"all you have to do is call..."

 "you just call out my name, 

and you know wherever I am, 

I'll come running to see you again.

 

Winter, spring, summer, or fall

all you have to do is call,  

and I'll be there;

you've got a friend..." 

This Mothers' Day, I am thinking about a dear friend and mentor. I am celebrating her in my heart of hearts.  Her recent passing has been one of the hardest losses in my life.  She taught me what it meant to mother a world -- as well as daughters, sons, those who call this office for support, neighbors, and "strangers" on the street.

There were so many times over the course of our friendship when I felt very alone in the twenty-four/seven demands of this work.  There were so many Mothers' Days -- both before and after children joined our home and family -- when my heart was confused or broken, hopeless or overwhelmed -- and she was the calm voice at the other end of the phone.  

Today, I would have given anything to hear her voice.  I listened to favorite songs, hoping to find some comfort, and it was finally Carole King's "You've Got a Friend" that unlocked my heart and allowed my tears to flow freely.  

I could tell you hundreds of stories about her kindness and grace.  I can't open a page in my life's story - at least not in the past 35 years - that she hasn't touched.  And I am not exaggerating, not one bit.  Whether directly or indirectly, her voice left its soft imprint on almost every facet of my heart since we met.  

And the lovely part is, she never tried to do that.  She never asked me to give her credit -- in fact, she would have been horrified if I had.  But I am more compassionate, less self-focused, infinitely more kind and honest because of her love, example, encouragement -- and gentle rebuke.  

And in all the years of our friendship, I never felt special to her -- or even wanted to.  I felt peace.  I felt hope.  I felt seen.  I felt innocent in her heart and in her eyes. 

There was a time, many years ago, when I was so lost and frightened that I didn't know where to turn.  The situation was beyond imagining.  I was a young mother with very young children, no money, and suddenly facing homelessness -- I was paralyzed with fear. We hadn't spoken in a couple of months, but at that time things were simply wonderful.  Soon after however, our family circumstances had shifted drastically.  And I was embarrassed and overwhelmed.  No one knew how bad things were -- and I wasn't about to tell them.  In my life, I was supposed to be the one helping others - it felt beyond the pale of the ego to imagine asking anyone for help.  

Then one night, when we were at the end of our options, God said, "call her."  Oh how I wanted to.  I just wanted to hear the calm in her voice.  I wrestled for hours with: Should I? Could I? What would I say?  This was long before cell phones, and I was grateful that our temporary housing had a phone in the room.  The children were fast asleep and I was alone in the dark.  I picked up the phone and dialed her number.  

When she answered I couldn't speak at first.  I just started weeping.  For the first time in almost a month I felt not-so-alone.  Without asking any questions, she spoke to me of God's love.  She encouraged me to trust.  She said that she knew how much I loved and trusted God.  Then we hung up because it was a long-distance call and I didn't think I could pay for more than a few minutes.  

But it was like Love had switched on a lamp in the room.  I felt peaceful and calm.  I knew the answers would come.  I knew God had brought us together as a family and would sustain us. I could feel the trust that she knew was there all along. 

The next morning, a cashier's check arrived by courier.  My friend had sent enough money to give us room to breathe.  We had never talked about money the night before.  I had not shared with her our financial circumstances.  But she knew.

That same morning, I was led to a solution that completely turned our situation around.  Within days we were back on our feet, housing restored, and a path forward that only hours earlier I could not have even imagined.   It was a pivotal moment in our lives -- and it was filled with clarity, purpose, and an opportunity to serve in ways I hadn't considered before. 

I was soon able to pay my friend back the money she had so generously sent.  But, as often as I told her how grateful I was for her generosity, kindness, and compassion that dark night - she always reminded me that it was God who had moved us both towards eachother in a moment of Love's opportunity.  Her humility and grace were unbounded.  

Since her passing, I have felt every emotion I never expected to feel.  I have felt loss.  I have felt sorrow.  And, I have felt a broader sense of Life and a deeper sense of what eternity is. I have wept tears that have had no clear reason or meaning -- except that when they have dried, and my breathing returns to "normal," I feel a love that is present and substantive.  I feel as if my feet have been washed with those tears. 

I am not going to include quotes in this post. I am going to let its message pool in my heart.  

For all the ways she nurtured, and corrected, and encouraged the best in me - I am more grateful than I have words to say or write.  

offered with Love,

Kate 

december 8th...

"i'm just sitting here
watching the wheels
go round-and-round..."

This day - each year - is pregnant with pauses -- for finding deeper meaning. John Lennon's "Watching the Wheels," is the perfect keynote for a number of reasons.

December 8th, 1980. Heartache. I was a 26 year old who thought she knew the world she lived in. Difficult as it was, it was graspable. Yes, as a generation, we had been through the assassinations of both Kennedy brothers and Martin Luther King, Watergate, and a confusing war that had taken our brothers and boyfriends before their time. But we had the Beatles. We had George's spirituality. We had John's imagination. We had Paul's sweet joy. We had Ringo's loyalty. We would be okay.

And then John was assassinated and something shifted for me. I struggled with finding a sense of meaning and clarity about "why?" A few years of beating at the air, and falling off the deep end. And the deep end really was quite deep. More like falling into an abyss of self and sorrow. I couldn't imagine anything -- much less a world of "all the people living life in peace..."

