"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 

"and may Thy Word..."

"they said
i would never make it;
but I was built
to break the mold.

the only dream
that I was chasing
was my own..."
- Alicia Keyes

My dear friend, Carol, posted Alicia Keyes' profoundly beautiful song,"Underdog," in celebration of the Supreme Court of the United States' landmark decision to uphold DACA today. It brought me to tears.

This post isn't about that decision per se. Its merits or political implications. I will not add to the opinions or rhetoric that will follow. I believe that the majority opinion by Chief Justice Roberts and Justice Sotomayor are worthy of their offices and stand on their own.

This post is simply a humble celebration of our common humanity. It is to affirm for myself, once again, that Love overrides even the most tightly held political and religious codes and creeds, when those certainties face the law of Love.

Here is the prayer - written by Mary Baker Eddy - that has held me in its steady assurance during the days leading up to this Supreme Court decision -- as well and through months of waiting for last week's ruling on workplace protections for LGBTQIA+ employees under the 1964 Civil Rights Act.

It is found in the governing document of The First Church of Christ, Scientist, The Manual of The Mother Church, which outlines the discipline of its members:

"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," as it is titled in the Manual By-Law -- that bears both its name and its purpose -- sustains my hope and undergirds my confidence in our common humanity. There are no underdogs. We are all worthy. And we are all governed by "Thy Word." Not the words of political leaders, pundits, or the opinions of others, - but the Word of Love operating in each human heart.

I will leave this here.

with Love,


Kate

"i'll love you for a thousand more..."

"How to be brave?
How can I love
when I'm afraid
to fall?

But watching you stand alone,
all of my doubts,
suddenly go away somehow..."

And then there are those posts that are all about the song. This video cover of Christina Perry's  "A Thousand Years"  by Clementine, is one of those posts.

I know this feeling -- of watching someone else stand alone, and feeling braver myself. It happens in my relationship with my husband -- all the time.

His deep spiritual conviction and poise act as a focal point for me when I am feeling shaken by things that trigger childhood fears -- in the dark, un-probed corners of my heart.

I doubt that he realizes how often I use his spiritual posture to remind me that God is here, I am His loved child, and that I can rest in His presence and power. It is his spiritual confidence that I love most about him.

It is this spiritual equanimity that I feel so blessed to be in the company of. There is a deeply centered balance to it. He is not rushing around madly trying to evenly distribute the resources at hand - love, finances, attention, time, patience. He is so rooted in his love for - and trust in - God, that he responds to each call with unhurried grace. Within this man is an unfathomable patience. His children feel it. His community feels it. His wife, especially, feels it.

You know how you just know. Well, that feeling is at the heart of my marriage to this "good man." I know him. I know his heart. I know that his devotion to our children is no more, nor less, than his devotion to the children he has served in each of his professional chapters. Whether it has been working with students at a college, working with counselors, outdoor educators, and school children as the Director of an outdoor education center, or with those who have exceptional abilities and special needs.

His devotion to their self-possession in Christ is boundless. His commitment to the individual and collective realization of their gifts is dogged. I am so blessed to have his example. And I am also, often, brought up short by it. But isn't that what a good relationship is all about.

Recently, after realizing that we would be apart for almost seven weeks this summer, someone asked me if I didn't miss him terribly. I replied, honestly, that I didn't miss him at all. And I don't. He is with me everywhere I go. His love is so alive in the way he cares for our children, our precious pups, our church family, and our loved global community. I feel it every day.

His love feels like an example of this Scripture from Deuteronomy:

"My doctrine shall drop as the rain,
my speech shall distill as the dew,
as the small rain upon the tender herb,
and as the showers upon the grass...”

When there is a need for tenderness and silence, it is there. When there is a need for firm patience, I know it will be there. And when I need a stronger shower - one that will move me to grow in grace myself - it, too, will be there. I know that his love for God comes first, and as a result, his love for us is deeply trustworthy.

I will love him for a thousand years -- or more...

offered with Love,

Cate

"humility and manhood..."

"when the dreams
that you're dreaming
come to you,

when the work
you've put in
is realized,

let yourself feel the pride;
but always stay humble and kind.

“it won't be wasted time,
so always stay humble and kind...”

When this post started percolating, it wasn't hard to find a song to give it voice. Tim McGraw's  "Humble and Kind"  couldn't be a more perfect.

This morning I heard a little boy stand up in a gathering of his peers -- and some much older and very much-admired young men -- and say, "we shouldn't just be focusing on our own personal achievements, but we should be helping others too."

It wasn't a big deal in the context of the meeting's purpose - encouraging spiritual thinking. But it was so brave in the context of a current world mindset - one where competition and comparisons seem to thrive, and humility and the celebration of another's gifts, is seen as weakness.

