"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

"Daddy here I am again..."

"Daddy here I am again,
Will you take me back tonight?
I went and made the world my friend,
and it left me high and dry."
- Casting Crowns

I was listening to Casting Crowns' "Prodigal," and remembered a daydream I'd had a few weeks ago. A daydream in which the parable of the Prodigal Son (from the 15th chapter of Luke's gospel) came to life for me in a new way, and gave me new questions to consider. Don't you just love it when that happens? 

As an aside, did you know that the word "prodigal" never appears in the King James' version of the Bible?  I discovered that the word means, "having or giving something on a lavish scale," and that this word we so quickly associate with an errant, selfish boy, actually has its root in the Latin word, "prodigus" which means "lavish."   I'm thinking that I might want to consider reclaiming this word for God, and calling it the parable of the Pridigal Father, as the one who lavishes understanding and compassion on his family.

Anyway, back to my daydream.  In it, I was standing at the end of a dusty road, quietly listening to a conversation between the boy's father and mother.  Her heart was afraid of his hope...afraid of how it might disappoint him...and her.

Come in old man...

He is
gone.

Left
long ago
with his
portion...

I send your meals
to you as
you sit here
waiting...why?

You have a son...
a faithful son,
a good boy, 
one who works beside you,
and asks for nothing

Can't you see how
he
waits for your
attention,
a place in your heart...
while you
wait at the end of the road
searching the
horizon
for
some sign of
the errant one.

Let him go.
Let him be a feckless
child...
wasting
his
substance on
wine, and women,
and games of chance in the
town square.

I cannot let him go.
He is
precious in my sight.
He is
a prince...to me.
He is fighting for his
life...
for his right to
live with
passion...and 
personal vision.

I know he may have
made mistakes,
but he is trying
to make us
proud of him
by doing it all
himself,
all that
he thinks
we think
he
could not do without
our help.

We taught him to
trust his heart...
and our God. 
Now, we need to trust
our God
and His love for him
completely.

Yes, you are right,
he does not
choose my fields today.
He does not
want to stand beside me
in rows
of
barley
counting
ephah of grain.

But he only asked for
the portion he thought was
his birthright,
and the freedom to
explore his
talents
with
out
my
oversight,
or his brother
weighing in.

I may not understand
his path,
but
he is still
our son.

He is still the boy
you sang to sleep.
He is still the boy
whose laughter I love to hear
as it dances
in the wind, and swirls around
me as I work...making my
day lighter, and my
heart smile.

He is still our son's
brother.

I
know you,
wait for him,
too. 
I see you standing by the well,
shielding your eyes from the
sun,
as you scan the horizon
for a sign.
We can trust
that
the Father of us all
has
a plan,
a reason,
a purpose for him...
is teaching him grand lessons...
humility,
courage,
grace...and will
guide  him
safely
home.

I will be watching.
I will be waiting.
I want to hear his story.

I want to
see his face
Hear his voice
Watch him weep in your arms.
Hug his brother.
Share his story....
so others will
not be afraid
to come home.

"Not all who wander
are
lost."

from one who as been waited for...with Love,

Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"Not all who wander are lost."  -  J.R Tolkein

"He's my son..."

"Can you hear me,
am I getting through tonight?
Can you see him,
can you make him feel alright?
If you hear me,
let me take his place somehow.
See he's not just anyone,
He's my son..."

Sometimes I can't help but wonder about her journey between the manger and the cross.  This song "He's my son," (in this link the song is set to scenes from The Passion...a couple of the scenes depicted are difficult to watch) by Mark Schultz, found me tonight and made me wonder if, just as she knew so much about his divine appointing, and his purpose...and "pondered them in her heart"...did she know it all...

This poem poured out as I listened to Mark's song...

Where am I Father
I have lost my
bearings.

I don't know why
You
would send us
here...
here, of all places
far from
all that
feels like
home
so far from all that
speaks to me of
comfort and joy...except You
and Your promise
that he is Your beloved
son
too...


I have traveled
long and
I am tired...
this child of Yours
is ready
to begin his
reign on earth and
we are
nowhere near
a temple
or a canopy.

what kind of
King
holds court
in a
stable with
only
sheep and
goats,
shepherds and doves
for
subjects...

what  kind of prince of
peace
hears only
the sound of
a cow's lowing
to mark
his entrance
into
the kingdom
he will
govern

what kind of
Counselor
cannot yet speak a
word...
will his first language
be
the
language of
beasts and
doves,
stars and straw?

What has this
world
taught him so far?
that he
is not welcome
in the inn...
that his parents are
strangers in a
strange land...
that
he will
never know a
place to call his own?

Where are
my parents,
his grandparents...
on a night like this
when
their grandson
comes
to save a
waiting world

Will anyone
ever wonder
where
they were
or
will the story
be told
as if I was
not only a virgin
but an
orphan....

The cost of
this journey
has been great and it
is not over yet.

But tonight I
will promise my son
that he will never
know
a night this dark and
full of pain
without
his mother's
love...
without my love...
ever
even when he thinks
he doesn't need me
near

Didn't
they wonder
if the same angel
who prepared me for
his arrival
would have also
prepared me for
greater agony...
his departure...

I will be ready
I will be there
he will not
be alone...he is my son...
and Yours...
we will be there.

staying in the manger with them tonight...with Love,
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"...you are the apple of my eye..."

"You are the sunshine of my life,
That's why I'll always stay around,
You are the apple of my eye,
Forever you'll stay in my heart

You must have known that I was lonely,
Because you came to my rescue,
And I know that this must be heaven,
How could so much love be inside of you?"
-     Stevie Wonder

My grandmother used to tell me that I was, as Stevie Wonder sings, "the apple of my eye" to her.  I can't remember when it started, but it always made me feel special.  And in a family of eight children, feeling special was...special.

