"sun-burned, or sun-blessed..."

"here comes the sun,
here comes the sun,
and I say,
it's all right..."

Could there be a better keynote some for this post than the Beatles' classic: "Here Comes the Sun?" I think not.

It happens every summer. Someone arrives at the door of my cabin to talk about sunburns, sunscreen, and extended exposure to the sun. I can never help myself from gazing off towards the flower beds, that hug Valerie Lodge and remember...

It was more years ago than I can remember. That summer mid-July days in Colorado had been particularly hot and dry. And although late afternoon storms offered respite -- dark clouds, strong winds, heavy downpours, it was only for a few minutes. Then back to bluebird skies and bright sun. The cycle was dependable.

Earlier that summer - before staff and campers arrived - a crew of volunteers had turned the weedy flower beds into a riot of texture and color. By late July, all that work had paid off. There were columbine, pansies, lupine, iris, bleeding heart, and my favorites - poppies.  And the poppies were thriving. I love them all - icelandic, oriental, California, Flanders. My favorite though were the pale blush petals of the Helen Elizabeth palaver poppies [shown above] that dance on their tall stems with every breeze.

This particular day - like many of the staff and campers that summer - my shoulders were particularly tender from a long day in the sun. As I listened to the young woman on my porch - concerned about her sun-burned face - I watched a lovely pale-petaled poppy swaying to the changing direction of the breeze. And in an instant I saw what would alter my sense of things - forever.

There was the most delicate flower in the garden, reaching her face towards the sun. It was a very, very hot day, and the sun was blindingly bright. But she wasn't turning away or seeking to hide behind the shade of a neighboring flower's shadow. She was actually seeking the sun. Turning - ever so gradually as she followed the sun's trajectory from east to west across a bluebird Colorado sky.

Her delicate pale peach petals were not singed or brittle from the heat. In fact, they were even more beautiful. More lovely. How were my shoulders -- or that camper's precious, freckled, up-turned nose -- any different. Any less protected by our love for the sun.

I was immediately flooded with this passage from Psalms:

“The sun shall not
smite thee by day,
nor the moon by night..."
 

I got it. It was suddenly so clear to me. We are all made of the same spiritual substance -- from a blade of grass to a star. There is only the substance of Soul. The substance of beauty. 

Mary Baker Eddy tells us that "All nature teaches God's love to man." If that lovely, graceful poppy could stand in the bright sun -- hour-after-hour without her delicate petals being burned -- so could I. And so could that beautiful camper. 

Immediately on the heels of that realization, this definition of "sun" from the Glossary in Eddy's  Science and Health came to mind:

“SUN.  The symbol of Soul
governing man, — of Truth,
Life, and Love."
 

Suddenly it seemed ludicrous that the Sun -- the symbol of Soul governing man -- could be harmful, pain-inducing, or destructive. The stinging in my shoulders completely abated. I was free. And not only was I free of the negative effects of a long, lovely day in the sun, so was the camper.

The sun - the symbol of Soul governing man - can no more injure us than it can harm the delicate petals of a poppy. Elsewhere in Science and Health, Eddy says:

"The sunlight glints
from the church-dome,
glances into the prison-cell,
glides into the sick-chamber,
brightens the flower,
beautifies the landscape,
blesses the earth." 

We can only be sun-blessed.

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