If you know my husband, you know that he is the least competitive man on the planet. I think he has a "genetic" predisposition towards letting the other guy go first, encouraging his "opponent" to succeed, and lifting up the guy in front of him - or behind him, as the case may be. It is what I love most about him. His lack of self-promotion. His natural inclination towards helping others find their place in the world -- even when it means stepping aside himself. In fact, more often than not, I have seen him not only step aside, but have used his own time in that "space," as an opportunity to better prepare that place for his successor. He is a nest featherer -- for others.

And this morning, as I looked around that room full of boys and men, I could see my husband as a little boy. Scrawny-bodied, horn-rimmed glasses, a mop of floppy hair in a nondescript color. Imagining this was not hard, since there were a dozen photos of him on the wall. And thinking about that little boy, my throat tightened - not just with love for him, but for all of the humble and kind men who had helped to raise him to be the man he is today.

Around the world, at dinner tables and in locker rooms, at bedtime and on the playing field, fathers and mothers, coaches and trainers, are being given a platform for encouraging a version of manhood that will be either self-focused, or service-focused. This morning I heard fresh promise in the voice of a young boy. He is choosing to serve others as he navigates a world full of competition and personal ambition.  He is choosing humble and kind. And, he is recommending it to his friends, mentors, and leaders.

Years ago, when our daughter was playing club volleyball, a weekend tournament was being held at a private girls school known for its privilege. The parking lot was filled with luxury cars, and the host team entered the gym carrying monogrammed backpacks. I have to admit that I was a bit intimidated. But when I exited my Jeep, and looked up at the stone wall of their beautiful large sports complex, I saw this quote:

"Humility isn't thinking
less of yourself,
it's thinking of yourself - less."

It caught me up short. I decided I was going to look for humility that entire weekend. And you know, it was everywhere. Those moms arriving in sleek sports cars and tank-like SUVs, were spending their weekend serving home-baked brownies at the snack table. Those monogram-emblazoned team members were cleaning the locker room between games. Their booster club was selling snacks to support a sister-school in another, under-privileged country.

Humility is not weakness -- it is our greatest strength. It is not the conquering of others, but the conquering of selfishness, pride, and arrogance. Humility confidently sets self-concern aside, knowing that one's truest self is spiritually designed, defined, and governed by God. Humility frees us to fully use those God-given talents and strengths for uplifting,  serving, encouraging, and revealing the gifts in others. And in doing so, we improve the world we live in.

Today, I was so moved by the humility of a young boy. Each day I am deeply touched by the humility of good men. Good boys, good men in a good, good world.

Mary Baker Eddy gives some sense of this, in referencing Shakespeare, when she writes:

"Let your watchword always be:
“Great, not like Caesar,
stained with blood,
But only great as I am good.”

Here is to good men, nurturing good boys -- to be humble and kind.

offered with Love,

Cate

"at seventeen..."

"And those of us
with average faces,
lacking in the social graces;
desperately remained at home..."

My friend, Kathy, posted this gorgeous photo of a single peony [credit: Lynn Price] and it immediately took me back to being seventeen, and Janis Ian's 1970's anthem   "At Seventeen."  I would sing it to myself and hold back the tears.  At seventeen, I was very short, socially awkward, lonely, and desperate for friendship.

Our family of ten - two parents and eight children - lived in a 1,000 square foot carriage house on a large rural estate. The closest village was about two miles away and housed about 100 families at the most. I didn't make friends easily. That was my younger sister's job. I rode the school bus. Worked hard in school. Came home and did chores and homework. Baby sat my siblings, went to Sunday School, served on our Adventure Unlimited Teen Council board, and helped out at a horse farm across the street. That was my life.

If I didn't meet you on the school bus, it was unlikely you would have noticed me in the halls. I spent my lunch hours in the library -- is there any more frightening place for a "new girl" than the cafeteria, or in a gym class lineup, waiting to be chosen for a team sport.  I kept my head down and my back straight. It was unlikely that I would have had any friends at all, if it hadn't been for my popular younger sister.

Then one day, while sitting on the bus waiting for everyone who always arrived late -- as they boarded laughing and chatting with their friends -- a senior from our little town came up and sat down next to me. Her name was Patricia White. She was popular and pretty. She asked me questions about myself until we reached her stop. When she got off the bus, she said, "Save me a seat tomorrow." I was stunned. That one conversation changed everything for me.

No, it didn't' suddenly make me more confident or popular, but it no longer mattered quite as much - I had a friend. At first, when we saw each other in the halls at school, I'd look away.  I was certain that she was only being nice to me on the bus - pitying the new girl. But each time, she would call out my name and make eye contact. It meant the world to me.

Soon it was time for her prom and graduation. I was so grateful for the kindness she had shown me that year. It had lifted me out of a despair so deep I don't know if I'd have been able to sustain my fragile normalcy for long without her.

I wanted to say "thank you" to her, but I just didn't know if I had the right words - or if they would really mean anything to such a well-liked and popular girl.

Then one morning, while walking to the school bus, my hand trailed along the hedge row of peony bushes, in bloom, that lined our flagstone walkway. The fragrance was so lovely. It reminded me of Patty and the soft blush of her cheeks when she was happy, or as she climbed the steps of the school bus in the afternoon -- excited to share an anecdote from her day.

