, who has known me for most of my life, asked me what had happened to the old Kate. She said that I seemed less concerned with the way other people thought about me, and more concerned with how I thought about them. Wow, did she hit the nail on the head.

It's true. There is nothing like having a friend actually notice a conscious shift as it moves from exploring in abstract, to having it become an assimilated part of our being.

On the heels of her comment, I examined what had changed, and why. And time and time again I came back to something I wrote about in 2012 in a post titled, "to be truly debt free..."

The realization that day,  that I had held others indebted to me -- owing me respect, gratitude, reciprocated affection, consideration -- was like hitting my heart with a fire hose of self-awareness and self-questioning. What had been my motives for loving? Had I only loved to get something in return? Was I imprisoned in my sense of what I was owed by others? Did I keep a running accounting of who was in the red, and who was in the black?

It was eye-opening and heart-shifting. This wasn't about money, time, gifts, or experiences. This was about love -- plain and simple. But not so simple at all. Love had become complicated for me. I'd thought I was a generous person, but I was always wondering if the love was equal.

This stanza from a long-loved W.H. Auden poem began to come alive for me. He wrote:

"If equal affection cannot be,
let the more loving one be me." 

This shift, from refusing to note who loved more -- me or the other person -- was almost immediate. The awareness was like having a light turned on in a dark room, and the picture in the mirror wasn't pretty. But as soon as I saw it, I began to change.  I started loving without reason, without the tit-for-tat reckoning that I'd been saddled with for decades, I felt free.

It didn't matter who gave more. It just didn't matter. I could love because it was my divine nature, and my divine right. No one could take that from me -- even me.

In Romans, Paul is recorded as having said:

"I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord." 

Nothing could separate Paul from loving as God loved. Nothing could take from him, his right to love generously, honestly, fervently. I believe that Mary Baker Eddy defines this kind of love as the "doctrine of Christian Science, when in discussing the above statement by Paul, she writes:

"This is the doctrine of Christian Science:
that divine Love cannot be deprived
of its manifestation, or object..." 

Nothing, not even our own sense of lack -- held as someone else's indebtedness to us -- can deprive us of our freedom to love without the imprisoning sense of how much they deserve, how much we have given, or how much we think we deserve in return.

These are the chains that bind our hearts. We have the right to be free. To love without measure, to give without reason, to share from the infinite well of infinite Love.

offered with Love,

Kate

"Thank God for you..."

"Thank you,
thank you,
thank God for you,
the wind beneath my wings..."

Bette Midler's "Wind Beneath My Wings" says it all.  My siblings would probably agree that without our mother's courage and grace...we would not be who we are today.  She has always been content to let us shine. 

Our dad passed on when I was 19, and the youngest of her eight children were toddler twins.  Here is the story of that first Thanksgiving, and just one of the reasons why she is, still, my hero.  If this story seems familiar, it was written for the Christian Science Sentinel as a children's story in 1988 and was told from my grade school-age sister, Lila's point of view.  TMCYouth (this link will take you to a special Thanksgiving page with a number of stories of gratitude...mine is just one of them) recently requested that I write it from my own point of view for their website.  I share it here with my love and gratitude:

Unrestricted Giving

I was 19 that autumn. My dad had been killed in an accident, and I'd just given up on the dream I cherished for longer than I could remember-and had worked so hard to make come true. I was walking away from a full-ride scholarship to the Ivy League university of my choice, so that I could work three jobs, go to school at a local college…one class at a time, and help raise my 7 younger brothers and sisters. This was not in any long-term plans I'd had for my life.

Dad's passing that summer was heartbreaking for our family. We'd gotten through the memorial service and the early weeks of grief, surrounded by extended family and church friends. But by the time late fall rolled around, we were really on our own.

The aunts, uncles, and cousins had returned to their homes in other states, and the church my family attended was almost an hour away in another city. We were living on a leased farm in the middle of Pennsylvania Dutch country, eating the last of that summer's home-canned harvest and watching the pantry empty out faster than a grain silo with an open door.

My sister, Nancy, was working at a local fast food restaurant after school, I worked three jobs, my sister Linda babysat, and the boys did odd jobs when they could. But we were barely able to pay the rent on the old stone farmhouse, and keep the utilities on. Mom still had toddler twins to care for and the station wagon that had been my dad's pride and joy a few years earlier, was now a gas-guzzling behemoth with more than 100,000 miles  under her sequoia green exterior.