So what changed. I think, in hindsight, it was another December 8th. December 8th, 1984 -- and a global video conference, imagined by a group of men and women who believed that it was time:

“to live for all mankind"
 

And today, over three decades later, I have no doubt -- whatsoever -- that these two December 8th events are connected on my spiritual path.

I believe that John Lennon's passing dug deep into the soil of my heart. It was a painful cultivation beneath the surface of complacency. It was not enough to love the song, "Imagine," I wanted it to be real, alive, breathing in me, and in the world that I lived it. I was afraid that John's passing would mean the end of his dreams. Instead, I think, it stirred something in us that was sleeping.

Fast forward to 1984. I was raw with a desperate hope that felt like an exposed nerve. I tried every pain-killer to quiet its ache. Nothing was working. It pulsed and throbbed like a wound.

But somewhere, they were praying. They were listening, planning, reaching out with something that could not be commodified -- it was hope. The worldwide leadership of The First Church of Christ, Scientist was gathering its greatest resources, the hearts and prayers of its members, to recommit to its Leader, Mary Baker Eddy's vision:

“to live for all mankind"
 

Not just its own members, but all mankind. As one member of their Board of Directors put it, "the meeting reflected a  sense of spiritual urgency to address the needs of our fellow man at the deepest possible levels." They were casting their net wide - as fishers of men, and I was caught in their draught. 

Today, 39 years after John's assassination, his deep moral imagination for our world resonates like a tuning fork in our collective hearts.

Today, 35 years after the "to live for all mankind" video conference that circled the globe, a 19th Century woman's vision for humanity resonates at the core of my being.

I remember as a child hearing the statement:

“Nobody wins, until everybody wins."
 

I believe this to be true. If my God isn't All-in-all -- and all, for all; well, it's not a God I can love, trust, or worship. But He/She is. Eddy states in her primary work, and the books that guided those 1984 visionaries:

“Love is impartial and universal
in its adaptation and bestowals,
it is the open fount which cries,
Ho, everyone that thirtieth,
Come ye to the waters..."
 

Imagine all the people living life in peace. Imagine all the people free from persecution. Imagine all the people sheltered and fed. Imagine all the people having access to educational opportunities, healthcare, seniority filled with wisdom and love -- rather than dismissiveness and isolation.

Just imagine. Then, live for all mankind.

December 8th is a day of new birth, of fresh opportunity, and great moral awakening for me. It is a day for imagining all the people living life in peace -- and then doing all that we can to make it true.

offered with Love,

Kate

"yesterday, came suddenly..."

"yesterday,
came suddenly..."

If you are "of a generation" that grew up loving four boys from Liverpool, and haven't seen Danny Boyle's new film  "Yesterday," -- trust me, you must. And that said, you might want to stop reading here. I am going to reveal two moments from the film that took me apart. In an empty theater.  In rural New England.

Suffice it to say, I loved this movie. It was such a surprise for me. Not just the brilliant performances, the surprising plot, the sweet love story, and the absolutely remarkable music - but the way it affected me.

As I said, it took me apart, and put me back together. Spoiler alert: this is where, if you haven't see the film, and you don't want to know what - for me -- were the heart-shattering and hope restarting moments you should stop reading.  Now.

There are two scenes. And they are related. The premise of the film is that there has been a global black-out, and during those twelve seconds, a young man is hit by a bus. When he recovers from his injuries, he seems to be the only person on earth who remembers The Beatles, or their music. He begins - reluctantly at first -- performing those songs. And he becomes an instant global phenomenon -- as everyone thinks that he is the world's greatest songwriter.

And just as he is starting to feel the depth of his ethical dilemma, he is approached by two other people who "remember." He thinks that they will expose him for the fraud that he is, but, -- and here is my first "lose it" moment -- they embrace him. They are just so very grateful that he remembers the Beatles and their songs, and that he is re-sharing those songs with the world.  Since neither of them is able to sing. At one point, one of them says:

"A world without the Beatles'
is a world that is infinitely worse..."

Yup. Totally lost it.

I had been feeling this way. Just sad.  Sad about a number of things that seemed to have been taken from us, or were fading from society's memory. This film reminded me that I have known a world with Beatles in it -- with happy, poignant, deeply moving songs that I have taught my children on long road trips with the "One" CD playing in an endless loop.  That I have known a world in which a respected person of color could become the President of the United States. I have known a world where "Love is love is love."  And I could never be made to forget.

The second paradigm shattering moment in this film (for me) is one that you - if you were a person of a certain generation - truly must see - not just read about. And if you haven't seen it, you really do want to stop reading here.  Please.  Do not ruin this moment for yourself.

At the height of his moral dilemma, Jack is given a slip of paper with an address on it -- by the two other people who "remember." Where he finds himself on the threshold of a small beach cottage along the English coast. He knocks on the door and when it opens, there is John. Yes, John Lennon. And this is where my heart broke wide open. Into ugly sobbing. In an empty movie theater. On a weekday afternoon.