The night before graduation I went into the garden and cut a beautiful fist-sized peony blossom that was only beginning to unfurl. I took it into the kitchen and wrapped the stem in a wet paper towel and then tin-foil. I tried to make it as professional looking as I could. Then I found a hair ribbon and wrapped that around the tin-foil and tied a simple bow.

I walked the mile and a half to her house and presented her with my "corsage" for her graduation. I didn't say very much. Words just didn't come. But she knew. The next day after the graduation ceremony, Patty was wearing the large, floppy corsage I had given her. It looked heavy, and pulled at the fabric of her dress. But she wore it anyway.

I knew that my homemade corsage was awkward -- like me. But she loved it. And it made me feel beautiful to know that she cared more about our friendship than the drape of her dress. She had made seventeen feel like a prelude to something wondrous and beautiful -- rather than just another year of being the new girl.

There is not much more to this story. Patty passed away soon after graduation in a tragic accident. I learned at her memorial service that from the time she was a girl, she had made others feel just as loved, seen, and heard as she had made me feel that year. I have never forgotten how one person can turn the tide of things, from social hell to a little piece of heaven on earth. The scent of peonies will always remind me of her kindness.




offered with Love,

Kate

Here is a lovely video of Janis Ian talking about her song   "At Seventeen."  decades later.

"don't cry out loud..."

"don't cry out loud,
just keep it inside,
and learn how to
hide your feelings.."

Sadness is not an emotion that I wrestle with very often, but when it hits, I can hear Melissa Manchester's  "Don't Cry Out Loud"  playing in my head. A 1978 classic, it was my soundtrack during many battles with hopelessness and depression. I can think of very few songs that elicit such a feeling of complete sorrow for me.

I used to think that sadness was circumstantial. When, in my late teens and early twenties, my life was falling apart -- I thought my circumstances warranted feelings of hopelessness and depression. It was all so personal.

But of late, I have realized that sadness is an impersonal invitation. A suggestion. It comes to most of us as a wave of feeling. We begin to search for a reason for that feeling. A memory from the past or a near-time incident steps into the void and is more than willing to take credit for the feeling. It sinks its hook, and pulls us under.

That happened to me very recently. I woke with a feeling of gray sorrow. It was like all the edges of a bright blue sky, or the sound of laughter, were faded and mournful. I couldn't seem to shake off a feeling of heavy dread. I prayed, and my prayers were clear and confident, but if I turned too quickly -- the gray was hovering in the periphery.

I found myself looking for a cause. Was it a conversation I'd had with a loved one? A looming decision? Some unexpected expenses? A regret from the past? The deeper I dug for a reason, the darker the pit became.

I knew that I needed to turn around and follow the light, but now I was tired. Couldn't I just rest here in the tunnel for a while? Close my eyes, and pray? That would help, wouldn't it? I knew I had been in this very cave before. Too many times in fact. And I knew that resting in the darkness would only lead to a sleepy sense of self-pity.

Then I remembered two simple lines from the Bible, and Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures by Mary Baker Eddy:

"The light of ever-present Love
illumines the universe."

"O send out Thy light
and Thy truth,
let them lead me;
for the Lord my God
will enlighten my darkness..."

I knew that the name for God as "Lord," is directly translated to "Love," in Science and Health.   Rather than curling up in self-despair, I needed to turn around in that pit and start climbing towards the light. And that light, was Love. I might not be able to fix the problems, or improve my circumstances, but I could love. I could find someone, and be kind. I could pray a prayer of appreciation and blessing for someone. I could behold [see, and call attention to] the good in something -- anything.

Sadness, sorrow, depression are not personal. They are like wandering ghosts without a home. They have no entity, no substance -- that is why they invite themselves into the space of our consciousness. Then they dig around in our mental drawers and photo albums looking for a reason for it to make sense that they are there. They invite us to sit in a darkened room and ruminate over faded images and crumpled moments.

For just a moment, imagine yourself jumping up from that dusty old chintz covered sofa and throwing open the curtains. Grabbing the photo album and putting it back where it belongs and telling those insidiously dark thoughts to: "please leave -- now." Then grabbing your jacket, locking the door behind, you and walking out into the sunshine -- and a thousand opportunities to be kind, share a smile, do something good for someone else.

I know it sounds simplistic. But, perhaps it is simple. Saying "no" when the first wave of sadness crashes over us. Digging our toes into the sand and finding bedrock in our right to love. To live outside the pit of self.

I only know, that the longer I stay curled in the pit with my eyes closed, the deeper it pulls me into its darkness. But the sooner I find someone to love, and care for -- the happier I feel.

offered with Love,

Kate

"how bad we need each other…"

"life, is too far to walk alone
you can't do it on your own.
it's like bare hands
digging through stone..."