I could barely breathe some days as Thanksgiving drew closer. We had a large bag of rice, and a few remaining mason jars filled with green beans and red beets to look forward to, rather than the turkey, stuffing, cranberries, and pie with ice cream we'd enjoyed just the year before.

And it wasn't the food itself I worried that we would miss.  It was the joy of preparing it together as a family. The steamy kitchen, the scent of sage and nutmeg, the boisterous rebuke dad would get from our mom, when he tasted the stuffing before it was its time...and mom's "can you believe it, right out of the back of the bird" as soon as she heard the oven door creak open...knowing it wasn't because he was basting her masterpiece.

I felt sick as the days tumbled towards that most loved holiday. Some days, the fear of disappointment, seemed greater than the fear of starvation and homelessness looming over me each night as I tried to fall asleep under the heavy quilts next to my mom.

The weather the week before Thanksgiving was glorious. Bright blue Pennsylvania skies haloed the pristinely painted, and cared for, red Amish barns dotting our winding country road. As my school-age siblings ran from the school bus stop, I could hear the squeals of joy and crunch of leaves that preceded a their burst through the kitchen door.

Mom greeted them, as she'd been greeting each of us since I'd started Kindergarten 14 years earlier, with the eager curiosity of a child. "What was it like?" "What did you learn?" "Did you bring me a picture drawn (or a story written, a note from the teacher)?"

Their answer that day made my heart sink like a lead stone. right to the pit of my stomach. There was going to be a food drive, Lila, Ricky and Wayde explained, and every child that brought in something would be able to sign the big card that would be given, with the food, to a needy family.

"Great," I thought, as my mom did what I knew she'd do from the minute the children started telling her about the project. She went to the pantry and took the last three mason jars full of beans and beets off the shelf and brought them to the kitchen table for wrapping in brown paper she already had the children decorating with colored pencil and crayon drawings of turkeys and pilgrims.

I pulled her aside and in my most grown up "hiss" of disapproval I reminded her that we had no money left to purchase food for our own Thanksgiving dinner, and that if she gave the children those vegetables, our own meal would consist of nothing more than rice...and more rice. I'd had it.

I was angry at Mom for being so clueless about the direness of our situation. I was angry at Dad for leaving us without insurance, pension, or a house of our own, and for leaving me to clean up this mess. I was angry that I'd given up my dreams of attending university full-time, in exchange for waitressing at night, and typing all day. I was angry at God for not sending anyone to help me navigate a sea of debt and fear. I was way over my 19 year old head and beginning to drown.

But it was as if Mom didn't even hear the tone of my voice. She smiled gently as if she were brushing off a teenager's "whatever."

Later that evening, she proceeded to remind us all of how Jesus had fed the multitudes on the hillside. She pointed out that Jesus hadn't produced loaves and fishes from mid-air, but that he had asked the disciples what they had to give, had taken it, blessed it, and then had given it back to the disciples, to give to the multitudes. She then, in her most mother tiger-like voice-the one you didn't mess with-said that nothing, and no one, would deprive her children of their right to be generous. To be givers.

And that was that.

The children wrapped their precious canned goods in the homemade wrapping paper, and the next day took their contributions in to add to the school food drive, and to sign the big card for the needy family.

When Thanksgiving Eve arrived I felt cynical, bitter, and yes, so terribly disappointed I could barely stand the bile in my throat and the ache in my chest. I missed it all. The smell of pumpkin cooking on the stove for pies, the sound of pans clattering, the small yellow box of Bell's stuffing seasoning on the counter as mom pinched it into the bowl of stale bread we'd have been tearing into little bits for weeks.

I was beyond crying. I was tense with fear, and sick with anguish, for myself and for my siblings. I couldn't imagine we'd ever know another happy Thanksgiving again.

When Mom happily suggested that we all gather around the big table in the kitchen to prepare for Thanksgiving in a fresh, new way that year, I has so thoroughly resigned to just getting through the next day without collapsing that I actually joined them, with arms tightly folded at my chest and a look of disgust on my face.