I don't just mean a lump in my throat.  Or a few tears coursing down my cheeks. No. I mean chest aching, breath-taking, gasping sobs.

It took me by surprise.  Not just the moment in the film, but my response to it.  The actor who portrays John is so good, and looks so much like him, that for a moment I thought it was real. That they had actually found John. It was all a ploy.  A way to get John out of the public eye.  A way for him to be able to have a peaceful life. No, he hadn't been murdered outside the Dakota on a cold December night over forty years ago.

And that was when I saw that I wanted it to be real. I wanted it so badly. I hadn't realized how much -- until that moment. John's passing hadn't just been the passing of a controversial rock star for me. At the time, it felt as profoundly world-altering as the assassination of John F. Kennedy or a November "morning after" - not so long ago.

John represented bold hope and fierce love for me.  I think his love-rebellion was defining for a generation that had lived through the Viet Nam war, Kent State, Selma, and Watergate. His assassination shattered dreams. And not just our dreams of a future Beatles' reunion, but for a world that could "imagine all the people, living life in peace."

So, for the first time in forty years, I let myself grieve. I sat in that empty theater - while the film rushed on to its beautiful conclusion - and wept. I have spent the past week reminding myself that if it - the presence of good - has ever been, it can never be taken. John was the symbol, though not the substance, of all that he represented for me.  But that hope, those dreams, a fierce love -- those are alive in me.

Today, I will go back to the theater, and watch the last thirty minutes of the film through clearer eyes. I will be grateful that I have lived in a post-Beatles world where songs like "Blackbird," and "Imagine," -- and scores of other beautiful songs -- still exist.

And I will never forget that moment in an empty theater where, for a moment, time stood still and the impossible felt so possible. As if I had woken from a dream where John had been assassinated, to a world where he is living on the coast of England in a small cottage, advising celebrities and world leaders on the importance of caring about the things that really matter -- love, family, peace, honesty, commitment, promises, hope, compassion.

You may say that I'm a dreamer -- but now, I see, that I'm not the only one.  Thank you, Danny Boyle, for this brilliant film. Perhaps you have intuited what Mary Baker Eddy writes about in her tribute to the life of one of her most remarkable students, Edward Kimball -- who had passed on earlier that year:

"My beloved Edward A. Kimball, whose clear, correct teaching of Christian Science has been and is an inspiration to the whole field, is here now as veritably as when he visited me a year ago. If we would awaken to this recognition, we should see him here and realize that he never died; thus demonstrating the fundamental truth of Christian Science.

And elsewhere she further assures us in Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures:

"We must hold forever
the consciousness of existence."

This is not a suggestion, but a promise. The promise that all we have known and loved -- cannot be taken from us. We must hold forever the consciousness of its existence.  Forever.  We have the right to remember.

offered with Love,

Cate 

"I knew..."

"I knew
I loved you
before I met you;

I had been waiting
all my life..."

The first time I heard Savage Garden's,  "I Knew I Loved You,"  it touched me in a place that was all about motherhood, and being a girl who loved horses.

Today, our daughters turn 29, 21, and 21. April 25th is a day that takes me apart - and puts me back together in new ways - every year.

As a girl, I wanted to be a mother -- even more than I wanted to be a lawyer. And I wanted that a lot. I didn't imagine my children, I felt them. I couldn't accept that they would never find their way into my arms. Years of infertility and fore-shortened pregnancies left me confused, angry, empty. Why would God put this love in my heart from early childhood, and not give me a way to live it out in my daily experience?

There are dozens of posts on this blog about my journey from empty womb to full arms, but this post, is about knowing, really knowing the presence of something, when everything else is telling you that you are delusional.

It's about refusing to give up, even when all the cards are stacked against you and your bank account screams, "are you insane?" But I knew. I knew that the love I felt in my heart, was not something I could create -- and therefore it was not something I could destroy. And believe me, I tried. There were moments in a lonely bathroom - once a month - when I just wanted the heartbreak of not being pregnant - again, to go away. Moments when I watch another hopeful trimester end in pain and heartache.

But I knew. I knew my God, because I knew this fierce love for these girls.  They were inextricably linked.  When I wasn't sure if there was a God, I was sure that I loved my daughters -- even before I met them. When I wasn't sure there would be daughters, I knew that God was Love and that this all-powerful, ever-present, all-knowing Love would not put that love in my heart without a plan for its fulfillment.

Someone recently asked me if I didn't think that perhaps I was too in love with my daughters. Well, if you ask it that way... No. There is no "perhaps" about it. I love them completely, utterly, unflinchingly.  This love has given me a sense of God's presence that cannot be shaken. A mother loving her children too much? If it were possible to even fathom that concept, then I could conceive of God loving us too much. And if there is "too much," then there would have to be some measure considered "enough."

In her primary work, Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, Mary Baker Eddy gives this definition of enough:

"The depth, breadth, height,
might, majesty, and glory
of infinite Love fill all space.
That is enough."

That's my only definition of enough. When I have loved them with as much devotion, clarity,  joy, and delight as I know God loves all of us, well, then -- perhaps -- it will be enough. But too much? Never.

Loving these girls has been the thing that has given me the best of myself.  Loving them has been a profound gift of purpose, reason, focus, and joy.  Oh, such joy. Unfathomable joy.