For a while now, I haven't written a post unless something really catches in my heart. Today, I heard Marc Scibilia's hauntingly lovely song, "How Bad We Need Eachother,"and broke into tears. It speaks to where I am right now, and where I think our world is.

We've become so full of our own self-reliant determinism. We have computers that give us all the information we could ever want, on any subject we can think of. We have devices that entertain us in the middle of the night. We have phones with geo-locators that can give us directions to any place on earth and help us find our way home when we are lost. But they can help us find what we are still searching for.

We are still looking for a sense of belonging.  There is a distance we are trying to bridge.  We are hungry for connection.  And all the binge watching of our favorite television series cannot replace what happens when we laugh with a friend or cry with a loved one. 

That modulated voice on Google maps will never be able to imitate your mom -- or dad -- no matter what accent or vocal tone you program into its settings. It will never be able to remind you of that crazy road trip the family took in 1968, when a missed turn took you to the edge of the Grand Canyon in the middle of the night and you ate s'mores for breakfast at dawn. It will never be able to place its hand over yours on the gear shift, singing along to Carole King's "You've Got a Friend," as you drive across Kansas.

We need each other -- badly. Facebook gives us a false positive -- all the time. It allows us to be dismissive and careless with those we see every day, and then get online in the middle of the night and have our consciences soothed by all those "likes," that just keep on coming. Who needs to be kind in the moment, when at the end of the day our latest status update, photo, or "share" leads to a stream of likes, heart icons, comments, thumbs ups, and admirations.

Recently a friend was going through hell. I mean serious human hell. Her most current Facebook profile photo showed a smiling, happy wife and mother. Her latest status update was full of personal joy, professional achievement, and showed photos of a beautiful family event where she was surrounded by those she loved. Weeks later friends were still commenting about how delighted they were for her. No one had picked up the phone in weeks to call her. Everyone assumed her life was suspended in ether of her last status update.

But it wasn't. A family tragedy had kept her from returning to Facebook, and she was deeply in need of comfort and encouragement. When I learned of her situation I called her. Little did she know that I actually needed her, to need my friendship, just as much as she needed a friend.

The desire to belong is woven into our spiritual DNA. I believe it is why the Lord's Prayer is written in the language of our, us, we. It is in our relationships -- our real, living breathing, face-to-face relationships with one another -- that we discover the depth of our humanity. And it is in the midst of this humanity, that our relationship to the divine is excavated from the ego's burial of substance, in symbol.

The other day, I was sitting at my desk feeling quite alone. I love my work. I am blessed with a career that allows me to speak, text, and email with folks in the most life-afirming way. But I hadn't heard myself laugh in a long time. I missed sister/colleague/girlfriend/neighbor/citizen of the world time. I missed beating my husband in a game of Scrabble. I missed sitting with a friend while we waited for a movie to start. I missed linking arms in advocacy for social injustice issue, with like-hearted citizens. I missed driving through a new town, stopping for breakfast in a random diner, and learning something about the life of a single mother in a small rural community.

I needed human connection. I needed to feel that I belonged to a family, a community, a cause. It just wasn't enough to know that my Facebook friends liked my most current status. I needed to make eye contact, to hear the nuances in a friend's sigh, to have someone intuitively know that I didn't have it as "all together" as I was trying to project.

I grabbed my keys and drove to the library.  Checking out a book, I found myself standing at the counter talking with Melissa about her new haircut. Then I drove to the coffee shop where I ran into a few neighbors and caught up. Wandering next door I caught up with a new friend who owns a small business, before stopping in at another friend's shop where we discussed the economic plight of women in third world countries. Running into a dear friend, who had recently lost a loved one, I shared her tears -- and her gratitude that these relationships give us access to the deepest parts of ourselves.

Then I went back to my office. I was refreshed and connected. Not just to those people I had laughed, cried, and listened with, but with a palpable sense of the divine operating in each of us. We can't fake those moments. We can't photoshop the tears out, nor can we correct the wrinkles and blemishes that make each of us vulnerable to the other's humanity. 

We can't put a perfectly crafted spin on a regrettable moment, or pretend that we aren't hurt. We are forced to see the way our words might have affected someone, feel their sadness, and do what we can to alleviate suffering. We can't just soothe ourselves with the one hundred and thirty-four "likes" on a witty status update, a new cover or profile photo,  or a recently shared inspirational meme.  

All of those likes and comments can be encouraging, endorsing, and edifying, but they will never replace the tender touch, an attentive look, the intonation in a sigh, precious times spent in silence -- together.

In times of national and international sorrow, it is so easy to feel connected by linking to of an article posted by a friend, or find a sense of community in our common take on social/political issues. But we need more. We need shared laughter, heart-to-heart conversations that  make our eyes brim with tears. We need to feel forgiveness in a touch, or comfort in an embrace. We really do need one another -- badly.

In her spiritual interpretation of the Lord's Prayer, Mary Baker Eddy wrote in Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures:

"Give us this day our daily Bread.

Give us grace for today,
feed the famished affections..." 