I remember a birthday card I received from her the year I turned ten, it was a big red apple with some kind of fuzzy red flocking, a green stem, little green leaves, and a worm sitting on the top holding a sign that said "Happy Birthday" and inside it said, "to the apple of my eye." And,  "Love, Dee Dee." My mom found it among some special cards and letters she had been saving all these years and gave it to me last year. For a moment, I was ten again, and felt...special.  

She was never Grandma, Grandmother, Granny, Nana, or Oma...she was DeeDee.  She had bright red hair, wore stilettos at 70, and her lipstick always matched her nails.  She couldn't have been any more unlike my mother if she'd had purple skin...and that fascinated me. 

My mother was the quintessential "earth mother."  She was warm, cozy, funny, childlike, and loved the outdoors.   My grandmother was sharp, smart, crisp, intellectual, and European.  Along with the apple-themed birthday card that year, she sent me a leather poodle, with mink ear and tail puffs, and a small bottle of Chanel No. 5 between his paws.  I was  smitten with her, and the sheer impracticality of that gift.  Like the pointy toes on her 3-1/2 inch red patent leather pumps, it made no sense.  To anyone...except the two of us.  She somehow knew that I needed to feel grown up and extravagant that year.  And I did.

No, she was not very grandmotherly in a traditional way, but she was my grandmother.  She would send me Margaret Tsuda art reviews she'd clipped from the Home Forum section of The Christian Science Monitor, long after I'd decided my spiritual journey was going to take a few side trips through other religious practices and spiritual philosophies...and I read them.  There was something about receiving them from her that made me feel connected to something wonderful and magical (our mutual love for art, history, and NYC). And I somehow knew it made her happy to think of me reading them.  It never occurred to me...at the time...that by sending those clippings, she was building bridges that connected me to something that was just as critical to my sense of who I was, and where I came from.  By sending those articles, she'd found a way to keep those words, "Christian Science" in my vocabulary, not in a religious way (since she knew I was exploring many different faiths and philosophies at the time), but in a way that was more comfortable for me to engage with, and appreciate on. And to be honest, one that I was proud to be associated with.  It's reputation for journalistic excellence was unparalleled...and I knew it.

When those thickly stuffed envelopes would arrive with her very uniquely vertical handwriting on the front, I would save each packet...sometimes just sitting propped up on my desk at school all day...until I had a moment to savor the beauty of what I knew would be inside.  An article about a beautiful painting, drawing, sculpture, or photograph written by someone she knew I admired and felt a connection to. 

Tsuda had hosted my cousins and I one autumn afternoon for tea at her apartment, and then given us a guided tour of the Guggenheim at my grandmother's request.  I was 15 years old and I can still remember how grown up and sophisticated I felt in my pleated skirt and Bass loafers with navy blue knee socks, as we felt our way along the spiraled walls to the sound of Margaret's hushed guidance and snippets of history about each piece of art we were experiencing. 

Today I realize what a gift that day was to me.  It honored my life-long love for art and gave my grandmother and I a point of reference for a special connection that would endure over the ensuing three decades.  It was a thread that extended from her heart to mine and it never let me get too far from who she knew me to be...a young woman who loved beauty, history, and being treated as a vigorous spiritual  thinker.

Those hand-clipped art reviews from the Home Forum page always seemed to include the nearby "Monitor Religious article" and today I can admit to having read everyone of them.  Articles about what it meant to be spiritual and how to make that spirituality practical in our lives.

Although she often spoke of her love for God, my grandmother never mentioned religion, or that daily religious article, in her accompanying note.  But as a Christian Science practitioner herself,  I have no doubt that she sent it with the hopes that if, perchance, I was ever hungry for an inspiring spiritual idea...one that would be familiar and healing in a dark hour...I would have something at hand.

In this way she and my mother (her daughter) were very, very much alike.  They were both practical and loving in ways that really mattered.  My mother always made sure I knew how close she was if, and when, I ever needed her...even when she lived thousands of miles away and had six other children to care for.  And my grandmother never let me forget that the most important things in the world were already within me.

I once asked my grandmother why she called me the apple of her eye, and although I thought her answer was pretty "hokey" at the time, I never forgot it.  She said, "because you ripen into something more beautiful and sweet each time time I see you."  I knew she meant it.

My mother and my grandmother were like the angels Gabriel and Michael on either side of me.  My grandmother fought the war for holiness in my life.  My mother was the constant, gentle presence of ministering love.  Together, one on each side, they held my hands as I navigated my spiritual journey from sense to soul.   I needed both of them in order to become the woman I am today.  Their example helped me remember what really matters...modesty, beauty, family, generosity, honesty, faith, temperance, and hope...lots of hope.

They still do.  My mother's example reminds me that it is good to be soft, that nothing could deprive me of my right to be generous and charitable, that it is important to take time and play with my children, that a woman is most beautiful when she laughs hard, and to forgive myself, and others quickly...and to love God with my whole heart.  My grandmother's voice..singing through my heart...never, ever, lets me forget that I can do anything through Christ, that intelligence is truly beautiful, and that Love is not just a good feeling, but a law to rest one's case on.

With women like this on my side...either side...I have been supported, blessed, and loved into womanhood. 

I am so thankful to be the apple of one's eye, and the other's first (of many) cherished baby, beloved child, precious girl, adored daughter.
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

[photo credit:  Hollister Thomas 2009]