Mom explained that she wanted us to go around the table and tell each other what we were grateful for. I am sure, even now almost 40 years later, that I rolled my eyes in derision. Ricky was grateful for his bicycle. At that Mom stopped us and clarified the goal a bit more. We were to think of things we were grateful for that you couldn't see with your eyes or touch with your hands. Hmmm…it was quiet for a bit.

And then Lila said that she was grateful she had finally memorized "The Lord's Prayer" from start to finish (see Matthew 6:9-13). It had been a Sunday School assignment and she'd worked hard to accomplish it.

Mom thought that this was a great thing for us all to be grateful for, and suggested that Lila lead us in saying The Lord's Prayer aloud. With another eye-roll of exasperation at my mom's spiritual idealism and unwillingness to acknowledge how desperate our situation was, I complied.

We began:

"Our Father, which art in heaven,
Hallowed be thy name.
Thy kingdom come.
Thy will be done
In earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread…."

Just as we got to the part about the daily bread, the doorbell rang. Faster than Mom could get up, the younger children were up from the table and out of the kitchen, running down the long hallway to the front door. Nancy got there first, and when she opened the door there were at least twenty parents, children, and teachers from the grade school.

We were all so surprised, me especially. Surprised and humbled. We lived in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by Amish farms...and these "plain and simple" neighbors had ventured beyond their quiet isolation, to care for our needs. Our visitors had boxes and boxes of food. And there, in the hands of a tiny kindergartener, was the card that Lila, Ricky, and Wayde had signed at school, earlier in the week,  once they'd placed their carefully wrapped mason jars next to the other donations.

Mom was smiling, and there were tears in her eyes. Today I know that her tears were those of gratitude. What she'd wanted most for her children that Thanksgiving was some assurance…a real reason to believe…that they could trust in the power of giving, and the right to be generous, no matter what your human circumstances are. And of course she invited everyone to come in and celebrate.

Later, as she was putting on the milk to make hot cocoa (milk and cocoa that came from the donated food in the boxes), Mom called me in to help her with getting out the cups, pouring, and serving. While she stood at the stove stirring cocoa and sugar into the pan of hot milk, she asked me to take her copy of Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures by Mary Baker Eddy down from the kitchen shelf where she kept it, and read the passage marked by blue chalk and a slip of paper.

I read aloud:

"Giving does not impoverish us in the service of our Maker,
neither does withholding enrich us"

  Then Mom gently explained that she believed -- with her whole being -- that the best way she could serve God, was to trust Him...to trust His tender, unconditional care and infinite supply, not only for her family, but for all families. I didn't know what to say. I just hugged her, and then I helped my little sister find the marshmallows for the hot chocolate.

But that night something softened in me. My anger started to dissolve and my own trust started to grow.

Mom (and God) taught us all one of the most important lessons of our lives that year. She taught us that nothing could deprive us from being generous givers. Neither numbers in a check register, the barometer of an ever-shifting economic climate, a depleted job market, or an empty pantry could inform us about our right to give. We were givers, period.  And we were generous givers. It was our divine right.

And the food our family received that Thanksgiving eve, it lasted until my dad's social security benefits started to arrive 6 weeks later.

Over the course of the ensuing 25 years…through my youngest sister's graduation from college…Mom got up each morning, prayed, made breakfast, then set about the task of raising, feeding, clothing, educating, and modeling generosity for her eight children.  She taught us to rely on God's love for our support in every situation.

Eventually we all went to college, and one day, many years later, I found myself at that Ivy League dream school sitting in a classroom, having already learned the most important lessons of my life…not from college professors…but from a woman who trusted God. A woman who defended her children's right to be generous with others, no matter what the circumstances.

She is my hero.

Thank you Amy (and the TMCYouth team) for prompting me to rewrite this story...it has been quite a journey down a leafy autumn lane...full of light and gratitude.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone....with unbounded love,


Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

Photo is of my mom, Nancy Rosetta Clark McCullough, with her granddaughter, Desi.

"Shower the people you love with love..."

"Just shower the people you love with love
Show them the way that you feel
Things are gonna work out fine if you only will
Shower the people you love with love
Show them the way you feel
Things are gonna be much better if you only will..."
- James Taylor

I heard this song LIVE last night...really!!!  But I am getting ahead of myself. 