I don't know anyone who is fed by a beautifully lit photo of loaves of just-baked bread, or is refreshed by a perfectly described glass of icy, cold lemonade. We need the warm embrace, the bracing laughter, the healing touch. We need each other -- in real time.

We don't have to be afraid to honestly and candidly face the storms of being human - together. To hold one another, to listen deeply, to speak words of comfort.  Because, as Marc sings in his song:

"Storms never come to stay,
they just show us,
how bad we need each other..." 

And we do, we really do need each other.

offered with Love,

Kate

"we are each other…"

"we are the daughter,
we are the sisters
who carry the water.
we are the mothers
we are the other,
we are each other..."

I don't know where this post is headed -- really. I just know that when one of my daughters sent me this video of Lissie's, "Daughters," I had to show up in front of the keyboard -- and let it rip.

So, here goes. For me, this is all about having each other's back. Not just as sisters, daughters, best friends, and neighbors, but as fellow citizens on a very small planet. And yes, you are right. There is nothing new about this message. Maya Angelou, Mother Teresa, Eleanor Roosevelt, Betty Friedan - most great women - have encouraged this one thing in all the women they hope with forward their legacies: Be kind to one another. You will not achieve anything on your own.

And yet, I see this terrible pattern repeating itself throughout history. Women hurting women. It breaks me. More than most, this is the one thing can make me feel like crawling under the covers for a few days, and never come out. To hear that a woman has thrown another woman under the bus. To hear women encouraging each other to unload a pile of hurt on another woman - behind her back. To hear the drone of gossip -- and trust me, there is no other sound like it -- from another table at the local coffeehouse.

Do men do this? I can't tell you -- I am not a man in a relationship with other men. I don't know what they do or don't do. This is about us. Girls, women, sisters, mothers, friends. We must stop it.

We are each other. That's not just hyperbole. Think about it. To criticize another woman is to fill your own heart and mind with a lesser sense of  womanhood.  This lowered consciousness of any woman, effects the way you feel about all women -- yourself included.

What you hold in thought is projected upon the screen of your own body, face, family, interaction with the world. If I feel disdain for someone -- even when I think it is perfectly justified and reasonable -- everything I look at through that lens is going to be colored by speculation and doubt.

So, today I am holding myself accountable. And yes, I am taking it one day at a time. I can easily attain this better version of me, in a calm, clear hour of prayer -- but can I sustain it for weeks, months, years? I hope so.  I have written a symbol on my hand - with a Sharpie - to remind me that, "Love never loses sight of loveliness," as Mary Baker Eddy promises. Even if I have to rewrite it daily, it will remind me to stop and take stock. To examine my own heart through the lens of a simple axiom:

"When you point a finger at someone,
three more are pointing back at you." 

Whenever I think I am thinking something about someone else, it's not really about them. I am the only one actually harboring those thoughts. I am the one populating my inner landscape with those thoughts. It has nothing to do with the other person. They are just the screen I am projecting my own thinking on. The same with the words I speak, or the negative reactions I allow myself to indulge in -- based on what I think is someone else's behavior.

I love that Mary Baker Eddy gives us this great filter in Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures:

"In a world of sin and sensuality
hastening to a greater development of power,
it is wise earnestly consider
whether it is the human mind
or the divine Mind
which is influencing one." 

The human mind loves to reason. It loves to find reasons. It loves to compare, criticize, and contrast. It loves to sort and compartmentalize -- to file people, places, and things into hierarchies. The human mind wants -- desperately -- to feel important. It's opinions are its greatest currency. 

 The divine Mind on the other hand simply knows. It just knows what is true. It doesn't need to convince, debate, discuss, and pat itself on the back. What is true, is true about everyone. What is a lie, is a lie about no one.

This morning, I read this passage from, In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts by Gabor Maté, and it awakened a new place of compassion in me:

People will jeopardize their lives,
for the sake of making the moment livable.
Nothing sways them from the habit -- not illness,
not the sacrifice of love and relationship,
not the loss of all earthly goods,
not the crushing of their dignity,
not the fear of dying.

The drive is that relentless."
 

I am standing up to this drive. I am going to do everything - in my own life - to not be driven by a need to just "make a moment livable." I will not say something that is not kind, just because it might make me look or feel better -- in that moment. I will not capitulate to pressure, just to make an awkward moment end more quickly. I will try to never -- ever again -- let a harsh word slip, or sarcasm spill, just because it will break the tension. 

 And I will be more patient with you, because I now have a clearer sense of how demanding, and insidious the need to just "make the moment livable" can be.

We are each other. And what I want for my daughters, I want for your daughters. What I want for myself, I want for you. If I want my daughters to have clean water, I must do as much to achieve clean water for a young girl in Burkino Faso, as I would for my own sweet girls. If I want my sister to be treated with respect and dignity by her colleagues, I must treat every woman I interact with, with that same respect and dignity. If I want my dearest friend to be heard when she speaks, I must listen more deeply to my neighbor when she speaks.