Before I actually met each of them, I held them like the feather of a small bluebird in my heart. And I held that hope tenderly and fiercely - knowing that I would someday hear them sing -- and fly. When it was suggested that I might just want to be content with being an aunt, I refused to accept that being an aunt was a compromise.  I knew that I could be a loving, devoted aunt and a good mom. Because you see, I didn't just want to be a mom, I needed to be a mom. I needed to know that the hope within me wasn't separated from its Source -- divine Life and Love.

Three passages from Mary Baker Eddy's writings were my constant companions:

"Do human hopes deceive?
is joy a trembler?
Then, weary pilgrim,
unloose the latchet of thy sandals;
for the place whereon thou standest
is holy ground."

"God grant that the trembling chords
of human hope shall again be swept
by the divine Talitha cumi,
“Damsel, I say unto thee, arise.”

"When the real is attained,
which is announced by Science,
joy is no longer a trembler,
nor is hope a cheat."

Over and over again I would arise from the bed of pain, of  another disappointment, of the death of my dreams. I would find the fragile pulse of that hope, and breathe fresh purpose into its frail presence. It was not about "getting a baby," it was about trusting God to be the only Source of my hopes, my dreams, my desire to live less selfishly.

When I look at this date on the calendar - April 25th, the day that I finally met all three of our daughters - albeit eight years apart -- I can actually feel the way hope whispers in the heart. I remember looking down into each of their little faces and having my breath taken away, my knees buckle, my inner mother-tiger roar. I could feel the pulse of divine Life. I knew them before I met them -- and I know God.



offered with Love,

Kate

"I'm barely breathing..."

"I'm falling apart,
I'm barely breathing;
with a broken heart
that's still beating.

In Your name
I find meaning
so I'm holding on,
I'm holdin' on,
I'm holdin' on,
barely holding on to You..."

I was looking down at the delicate white scar that runs from the wrist on my left arm three inches towards my inner elbow, when Lifehouse's  "Broken"  came on my Pandora station. The coincidence took me by surprise -- but in a gentle, self-compassionate way. I wanted to hug the girl I once was.

I've had dark chapters in my life, but this was one of the darkest. I'd driven over 3,000 miles across the United States -- leaving everyone I knew, in hopes of a fresh start. But the second largest city in the country was not the land of milk and honey I'd hoped for. Hours after reaching the first outskirts of the metropolis, I finally reached my destination. I felt lost in a dystopian abyss.

Within a few months, I felt more alone than ever. I had a temporary job -- just waiting for the school year to start so that I could begin teaching again.  But everyone I met seemed obsessed with body image and partying. I was living with a roommate who seemed to bring a different "date" home every night. My commute consisted of an hour - each way - on the freeway in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Nothing felt familiar and I was lost.

But, I was a survivor -- or at least that was what I told myself.  I would persevere, I would forge on, I would not give up. On the outside I was focused and determined. On the inside I was barely breathing. When I left my academic, social, and professional roots 3,000 miles behind, I felt like I also left my spiritual lifeline.

One evening, while helping a friend prepare for a party, I was cutting strawberries, kiwis, and apples for a fruit salad when I suddenly realized that I had better get in the shower before they arrived home. I had already undressed when I remembered that I'd forgotten to add the pineapple. Since I was alone in the apartment, I walked to the kitchen and found a large butcher knife in the drawer. Holding the pineapple with my left hand, I hurriedly attempted to lop off the top of the pineapple. The knife slipped and suddenly I was standing there naked - with a butcher knife stuck deeply in my forearm. Had it really been an accident? Or had I sub-consciously intended to put a stop to the emotional pain I was in? These were the questions that flashed through my mind in the blink of an eye.

Graphic, I know. But I still remember the slow motion stillness of that moment as if it happened yesterday. My life was in such a complete shambles that I wondered whether it was even worth trying to get help. Maybe I should just sit down on the kitchen floor and let the quiet peace that had suddenly come over me,  continue to spread throughout my body.

But in an instant, I woke up from the hypnotic pull of just giving in -- and chose to live. I pulled the knife from my arm, grabbed a towel from the counter to put pressure on the wound, and walked calmly out the front door to knock on the door of a person I'd never met. Seeing me standing there - almost naked, covered in blood, she sprung into action. She found my pants on the bathroom floor, helped me into them, wrapped me in a bath towel, forced me into her car, and drove me to the very nearest hospital emergency room, only two blocks away.

Within minutes I was rushed into surgery. Because they needed for me to remain conscious - so that I could respond to questions about movement and feeling - I watched the surgeon place layers of tiny stitches in my arm, reattaching flesh, nerves, and blood vessels. I don't remember any pain.  I think I was still just so surprised by my clear choice to live.

The next months of physical recovery were a blur. As a child, I had learned to pray. I began to pray again in earnest. I amazed the surgeon, the orthopedic specialist, and the physical therapist by regaining full use of my hand and fingers within six weeks of the injury. My professional life blossomed when school started, but my emotional and spiritual life continued to free fall. I didn't know how to find my way back. I knew I wanted something real and sustainable, but it seemed as far away as the outskirts of that city's limits -- green and verdant beyond the smog and industry.