Earlier this winter I received an email from a fellow blogger/reader.  Emily wrote, "If you will drive to Tulsa, I have a ticket to the James Taylor concert for you."  Now, I could imagine this from my mother, my husband, a few of my sisters, or even my best friend, but although Emily and I had been regular readers of eachother's blogs (hence her awareness that I am THE biggest JT fan), had emailed one another about bees, folk music, spirituality, had talked on the phone a few times, and had met once at Ted Drewes in St. Louis for awesome frozen custard (because having Ted Drewes with me was one of the things on Emily's bucket list of 100 things to do), I never would have imagined she would have offered such an amazing gift to me.

I was shocked...very pleasantly...but shocked nonetheless.  I had only that afternoon gone online to price tickets to James Taylor's upcoming performance in St. Louis this spring and they were WAY beyond my budget...even if I stopped eating for a month or two.

But Emily assured me that this was what she really wanted to do.  She said that she knew how much I loved JT and thought it would be fun to see him with someone who loved his music so much.

Now, you may be thinking, Oklahoma, Tulsa...oil, cattle barons...ahhh, Emily is an oil baron's wife and lives on a massive cattle ranch.  Nope.  Emily is one of the most modest young women I have ever met.  Modest, socially responsible, and funny.  She and her husband Ron live in a little (Ron assured me it was less than 1,000 squre feet of living space) house in the "working class neighborhood" (Emily's words and she says she wouldn't think of living anywhere else...a gated neighborhood wouldn't let you have chickens and bees) in west Tulsa. 

They have a small, lush backyard that hosts two coops of beautiful chickens, an impressive vegetable garden, and three beehives.  They share their home with three lovely rescue pups, a finch, and a hamster that was displaced when Emily (and her department) were laid off last year.  They drive small fuel efficient cars and care about the environment, their neighbors, social responsibility, music, and Route 66. 

On the surface, Ron and Emily live simply and modestly. But deep beneath the well-worn carpet, gently-used clothing, and humble furnishings dwell hearts that are flagrantly generous. 

I felt like a queen in their presence.  I was showered with kindness and puppy kisses.  I was treated to a princess' tour of the city.  I was escorted through puddles (wish I hadn't changed into my "concert dress" jeans and boots so early...so I could have enjoyed it more thoroughy) and freshly mown grass to the garden full of new plantings...tomatoes, squash, peppers, herbs.

In my life, I have been blessed by the generosity of family, friends, and strangers...last night as I sat just yards from my most favorite singer-songwriter as he crooned, "Shower the people you love, with love..." I was deeply touched and humbled by the over-arching quality of modesty that characterizes this kind of generosity.  From my own mom who has never based her giving on what she had in her bank account, but by the fullness of the love in her heart, to the dear friend who has always shared her "widow's mite" and never seems to reach the limits of her giving, Emily's gift was a graphic reminder of how blessed I have been by the kindness of those who share what they have without fear.  And please don't get me wrong, modesty has nothing to do with the size of your bank account, your house, or the kind of car you drive. Modesty is a quality of thinking and acting characterized by humility, grace, and restraint. It is practiced by those from every walk of life, every neighborhood, every economic bracket. Modesty is not defined by lower numbers, but by higher aims and expectations for one's self in the "how" of living.

As I drove 7 hours back across eastern Oklahoma and the breadth of Missouri, I couldn't help but consider the spiritual connection between modesty and generosity.  There are countless incidences of Biblical precedence for this kind of giving.  From the remarkable loaning of a precious, much-valued axehead to one of the sons of the prophets, to the sharing of their modest victuals by the disciples with five thousand strangers...time after time the miracles that followed blessed a waiting world.  I can't help but wonder, however, whether the real miracles were the floating of an axehead and the multiplication of loaves/fishes, or the generosity of those whose own resources were modest...bold, courageous giving in the face of lack and hunger.

So, tonight as I harvest the spiritual lessons from my 800 mile in 24 hours trip to Tulsa, I am thinking about how I can more generously "shower the people I love (and as a global citizen, this is a BIG group) with love and show them the way that I care" while still honoring our family's commitment to modesty, simplicity, and moderation. 