There is no you and me, us and them. We are one. We are each other.

offered with Love,

Kate

"I will…"

"Who knows
how long I've loved you,
you know I love you still,
will I wait a lonely lifetime,
if you want me to, 
I will..."

This post is not for re-posting. I will not be sharing it on Facebook. And there are dozens of love songs that I could have used to keynote this piece. But none of them said enough -- and most said too much.  Allison Krauss' "I Will," comes closest to saying everything and nothing -- all at once.

This post is written to put on record the heart of a man who loves genuinely, selflessly, and intuitively. He is my husband. It is to put on record for his children -- and their children -- his legacy of grace.

He is kind -- inimitably so. He is generous -- and in this time of "me first" social politics -- it would seem, to a fault. He loves me in ways that none have ever seen, or will ever know -- until today.

When I was a child, I never knew what it felt like to have  unconditional love or support. Everything was earned. Everything was reciprocity-based. Babysit your siblings, and you were shown appreciation.  Be accommodating, and you might know some kindness. Share your wages, and you would be fed. Do unto others, or nothing was done for you. 

I became a sponge for approval. An achievement junkie. I became addicted to proving -- to anyone and everyone -- that I was likable, deserving of friendship, worthy of the company of others.

As I have sought to become a woman of integrity -- and it has been a difficult, painful journey -- I wanted nothing more than to give my daughters the kind of support that I hadn't even realized I was starving for. I dreamed of being the kind of parent who put their children's successes above their own. I wanted to be the mom of my dreams.

Asking my daughters to live through a divorce and remarriage was devastating to me. In its wake, I felt a greater sense of failure than I could ever have imagined. I almost didn't survive my own self-doubt and sorrow.  I would not be here today if it hadn't been for my husband's constant reminder that I was - by divine design - inherently good. And that I was made so, not by my own efforts, but by the very nature of my one and only Parent who loved me without variableness -- God.

Over the last decade my husband has given me a glimpse of what God's love actually looks and feels like -- up close and personal.  He has helped me discover the coincidence between divinity and humanity.  He has put our children's needs, dreams, and successes so far above his own that it has taken my breath away.

And he has put my need to parent -- in a way that redeemed my own childhood -- ahead of everything else.

He has loved the part of me that was broken, shattered, vulnerable, and fragile.  And in doing so, he has given me a view of myself that is whole -- deeply grounded in spiritual integrity. There is no part of my life that is at variance with my desire for growth in grace.

I love him for what he has taught me about selflessness. When his sense of duty and service-to-mankind urged him to take a job in a distant city, he lived out of his car so that all of his earnings could come home to serve the greater needs of our family. His weekends were spent traveling to another state to care for his mother, and he spent every spare moment working a second job to support our home, and our children's education.

He rarely takes a moment for himself, often working through the night. And I've never heard him turn away from a friend -- or stranger - in need. He listens without judgment, he gives without condition, and he serves without any need for recognition or appreciation.

If I am becoming a better friend, mother, healer, and neighbor, it is because he has given me the rich soil of his unconditional love to grow in. He never ceases to encourage me to turn to God more fully, trust Him more courageously, and love more generously.

His love for all five of our children is knee-buckling. He has never complained that all of our resources go towards making their lives better, their dreams more achievable, and their potential for blessing the world around them more possible -- every day.

I am blessed. He has given me the gift of redemption. Through his generous love, he has allowed me to walk away from self, and into an ever-higher sense of who I can be as the perfect, pure, innocent, honest child of my divine Parent.  He has shown me that I am not a product of my past -- but the promise of God's love.

This post contains no quotes, it tries to make no connections, I am not seeking to say anything pithy or profound. It is simply an utterance of love. I testament to a man of great kindness, integrity, and selfless devotion to family, friendship, community -- and to God. Most supremely to God.

I am grateful. Our children are blessed.  He has been a gift of grace.

offered with deep love and gratitude to Love,

Kate

"kindness matters..."

"In the end
only kindness matters.
I will get down on my knees,
and I will pray..."

Jewel's beautiful anthem, "Hands" has a profound effect on me. For over a decade, this line: 

"in the end, 

only kindness matters," 

has been a touchstone, time and again.

This week film reviewer, Roger Ebert, passed on. I found myself weeping when I heard the news. I love this man.  I trusted his filter.  I loved his courage, his generosity, his candor.

He could make me laugh one moment, and then leave me speechless the next.  He was a deeply spiritual man with a profound insights about humanity.  His statement on the importance of kindness -- in thought, word, and deed -- has been close to my heart since the first time I read it:

"Kindness covers all of my political beliefs. No need to spell them out. I believe that if, at the end, according to our abilities, we have done something to make others a little happier, and something to make ourselves a little happier, that is about the best we can do.

To make others less happy is a crime. To make ourselves unhappy is where all crime starts. We must try to contribute joy to the world. That is true no matter what our problems, our health, our circumstances. We must try. I didn’t always know this and am happy I lived long enough to find it out."