One day, while walking home from a local park, I passed a Christian Science Reading Room. I looked in the window with such longing. I wanted to go home, but I felt broken and stained. I read the marked Scriptural selection in the window with a sense of sorrow. The next Sunday morning, I walked past the Christian Science church - just as their services were starting. But I was too afraid to walk in. What if someone who knew my mother or sisters and recognized the family resemblance?  What if they asked me questions? I continued down the sidewalk with tears in my eyes.

I wasn't ready yet. But I now see that each step, taught me something. The injury taught me that I wanted to live. My calm, clears sense of peace during the surgery taught me that I really had learned something about trusting God during my childhood. My recovery showed me that I knew how to pray. My hunger for Scripture helped me see that I really did know where the answers lay. My sorrow when walking past the church showed me that I wanted spiritual nourishment and fellowship.  I just couldn't see the forest for the trees - yet.

A few months later my sister would force me to join her for a family reunion in another state. Once there, something finally broke open and I asked my mother if I could borrow her Bible and Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures that first night.  The rest is history -- and another long story.

Tonight, when I looked down at that hairline scar that runs up my forearm -- I smiled. I couldn't help but think of Mary Baker Eddy's promise in Science and Health:

"Think of this, dear reader, for it will lift the sackcloth from your eyes, and you will behold the soft-winged dove descending upon you.

The very circumstance, which your suffering sense deems wrathful and afflictive, Love can make an angel entertained unawares. Then thought gently whispers:

“Come hither! Arise from your false consciousness into the true sense of Love, and behold the Lamb’s wife, — Love wedded to its own spiritual idea."

Sometimes it takes distance to see the path that was laid out for you all along. I was never alone. I was never forsaken or hopeless. The waymarks were there -- every step of the way. I am so grateful.

offered with Love,

Kate

"if I were to tell you my story..."

"if I were to tell you
my story, 
you would hear of hope, 
that wouldn't let go..."

The details aren't important -- what I have faced, how long it lasted, who were the perpetrators and the victims.  The real story is one of hope.  

I found Big Daddy Weave's song, "My Story", and played it over, and over again until it had circled in my heart - like a puppy "feathering" her nest.  Then it dropped into place and fell into a peaceful rest.  

I'd been sitting here - waiting.  I'd made a commitment to write daily.  Not to be read by others, or to be heard, but just because it is what gives me incredible joy.  It is my way of listening to God.  From short five-line poems to these longer essays, writing is my way of "taking dictation" from God.  

I will often wait - as long as it takes - for just one word to set off a spark.  I let silence breathe upon that small spark. My love for God's voice serving as the kindling that ignites into story.

Whether this process takes form in poetry, essay, the script for a "talk," or takes flight as a Christian Science treatment - this is what fills my heart with purpose and great joy.

Sometimes those one word sparks lead to a song, or a photograph.  Sometimes they just lead to the next word.  God takes my hand in His, and step-by-step I am walking through a forest of healing experiences, humbling moments of surrender, sweet memories of feeling God's presence -- and power. 

Today, the word was "story."  And it served as a reminder that we all have one - or many.  

Brene' Brown wrote, in the Preface of The Gifts of Imperfection, that:

"Owning our story and loving ourselves

through that process is the bravest thing 

that we will ever do." 

 I believe this with all my heart.  But I also believe that the only way that I can do this bravely, is by putting God as the main character in my story.  

When God is at the heart of my story, the rest is just context for what I am learning about Him/Her as the main character.  I am not alarmed when Kate is afraid or filled with doubt.  I know that this story is really about what God, the main character is going to do. 

I love this lyric from Big Daddy Weave's, "My Story:" 

"And if I were to 

tell you my story, 

you would hear Love

that never gave up..." 

This Love is not personal or emotional.  I can tell you, without shame, that my personal sense of love has often felt like giving up or giving in.  But this Love -- the kind that never gives up -- is spiritual.  Paul assures us, in Romans, 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 [that is] of God..." 

This is the Love that all of our stories are about.  The Love that none can take away.  The Love that is our rebellion against all that would say that we are vulnerable to a false narrative.  The Love that -- when named and claimed as the Source of our brave willingness to step into the places where we are filled with uncertainty -- empowers us with unfathomable humility and grace.  This is the Love that never leaves us alone.  Consciously tapping into the core of Love's presence in our hearts, is a constant reminder of this fact. 

So, today -- this is my story.  A story of Love.  Every day, I will write this story.  The details will be there as context - not content.  "Ahh, they will say -- look what Love has done in this field." Fallow, fertile, fearful -- it is not about the field, but the Farmer.   

I offer today's dictation with Love, 

kate

"Lord, remind me..."

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

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

When I'm feeling tired of myself
and everyone,

Lord remind me,
Lord remind me..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As Jon and Valerie sing with such reverence and humility:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I sang through tears of repentance and joy:

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

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

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


offered with Love,

Kate

"i'm not the only one..."

"You may say I'm a dreamer,
but I'm not the only one.
I hope some day you'll join us,
and the world will be as one..."

