"Thy will be done..."

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

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

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

Thy will be done..."

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

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

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

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

"Thy will be done."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Over and over again, I came back to:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


offered with Love,

Kate

"a child, a snake, and a spoonful of milk...."

"Were you a blazing ball of fire
before you were ever born?
Did you find the cure for polio?
Invent the telephone?

Or were you disobedient at
the age of thirty-three
When some old Roman soldier
had you nailed up to a tree?

Maybe you were black and tired,
on the front seat of a bus,
Or on a protest march in Bombay
lying face down in the dust.

Maybe you were all of this and more,
Borrowed light from those who came before.

And the children who haven't yet been named
are stronger for your spark,
Stronger for your flame…"

- Randall Williams
from "Praying for Land"

This week's Bible study begs a reposting of this snake story:

"Nice snake..."

I absolutely love Randall William's, "Stronger for Your Flame," [the song starts at 1:40.] When I hear it I am reminded of a poem that has been a longtime - but missing-in-action - companion. Until yesterday, that is.  My copy of this 1990 Godfrey John poem serendipitously found its way back into my hands.  I originally discovered it in the Christian Science Monitor one morning almost thirty years ago, and tucked lovingly into my wallet.  It became my touchstone through a very difficult period.

Someone I loved and respected for his devotion to public service was being maligned, vilified, and treated with disdain -- after decades of admiration and trust.  I was heartbroken, but he wasn't.  His spiritual poise seemed untouched - unshakable.  When we spoke on the phone, or met in person I was always stunned by his grace -- his pure, unflappable grace.

Because we were friends and colleagues, the integrity of those who were close to him had also been called into question. It felt awful.   That is, until finally found the courage to phone him.  I was hungry for some direction about how I should proceed in correcting the misunderstandings and impositions on us all.  

He calmly asked me if I knew my own truth.  I responded that yes, I did. I was certain that I had done nothing wrong.  I knew that my motives, at every juncture, had been pure. And that even though - in hindsight - I might have taken different steps today, I was confident that I had been honest, prayerful, and humble in asking for divine guidance at the time.

He then turned me to a story that Mary Baker Eddy relates in the article "Taking Offense" from her book, Miscellaneous Writings 1883 – 1896:

"A courtier told Constantine that a mob had broken the head of
his statue with stones.  The emperor lifted his hands to his head,
saying: "It is very surprising, but I don't feel hurt in the least."

He then said to me, "you are not there."  You are not the "who," that they are throwing stones at.  They are attacking their own concept of the office that you represent to them, and seem to occupy -- healer, director, mother, father, wife, neighbor, church member.  They are throwing stones at the version of that office that they are holding in consciousness.  But only you know if that is you.  If it is, then it is your opportunity to correct it - with and for God. If it is not you, then you can't feel hurt in the least.  You do not live in their consciousness of you. You live in your consciousness of you.  You must ask yourself, "who is the source of my consciousness of myself - and of them?"

"So," I asked him,  "what should I do when I see them, think of them, or are told stories about what they are saying?"  I swear I could hear his silent smile through the phone as he sighed,  "Why, what else is there to do? You just love them. You truly love them."

This set me back on my heels.  Wasn't I supposed to defend him, me - all of us?

Then he reminded me of how Mary Baker Eddy follows up her story about about Constantine and the mob -- she writes:

"We should remember that the world is wide;
that there are a thousand million different human wills,
opinions, ambitions, tastes, and loves; that each person
has a different history, constitution, culture, character,
from all the rest; that human life is the work, the play,
the ceaseless action and reaction upon each other of
these different atoms.

Then, we should go forth into lifewith the smallest
expectations, but with the largest patience; with a
keen relish for and appreciation of everything beautiful,
great, and good, but with a temper so genial that the
friction of the world shall not wear upon our sensibilities;
with an equanimity so settled that no passing breath
nor accidental disturbance shall agitate or ruffle it;
with a charity broad enough to cover the whole world's evil,
and sweet enough to neutralize what is bitter in it,
--determined not to be offended when no wrong is meant,
nor even when it is, unless the offense be against God.