I can't think of a more perfect way to sum up his contribution to the human collective.  I am so happy that Roger was "here" long enough to discover the power of this truth, live it, and share it with us by word and example.

For me, kindness is at the heart of The Golden Rule. Jesus is recorded as having urged:

"Whatsoever ye would 

that men should do to you,

do ye even so to them."

A "rule" which appears -- in some form -- in the doctrines and teachings of almost all major religions and philosophical movements.

There are so many issues facing the human family today. But when I look at each of them through the lens of kindness I am at peace. There is such serenity in making our life choices based on what is most kind. When facing questions like: Do I help a stranger, judge another person's personal choices, cast my vote in a particular direction?

For me, sifting those decisions through the filter of kindness always brings greater clarity and confidence. It has helped me to separate good judgment -- in how I think and act myself -- from judging others.

John Lennon once wrote,

"You may say that I'm a dreamer. 

But I'm not the only one..." 

Tonight I am grateful to know that I have had the privilege of living in this world at the same time as Roger Ebert.   A man whose politics could be summed up in one word, "kindness."

Because in the end, only kindness matters...

offered with Love,

Kate

"safe passage...."

“It's not far back to sanity.
At least it's not for me.
And when the wind is right
you can sail away
and find serenity
The canvas can do miracles.
just you wait and see,
Believe me...”

Christopher Cross' "Sailing" has always reminded me of the mercurial waters just off the Chesapeake Bay...snapping sheets, ringing halyards, and learning to call, "coming about..." to an eager crew. It was a summer I'll never forget.

But it was also the first song that came to mind this morning after our “staff inspirational.” Tiffany had shared a spiritual concept that she’d heard from another counselor. And I’ve been considering it’s message all day. She spoke about:

“the importance of giving others
safe passage through your thoughts...”

What a lovely, and powerful, concept.

Thoughts of others cross my mental waters throughout the day...and night.

But Tiff's comment is asking me to consider, "What environment am I providing for their passage?"

Will they face the harsh and lowering storms of judgment, self-righteousness, opinions, and criticism? Or will they find safe passage on the peaceful, encouraging waters of kindness, compassion, understanding, meekness, and non-judgment?

Will their crossing be expectant of good and full of hope, or will they face the unseen (and often unheard) dangers of sharp comment, gossip, doubt, or criticism?

I remember a time when I knew I'd made some pretty unnecessary navigational errors in my own life journey. And even though I was willing to be a stalwart, tireless sea woman...drop my sails, push off from the shoals, and limp my way back towards the nearest harbor to re-stock, repair, and re-chart my course according to God’s timeless Principle of Love...I was afraid.

It wasn’t my own mistakes that made me hesitant about attempting the crossing again...I now knew how to more effectively read the Bible - "the chart of Life," and use the timeless buoys of the Ten Commandments, to thoughtfully, and safely, make my way back out towards open water. No, I wasn't afraid I would make the same errors in judgement again, that kept me tied in knots, it was my concern about being pulled into someone else’s mental waters that terrified me.

How could I navigate wisely? Would it be possible to leave harbor without notice? Could I slip silently through the shipping lanes undetected? Was it possible to avoid the shoals of opinion, cynicism, and doubt...even my own?

Well, I've learned that I can't control what anyone else is thinking about me. Or as Melba Beals helped me see:

"What you think of me
is none of my business,
how I think of you,
is all that matters."

How someone else is thinking is not my business...it between them, and God. But I can take responsibility for the way I think of myself, and others. And this in-vironmental activism has made all the difference. I can find a core stillness...based in the presence and power of Love...that allows for the kind of peace one needs in order to clearly hear the voice of the Captain of our souls saying, "come about..." or "tighten the mainsail..." This sea of a still, trustful, and accepting heart is what I am striving for every day.

"The Daily Prayer," from the Articles on "Discipline" in Mary Baker Eddy's Manual of the Mother Church – The First Church of Christ, Scientist, has become a critical instrument for testing the barometric balance within my thought:

“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.”

It is the North Star by which I not only find my own way, but establish safe passage for others.

Trusting that God’s Word is governing “all mankind,” impartially, and universally, through His infinite, irresistible, relentless capacity to enrich our affections for good, for peace, for integrity, for salvation...for Him...leaves my heart a calm, peaceful sea where the gentle and insistent winds of Spirit [pneuma, wind] gives safe passage to all who enter my thoughts.

Thinking of myself as a wise, alert, compassionate harbor master, and letting others find safe passage through my thoughts, is already becoming a wonderful way of thinking about how I can do a better job of loving my neighbor as myself.

may you always find safe passage in my heart...with Love,

Kate

"Everyday miracles...."

"It's the everyday miracles
that keep my hope alive.
It's the way you move in little things,
that helps me survive..."

I am so loving the message in Sara Groves', "Everyday Miracles," tonight.  It speaks to me of what is most essential.

I've begun to realize that it's the little things which take my breath away these days.  The everyday, the common place, the simple acts of unsought grace found in unexpected places.