It always catches me off guard. Early December, gray skies flecked with spitting snow, John Lennon's "Imagine," playing on the radio.  This version by the Haverbrook Deaf Choir and the cast of Glee, is one of my favorites. It reminds me of that day, 26 years ago, when as a young teacher I wept in front of my students.

I was teaching at an state institution for children who had been diagnosed with severe or profound developmental disabilities, and had been made wards of the state by their parents. For many of these parents, this was a devastating decision, but seemed to be the only way they could secure the treatments and services their children needed. Families visited, but the longer their children were institutionalized, the less frequent their visits became.

As a faculty, we were constantly looking for ways to bring warmth and normalcy to our students' lives -- and to our own sense of what it meant to be a teacher in such a difficult setting. Holiday decorations, songs, and art projects were an important part of keeping us all motivated.

That year, someone suggested that we hold a Christmas pageant and concert. Our audience would be made up of the residential, medical, dining, and cleaning staff, but it gave us something to work towards and brought so much joy to our students. Our class was working on a singing and signing a song. We chose Silent Night and put many hours into learning every word and choreographing the dance of hands signing in time with the music.

On December 8th we added another song. The shattering news of John Lennon's assassination changed everything. John Lennon wasn't just a pop icon, or a rock star, he was someone we looked up to. His message of social responsibility and peace resonated deeply with a generation shaken by the Viet Nam war. His death was shocking.

I can't speak for anyone else, but I felt as if all my hopes for world peace and kindness had been left on that sidewalk in front of the Dakota on December 8th, 1980. I didn't know what to do. That was when it came to me -- like a mission -- to teach my students another song. We would sing and sign "Imagine."  For the rest of the month, I would go in to work early and stay late. We would rehearse, and rehearse, and rehearse -- and then we'd rehearse some more.

Some days we would find ourselves helping to form signs with the hands of individual students dozens of times an hour.  Moving arms and fingers into shapes. It seemed like an impossible thing to ask of these children, but I think they caught the spirit of our need to "do this."

On the night of the performance in the small auditorium that doubled as a gym, my kids performed Silent Night to our ragtag audience. They grinned when the applause burst from the folding chairs in front of them. I was concerned that all of the excitement would distract them from our surprise. But they were undeterred. Once the applause died down, they looked up at me, smiled and stood very, very tall in the party clothes we'd gathered from the donation bins.

Their performance was hauntingly beautiful that afternoon. I don't think anyone would have said that they could understand the words, or thought that the signing was in sync, but it was sincere, and beautiful, and moving. They had worked so hard to honor my love for this man, and this song. This is what I remember every December 8th, when the sky is steely gray and a recording of "Imagine" playing on the radio reminds me that I was once a very young teacher with very big dreams for a world where "all the people were living life in peace..."

I am still that girl -- I still believe that we are capable of laying aside hatred for brotherly love. I still believe in "peace on earth, good will to men." I still believe that in the end, only kindness matters -- but that's another song. This is where I am ageless. The hope I have for our world, the trust I have in Love's power to move hearts, the confidence I have in the goodness of humanity -- this is what is eternal for me. This is where I am both a child and a sage, a dreamer and a scientist, a peaceful warrior and a conscientious objector.

Yes, you may say that I'm a dreamer -- but I know that I am not the only one.


offered with hope,

Kate

"if not now, tell me when..."

"it will take
a change of heart
for this to mend,
but miracles do happen
every shining now and then,
if not now,
tell me when..."

I spent a week grieving. Then I realized it was time to accept the gift of this moment in history.  To embrace the opportunities we have to be emboldened by love.

When I want a musical kick-in-the-bumm, I turn to Carrie Newcomer. She always reminds me that self-indulgence is not allowed in the heart of a spiritual warrior. I love her recording of "If Not Now." It reminds me that "everything that happens -- happens not to us, but for us."

I needed this reminder. I was on the verge of doing what we nesting creatures do. I wanted to pull into my shell, hide under the covers, slip beneath the wings of someone wiser.

But only for a while. And it was there in the silence, and in the remembering of who I am and what I am capable of accomplishing in service to my God and His children. I found the courage to do something more. I could build nests. I could be someone who quietly gathers the discarded bits and forgotten pieces of this  movement, and builds a safe place for the incubation of dreams.

This doesn't need to be a time of disappointment, but greater appointment. We have been called into this moment for a holy purpose. And it is upon this landscape of stark realization -- that there are millions of people hurting and angry --  that we can find our voice. There is a song to be sung, a message to deliver, a gift to give. And we are that gift. As Scripture assures us:

"prove me now herewith,
saith the Lord of hosts,
if I will not open you
the windows of heaven,
and pour you out a blessing,
that there shall not be
room enough to receive it..." 

Will there ever be a time like this one? A time when kindness stands out in such stark relief against the backdrop of hate. A time when clear integrity is seen in a sea of gray uncertainty. A time when acceptance - based on impartial, and universal Love - is felt where bigotry lurks in the darkness. This is our time. This is our calling.

Recently someone asked me if I didn't feel the hand of an earlier doctrine of racial-purging, religious registry, and white nationalism reaching into this time. Yes, I have -- the comparisons are pretty insidious. But we are not the people of that time. We are wiser, more aware, and we are empowered by what we now know - about where this kind of thinking leads. And we are ready to say "no."