Nothing short of our own errors should offend us."

This story became a staff - and a rod - for me over the ensuing months.  A staff to lean on, and a rod to prod me forward towards a greater understanding, humility, grace.  It was such a help.

However, I am a visual person.  I love having mental pictures that I can connect with as I exercise new spiritual muscles.  The Constantine story was wearing thin, and I needed something fresh, something I could identify with.  I just didn't feel like an emperor ,and the image of a mob scared me.

That was when Godfrey John's poem appeared on my doorstep wrapped in newsprint.

Here it is:

"Nice Snake"

[Note from poet:  This poem is spun from a story
I was told of an actual little girl in South Africa]

Slowly and with no mistake
the giant snake is inching up
the veranda where the five year old
sits, joyfully sloshing her cereal

As if planned and without noise,
the boa constrictor guiltlessly
encircles the chair and the child in his coils.

He lets his eyes come close to hers.
"Nice snake!" she says, lifting
a spoonful of milk up to his mouth.

He feels excused.  He sips the milk.
She lifts the spoon to her own lips.
His innocence coincides
with hers.  Valued now, he waits.

She feeds him again with special care
"One for you and one for me."
Suddenly he dips his mouth
deep into the bowl.  The child
taps his head with her spoon and laughs:
"Naughty, naughty!  Wait your turn!"

The boa constrictor meekly places
his scaled face against her cheek.
Repentance is responsive to love.

Once again she lifts her spoon
full of light.  His lips sip.
They take turns till the bowl is empty.

Unhurriedly, then, he uncoils
and slides beneath the veranda steps.

We must de-mythologize.

Innocence can not be earned:
innocence is immanent;
innocence is untouched
by guilt or hurt or old age.

Innocence
is a child with a snake and a bowl of cereal –
astonishing the day,
celebrating art.

- Godfrey John

I connected with this poem on such a deep, visceral level. I had just been to Africa, I had seen snakes, I knew the way they were feared.  And I had a little girl who was fearless when it came to snakes, and bugs, and growling dogs -- I wanted to be like her.

This poem became the space I lived in.  It became my posture in loving.  I was willing to share my cereal, but I was also clear about identifying my tablemate. But more importantly, it helped me understand my friend's spiritual poise -- his unshakable dignity, grace and compassion.

This poem became my companion.  In fact, it was such a priceless treasure that we gave it as a gift to our friends in our Christmas cards that year.  More than one asked if the little girl in the poem was our South African daughter -- it was not.

Through my many moves since then, I had misplaced my original copy of the poem and would often try to recall the words I had memorized over twenty years earlier.  I would have a strong grip on ten or twelve lines and then miss a word and not be able to find the rhythm again.  I had been thinking about it a lot over the last year or so, and had on a number of occasions searched folders full of scrips and scraps of quotes, the insides of books (a favorite home for poems and quotes in my library) and old journals - but to no avail.

Then, out of the blue a letter arrived from my mom.  She was harvesting some of her old files and came upon some Christmas cards, photos, and clippings from "once upon a time" and decided to send them to me -- and in that packet was a copy of the Christmas card with our gift of the "Nice Snake" poem.

So,  today I am sending out this post-Christmas card - again. Some of you received it over 20 years ago  Others might be reading it for the first time today. Its message, for me, is still a precious gift.

There are times when we all face misunderstanding, criticism, persecution.  Knowing where our innocence lies and Who defines us -- to ourselves -- is critical in finding peace of mind, and growth in grace.  Jesus, Gandhi, Mandela, Eddy are our mentors in this classroom.

My utmost thanks to Godfrey John for writing it.  To my dear friend who taught me to live with dignity while under fire, as a "whole-souled woman." To Randall Williams for reminding me that we are all sparks to one another's flame.  And to each of you,  for your ongoing example of humility, courage, affection, and trust. I feel so blessed. 

offered with Love, 

Kate

"The Water is Wide..."

"The water is wide, I can't cross over
and neitherhave I wings to fly
give me a boat that can carry two
and both shall row - my Love and I..."