One recent weekend was filled with them.  A friend's willingness to put self aside and take me to the airport before dawn, another's offer to transport a fragile item back home so that I didn't have to worry about it surviving two flights...one lovely moment after another...

For the most part, I was aware of these unexpected miracles, because they were directly in my path.  And I was deeply grateful for each instance of blessing. 

But, it was what I was privy to on my last flight that I'd like to write about tonight.  A delayed flight out of Chicago put a large group of us in the boarding area for a few hours.  One fellow wheelchair-bound traveler, was obviously very advanced in years and unaccustomed to his circumstances.  He sat quietly, but it wasn't hard to note his concern about making his connection in the next city.  He politely asked the ticket agent, over and over again, if we were going to make it in time since his son would be waiting for him at his final destination, and he did not have a cell phone to alert him of the delay.

When we finally boarded, he was whisked down the jetway first, and by the time I followed along with my later boarding group, he was already seated next to a young woman and her daughter.  I took the seat directly in front of them.  

During the course of our two hour flight, I was brought to tears more than once by his seatmate.  She was so genuinely interested in his welfare and comfort.  She asked him questions about his life, his family, his concerns.  She made sure he had refreshments and helped him when he needed to leave his seat.  She intervened for him with the airline staff so that they called ahead and had them hold his next flight for ten minutes so that they could get him off of our plane and through the terminal so that he wouldn't have to spend the night in a strange city because of a missed connection.

When we landed I couldn't help but talk to her daughter, since mom was still busy caring for her new friend.  I asked her if she knew what a kind and generous mom she had.  I won't forget her response for a long time, she said, "that's my mom...she is always like that."  There was such a sense of "why, of course.." to her reply. 

It made me realize that this was not a rare moment in her mother's life...this was her life.  And her daughter knew it.  It was clear that she was witnessing miracles everyday in her mom's presence.  Miracles of kindness, serendipitous acts of grace.

I felt blessed.  No less so than if I'd been on the shores of the Gallilean Sea with the Master, on a Lynn, Massacusetts beach with Mary Baker Eddy as she ministered to a lame boy, or seeing a terminal diagnosis reversed through prayer. 

I'm on the look-out for everyday miracles...and, like the heart-shaped stones my sisters and I collect, I seem to be finding them around every corner. 

with Love,

Kate

"If I could just see You..."

"If I could just see You,
everything will be alright.
If I'd see You,
the storminess will turn to light.

And I will walk on water,
and You will catch me if I fall.
And I will get lost into Your eyes,
and everything will be alright."

I was listening to this hauntingly beautiful version of Lifehouse's "Storm," while reports of tornadoes ripped through Oklahoma and Missouri, to our west.  And for me, there was something so peaceful about its message that night.

"If I could just see You...
I know everything will be alright..." 

I was grateful...so grateful.  Earlier that afternoon I had been so deeply shaken by a series of events, that I found myself sitting in my car, in one of the clergy spaces in the hospital parking lot, just trying to calm my self before going in to see a patient.  And as I sat there,  those words softly poured through me,

"If I could just see you
I know everything will be alright..."

So instead of closing my eyes, I opened them.  And that was when I saw a young boy, of about 10 or 11 years old, pushing his grandfather's wheelchair up a steep ramp.  He was loving and gentle, strong and wise...it was written on his face, in the way he came around the front of the wheelchair to comfort his grandfather, and in the curve of his back as he bent to tuck in the lap quilt that had shifted during their ascent.  His smile was almost beatific.  There was nothing but patience, and grace, in his every move. 

I was seeing Him, God, in him...and everything was suddenly put into perspective...and it was all, alright...every single thing was all right.

I stepped out of the car, and made my way through the labyrinth of hospital elevators, wings, and hallways...and everywhere I looked, there He was.  In the smile of a stranger, the tenderness of an orderly, the patience of a nurse, the strength of a daughter, the grace of a son, the love of a spouse...a child, a neighbor, a parent.

I saw God's face in the cafe clerk, who inquired after the mother of a customer, who'd obviously been living at the hospital, and had become a "regular."  I saw it in the gift shop attendant, who held a young woman who'd collapsed with exhaustion in her arms, when the clerk asked her whether her mother liked roses, or tulips.  Everywhere I looked...the face of God...a whisper of divinity, in the song of humanity...with all its heartbreak, compassion, and hope.

By the time I'd walked back to my car, I couldn't even remember what I had been so shaken by...

Tonight I watched CNN with a different eye.  I refused to watch the grim horror of a city shredded by the devastation of a storm, I was listening for the voice of God in every sound byte, and looking for the face of God in every pixel of film. Reporters pitching in with the recovery effort, police officers comforting grieving families, children helping their parents sort through the rubble of what was once a loved home, and parents looking for a favorite toy to bring to a frightened child.   In these signs of God's presence, it wasn't hard to see, that in the ways that really mattered, everything is all right. 

That's enough beauty to bring me to my knees...

with Love,

Kate