In her collection of addresses, articles, and letters titled Miscellaneous Writings 1888 - 1896, Mary Baker Eddy writes:

"Be “of one mind,”
“in one place,”
and God will pour you
out a blessing such as you
never before received.
He who dwelleth in eternal light
is bigger than the shadow..." 

This is our time. This is our "now." We can be of one mind in this place. We can unite in the Principle of all unity -- Love.   Or as Kahlil Gibran writes:

""In friendship, or in love,
two, side-by-side, raise hands together
to find what one cannot reach alone." 

Whether we are marching in peaceful protest, creating sanctuary cities, refusing to let our Muslim neighbors register alone, or dancing, praying, petitioning and singing our love -- we are not alone. We are in this time together. We will not hide. We will love boldly and courageously.

I love thinking of this statement from Eddy as a benediction on our place in this historic hour:

"There is with us at this hour this great, a great blessing;
and may I say with the consciousness of Mind
that the fulfilment of divine Love in our lives
is the demand of this hour — the special demand..." 

We are not being imposed upon by hatred, hatred has been exposed by Love. The demands that are being made upon us are the demands of Love. Love is asking us to shine like stars against the backdrop of a midnight sky. Love is demanding that we step up and be counted.  Darkness cannot hide the light. This is our time to be the light of Love. To shine. To be our most brilliant selves. To be a candle in the storm.


offered with Love,

Kate

"with kindness drawn…"

"You are more
than the choice that you've made, 
you are more than the sum 
of your past mistakes, 
you are more than the problems 
you create..."

This post is my prayer in keystrokes.

As I lay there in the early morning darkness, it was Tenth Avenue North's "You Are More," that comforted my aching heart.

I'd spent the whole evening "raging against the dying of the light." As state-after-state on the electoral map turned red, I felt like I was going into shock -- heavy tears fell on my now-wrinkled pantsuit, my hands shook.  I found myself hoping that I'd somehow fallen asleep and was trapped in a nightmare I'd soon wake from.

Yet, long after the man I swore to my daughters would never be their country's leader, was crowned President-elect, I was still weeping. Falling to my knees in the dark, I prayed for grace. I prayed for wisdom about how to help my daughters feel safe and hopeful about the future of the country they lived in. I prayed for a glimmer of light -- something to call me forward out of the pit of despair I was feeling.

The only thing that brought peace was trying to help others.  I listened, posted, answered texts and emails, and sought inspiration in Scripture and the wisdom of the wise.  

When I finally took my broken and tired heart to bed, the light was just breaking over Sleeping Indian. And as I lay there trying to quiet the demons that were trotting out every ugly word he'd said on the campaign trail, and every terrifying article I'd read touting his inexperience and lack of readiness, I thought I would be ill.

This was the man who considered it acceptable to sexually assault women, mock the disabled, displace refugee families, demean heroes, and deport our immigrant neighbors and friends. How could he possibly be the Commander-in-Chief of our military, the face of our nation, the heartbeat of our body collective.

That was when God broke through with a brief reminder: "with loving kindness have a drawn him," and asked me this one question? "Is this about what you think he is (or isn't) bringing to this office -- his qualifications, human history, tweets, mistakes, temperament, irrational behavior?  Or is this about what I am able -- through the appointment of him to this office as President -- to draw out from the infinite well of spiritual resources that exist in him as my image and likeness?"

I knew immediately what God was asking of me. How often had I been hired to do something that I knew I wasn't the candidate most humanly qualified or experienced for? More times than I can say. But it has always been this one Truth -  that the kingdom of God is within me - that has given me the courage and humility to accept those jobs, appointments, projects, and tasks without fear of failure and humiliation. 

 I have trusted that I am not bringing a limited (or even humanly grand) set of skills to a particular office, but that the office itself is drawing something new from within me.  Each opportunity is the pump by which God is going to draw from the infinite well of His goodness.  From which something fresh and new, that I need discover about myself as the infinite image and likeness of His infinite individuality, will pour forth.

I love a definition of the word "image" that was shared with me by a physicist and photographer friend: "Pixel for pixel, an image reflects the original. Not one pixel less, not one pixel more." Immediately I could begin to accept that even our president-elect -- a man who seemed so terribly flawed to me only moments before -- had within him the full measure of God's All-in-allness.  He was fully capable of discovering a fathomless well of goodness, intelligence, compassion, humanity, honesty, affection, faith, meekness, temperance, hope, discipline and grace within himself.

This office of president-elect is God's way of priming that pump.   There is a measureless well goodness waiting to be plumbed in him.  I could expect to see this even in this man who, to me, had been a most flawed candidate. Just like turning a spigot to draw a bath, Love was drawing out the best in all of us -- individually and collectively.

I can't help but think of King David, the beloved Psalmist, who was also a flawed character. And yet, God uses him, and his path as a leader,  to show us the value of mercy, the power of humility, the design of Love -- which is to reform and to heal.

Or what about dear devoted -- but confused and conflicted -- Peter. So willing, but so ambitious.  This disciple was distracted for so long by the success of others, vacillating in his allegiance, scolded for his competitiveness, and yet he becomes one of the most prolific early Christian healers.