My adventure to Tulsa, yesterday, felt like a Soul-carved out space (out of my very full family/professional/community life schedule) of fourteen hours for silence, reflection, prayer, and fasting along old Route 66.  It was only fitting that my journey would take me past once-vibrant neon signs and sparkling diners, in honor of Ron and Emily's devotion to a simple man's road where family road trips, honest work-ethics, and a sense of community united small towns and cities along a thread of modest lives and generous hearts.

Enjoy this video performance of JT's "Shower the People" and although it is much like his performance last night, it will never, ever even come close to the experience of sitting next to my friend Emily in a small theatre in the dark hearing him singing it just to us...and about 500 of Ron and Emily's Tulsa neighbors and friends.

I pray you are blessed with showers of love today...you certainly have mine... 
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

*Don't miss Emily's post about this same experience  for May 4, 2009 on her blog "Red Fork State of Mind"...priceless!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be known is to be loved.

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

with Love,   
Kate

"More to do than can ever be done..."

"From the day we arrive on the planet
And blinking, step into the sun
There's more to see than can ever be seen
More to do than can ever be done…"
- Elton John/Tim Rice
"The Lion King"

It was early December in 2000 and we were grateful for a patch of warmer than usual weather just prior to the holidays.  Emma and Clara were active, busy, rambunctious three-year-olds and a recent purchase of new tricycles had given us a playtime option they loved.  Racing around the back driveway or tearing up the front sidewalk caused an explosion of happy giggles to spout from them like bursts of water from a summer fountain in the park.

Buying the tricycles had been a financial stretch for us, but a sale at Target coupled with our urgency in finding appropriate gross motor activities for these two little monkeys who never stopped moving, quickly shifted the purchase from a want to a need. 

The girls awoke each morning with one major goal…get outside and ride their new red "bikes." But as often happens in a family of five, a third child's needs supercede the others and everyone has to cooperate with a plan that might not fulfill their greatest hopes for the day's schedule.  This particular day our older daughter's needs had to come first.  We were in the throes of pre-Nutcracker rehearsals, and as "Clara," she was rehearsing more than she was eating and sleeping…combined.

We had all piled into the Jeep accompanied by the echoing strains of "I want to ride my bike, I want to ride my bike"…a litany...in stereo.  We dropped our older daughter off at the dance studio, stopped by the grocery store, and then picked up the twins' babysitter so I could work for a few hours while she watched them ride their tricycles around the block.  When we pulled into the back driveway, I immediately noticed that something was missing…the tricycles.  I was sure they had been in the driveway…and now they were gone. 

At first I thought that perhaps their dad had scooted them into the backyard, or put them in the garage.  However, a quick but thorough search made it clear that the tricycles were no longer "in the house."  Julia quickly, and miraculously, turned the girls' attention towards a messy, therefore thrilling, art project while I assessed the situation.

The trikes were gone.  Period.

I was devastated.  We had stretched our budget to buy them in the first place.  Replacing them was going to be hard…even if the sale was still underway.  Of course I was already  praying to see that we could not be separated from anything that was truly ours,  but more critical to my spiritual poise were the feelings of helplessness, violation and despair I felt.  We lived in a very sweet neighborhood bordering the grounds of the university, and anchored by a wonderful park with a lake and ducks and a playground.  I felt so safe there and I trusted that my children could play without harm.

And, to be honest, I was angry. 

As I vacillated between praying to feel a sense of peace and wanting to let loose my tears (and feelings) of frustration, the question kept coming to me, "Who steals tricycles from the driveway of a home?"

The prayers for inner peace finally overcame the angry tears.  I sat still.  I was poised, waiting  for the inspiration that would make sense of this all.  Again, the frustrated question came.

"Who steals tricycles from the driveway of a home?"

"So much for the parting of the clouds," I thought.  But when the question came again, "Who steals tricycles?" I actually listened and engaged.   Within a moment or two, my heart broke wide with mercy. 

"Oh my goodness," I thought. "Only someone with small children or grandchildren would ever want two shiny new tricycles just before Christmas." 

I remember hearing a Sunday morning pundit, speaking about neighbor on neighbor urban violence, once say, "Desperate measures are nothing but a measure of someone's desperation."

Anyone whose experience made them feel hopeless enough to stop and steal two itty-bitty shiny red tricycles out of another person's driveway…must be feeling very desperate indeed.  And not only might they be feeling the bleakness of their own hardship, but they must have had children or grandchildren, siblings or nieces and nephews they wanted, and needed, to care for.