Do you ever have days when the currents of misunderstanding, confused assumptions, and questioned motives seem too wide to traverse?  I've had more than I'd like to admit.  Days when wrestling the demons of  "who said what" and "what was meant" drive me to my knees on the banks of the river Despair.  In those times I have felt so weary with it all.  Years of carefully examining my every note, email, phone call for any hint of disingenuousness in order to build trust seems to dissipate in one moment of misunderstanding right before my eyes.  The gulf between friends, family, or colleagues not only widens, but the rapids of distrust and fear churn the waters into a foaming chasm threatening to swallow us whole.  How do we ever find our way across this place where "there be dragons."  Often I am left feeling so defeated…even before I have launched out in search of a path towards reconciliation.

One night, as I closed out of the last in a series of emails with a family member, I sat back in my chair, eyes closed tightly, praying for direction and guidance, hope and peace. Quietly this song came to mind.  It was from a Sarah McLaughlin/Jewel/Indigo Girls performance at Lilith Fair.  It was their version of "The Water is Wide" that settled its gentle message in my heart, while a river of hot tears coursed down my cheeks and soaked my nightgown.

I thought about these words I had long known by heart.  I had always considered this a beautiful love song…but suddenly I realized what kind of love story it was telling.  It had taken me decades, but I got it.  I finally recognized the face of the One who was rowing with me…it was God.  He was reminding me that it is the Christ within me…that deep spiritual hunger for healing and redemption in all things…that gave me the strength to continue pulling at the oars,  slicing through the waves of fear and hopelessness battering our small vessel.  The face of my Father was sitting across the wood-ribbed housing of my little rowboat encouraging me to not just trust the strength of my faith in Him, but also of His faith in me.  To have confidence that with His immeasurable love… and my genuine desire for restored trust…we would make it to the other side.   

"...Now love is gentle, and love is kind
the sweetest flower when first it's new
but love grows old, and waxes cold
and fades away like morning dew..."

Often, this is just when discouragement tries to seep into my bones.  "Haven't you been working at this relationship for way too long already?" the winds shriek.  My arms begin to feel heavy with the weight of every misunderstanding remembered, every angry tear shed.  My courage begins to slip, my resolve aches with each hard pull towards an opposing shore.  But then, through sheets of driving hopelessness, He catches my eye and with one kind smile reminds me that He is the fire in the belly of this common hope we all share to be understood, trusted and loved.   He is at the core of our shared motives to bless those we care about. 

In His eyes there is kindness…for each of us.  That with His love at the rudder of our hearts, steering our desires towards His will, we are all safe from misunderstanding and distrust.  His Love makes the path towards our individual and collective hopes clear. With Him at the helm of thought, the reason for each relationship in our lives is enduring, immortal, tireless and constant…unconditional and pure.  He is fanning the flame of this burning hunger for peace and harmony.   He reminds me that only anger and misunderstanding, hurt feelings and resentment are powerless because they are not of Him. So whatever is not of God is as lifeless, cold, and fading,  as blustering as a dramatic, but nonetheless passing, storm.

"...There is a ship, she sails the sea
she's loaded deep as deep can be
but not as deep as the love I'm in
I know not how I sink or swim..."

I realized that in His arms we are all "in" a love so deep and wise that no matter how tired we may think we are--no matter how weary our hearts are of "working it out", He never tires--the Christ in us is never exhausted by the work of "making peace."  None of us needs to anticipate sinking in the sea of despair or imagine the need to swim if our little rowboat is ripped apart in the undercurrents of confusion or broken on boulders we can't see in the foam and fury of a seething sea.  We don't need to be afraid because our one true Love, God, will carry us across in His good strong arms.  He will still the sea within our hearts and help us walk on the water to bring us together on the other shore so that we can seek out understanding and brotherhood, work towards unity in the Spirit,  find "peace on earth, good will to men"…His will be done. 

"...The water is wide, I can't cross over
and neither have I wings to fly
give me a boat that can carry two
and both shall row - my Love and I
and both shall row - my Love and I"

with Him all things are possible,
Kate