Or me... 

We are all, as Tenth Avenue North sings, more than the sum of our past mistakes.  We are constantly being remade, renewed, reformed in the likeness of the original -- divine Love.

So today, I am going to stand on my spiritual tiptoes, eager to see what God -- through the offices of president-elect, citizen,  conceding nominee -- will drawn from that deep well of impartial and universal good within each of us. What am I willing to bear witness to? Will I celebrate the first sputterings of grace, applaud the humility which necessarily flow from the demands of leadership. Am I be willing to let something new rise from within me as I accept my office as citizen under the leadership of this new president.

Mary Baker Eddy assures us in Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures:

"Our disappointments
and ceaseless woes,
turn us like tired children
to the arms of divine Love,
then we begin to learn Life
in divine Science."

I was very disappointed.  I felt like we could be facing a ceaseless series of personal and societal, local and global woes. But here's the deal. I want to learn Life in divine Science. I want to learn more about Life as Love. So if this is the beginning -- count me in.

This afternoon, my post-election prayer is a simple one -- one I pray daily:

"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 Daily Prayer by Mary Baker Eddy brings me great peace. I know that I can no longer afford the luxury of continuing to see anyone as separated from God's allness (the claim of sin) and that I must trust that His Word is enriching our president-elect's affections for good -- and governing them. The government is upon His shoulders, not his. He will reign with loving kindness and with mercy -- I trust Him.

offered with Love,

Kate

"i have this hope…"

"I have this hope,
in the depth of my soul,
in the flood or the fire
you're with me,
and you won't let go..."

When I have a deep hunger for spiritual understanding, and words alone feel one dimensional, I retreat to songs. There is something about the marriage of music and lyrics that gives life to my longing. Tenth Avenue North is one of my go-to bands. And recently it was their, "I Have This Hope," that met me right where I was, and walked me forward out of darkness.

I needed a reminder. The inner critic was persistent. It insisted that I was on the verge of letting everyone down. That even my best, just wasn't good enough. It was all up to me, and I was failing.

I had been reading for days. Turning to Scripture and the writings of Mary Baker Eddy for guidance in my search for a way out of the swift spiral I found myself drowning in. There were dozens of pointers, but nothing was penetrating the atrophy of human thinking, and reaching my heart.

That's when I turned to song. I pulled up a window on my browser and found the link to Youtube that I have bookmarked. I didn't know what I was searching for, just knew that I needed something. Tenth Avenue North, Casting Crowns, Sara Groves, and Chris Tomlin are all inspirational singer-songwriters who have never let me down. Their songs spring from a deep love for God and an honest understanding of the human experience. It was what I needed.

I love the word "hope," and so I typed in Tenth Avenue North and hope in the search field and their recording of "I Have This Hope," came up. I clicked on the window and sat back. It was just what I needed. A reminder that I was not letting anyone down, because it was not my job to hold anyone up. Even myself. That was God's job. I was dishonoring Him by thinking that he was not here, with me, and with them.

It brought me back to a fundamental spiritual promise that I'd lost sight of. One that fills Scripture and generously peppers the writings of Mary Baker Eddy and countless other spiritual thought-leaders. It answered the hope-cry in the depth of my soul:

"Lo, I am with you alway..." 

This was enough to begin to free me from fear, self-doubt, worry, loneliness, flood or fire, triumph or terror. How did I forget? How do we ever forget? Doesn't every worrisome claim boil down to this one lie about God -- that He is absent from our lives, or the lives of our loved ones, neighbors, and local, national or global leaders?

It didn't take long to say I was sorry to God. To remember that my love for Him was best expressed by my trust in His love. It was never about me or my abilities. It was always about God's nature and my trust in His unwavering care for His creation. My heart broke wide open with love for God's mercy.

As Tenth Avenue North sings,

"I don't want to live in fear
I want to trust that you are near..." 

I don't want to trust God as a means to an end, but as the very "end" itself. To be so completely at peace in an abiding trust that God is near -- in flood or in fire -- that the voices of doom and doubt cease to have any information for me.   Or as Paul writes in Hebrews:

"Now faith is the substance
of things hoped for,
the evidence of things
not seen..." 

Faith, translated from the original Aramaeic is "trust." This is the substance of my greatest hope: to trust God. This is the evidence I am seeking -- in myself -- moment-by-moment. A trust that isn't just tapping her foot impatiently and saying, "hey, I trust You, so where's the evidence?" But a trust that rests -- like a small child -- in the peace which passeth all understanding. A trust that is beyond the human need to understand how God's love will manifest itself. A childlike trust that yields to the love of its divine Parent.

It is enough. No, I don't know how some of the questions and concerns that I am facing will be answered. I don't have a plan, a strategy, or a solution that is giving me peace. Those may give momentary relief from worry, but they will never give me an enduring peace. And I want what is enduring, eternal. I find this only when I am resting in this truth that:

"The Lord is with me..." 

As I said, this trust is enough. It is all the evidence I need. I may not understand how everything will work out. But I do know that this trust is the substance of all my hopes -- for all of us. May you feel like a child who trusts that your Father-Mother God is always with you -- in tear or triumph. I have this hope.


offered with Love,

Kate