"...More to find than can ever be found
But the sun rolling high
Through the sapphire sky
Keeps great and small on the endless round..."

In an instant, my prayer changed from one of "take away my anger and let me find peace," to "how can I be an instrument of change and healing in my community which includes someone feeling so desperate that they would steal toddler-sized tricycles?" 

The more I prayed, the more my heart burst open with ideas for how we, as a family, could participate in some way toward making a difference during that Christmas for children whose parents may have had needs so looming that the simple traditions that we enjoyed were, for them, beyond even our modest holiday budget . 

Because our holiday plans that year were being driven by our daughter's ballet "career" and her performance in The Nutcracker, it was a natural first step for me to think about how we could roll out that performance to a larger audience…those in our community who might not have the means to purchase expensive tickets.  And although my husband and I were not poised to write a check for a block of tickets,  I knew we could always draw on an abundance of practical spiritual ideas, a generous desire for social advocacy we shared with our friends, and a love for the arts that was fathomless.  These were the things we had invested in for our own children's future.  These were the things we could offer to share with others.

Throughout the rest of December we were overwhelmed by the number of amazing, fresh ideas that God laid at the doorstep of our hearts for how we could share our holiday bounty…of dance, beauty, art, inspiration, and music with others.  However,  one opportunity unfolded immediately…and it continues to fill my heart with gratitude. 

So, back to the tricycles. 

After the girls were settled into their messy art project with Julia in the kitchen, I headed off to my "office" at the Border's bookstore café near our home.  Since I was there much of every day for appointments with patients and inspirational study, I had become quite close to the managers and employees.  That morning as I sat at my favorite table praying for answers, Heather, the store's events manager, noticed me staring into the empty space between where I sat and the snow-covered mountains looming in the west just beyond the plate glass windows.   She playfully asked me what I was daydreaming about.  

I told her, "A way to bring The Nutcracker to children whose parents can't afford tickets."  Then I went on to tell her about my morning and the tricycles. 

Within the span of ten minutes, we had our first gift to the community all wrapped up with shiny paper and satin ribbons.  We would bring The Nutcracker to Borders bookstore on the busiest Saturday of the holidays and perform scenes throughout the store.  I called the director of the ballet and she agreed that this would be a perfect opportunity to share The Nutcracker with children who may not be able to otherwise attend, promote the performances, and give the dancers another dress rehearsal.  It was done. 

Throughout the month, opportunities to share what we had with others quite literally fell into my lap.  For this "once upon a time" very poor little girl, it was as if I had been given the greatest gift…to be able to give back.  The gift I received in return was priceless…a new perspective that didn't put me on either side of an economic chasm…privilege or poverty, but gave me the tools and the heart to build bridges of compassion and humanity.

I stopped seeing desperate parents, children, teens…or desperate measures.  Instead I saw families eager to care for one another's needs. I saw mothers willing to bake and serve cookies at a bookstore rather than be out shopping for their own children at the mall.  I saw, through grateful tears,  children wide-eyed with wonder as the strains of Tchaikovsky's "dum-dum-da-dum-dum-dum" ushered in E.T.A. Hoffmann's story of a girl, a toy, some sweets and a dream…children so fully satisfied by the beauty of it all that hunger was forgotten…for a moment at least.

That was one of my favorite Christmases of all times.  As I sit here writing, I realize that I can't, for the life of me, remember how or when we replaced the girls tricycles.  Somehow it happened…but it simply escapes me today in the light of what we discovered about ourselves and our neighbors.

When we see someone resorting to desperate measures, like Cho, the young man who voiced his desperation in such an angry, violent way, we can either feel angry, hopeless, vulnerable and frustrated ourselves, or we can look for ways to bridge the chasm between hearts with practical prayer-based solutions that break through despair with the light of hope and kindness.

The answers to Virginia Tech, Columbine, 911, and Darfur do not lie solely in the portfolios of Senators, on the maps of Generals, the promises of presidential hopefuls,  or in the hands of prison guards.  They lie in the most accessible place on earth…the heart.

"..It's the Circle of Life
And it moves us all
Through despair and hope
Through faith and love
Till we find our place
On the path unwinding
In the Circle
The Circle of Life."

There is more to do....but it can be done...
with Love,
Kate