"at times you'll lose your faith in me..."

"You will lose
your baby teeth,
At times, you'll lose your faith in me.
You may lose a lot of things,
but you cannot lose Her love..."

As you probably noticed, I took lyrical liberty with Sara Groves'  "You Cannot Lose My Love"  in the epigraph above. God's love - and all that goes with it - is the one thing I am certain that we can never lose.

Being mom is not easy. There is absolutely no way to know how to do it -- until you are doing it. I am the oldest of eight children. I was the big sister. I helped my parents raise my younger siblings from the time I was old enough to hold my sister's hand as we crossed the street. I learned how to make Cream of Wheat for eight people, by the time I was ten. I could change a diaper at six, and keep toddlers entertained for hours by before I was eight. But I was not prepared for motherhood.

Motherhood is not about tasks and responsibilities.  It just includes a lot of them.  Motherhood is about surrendering everything for another person's needs, wants, hopes and dreams.

Motherhood is the most intimate relationship I have ever been in -- and I never saw the depth of it coming. From the moment my daughters were in my arms, I ceased to have a body of my own. There was not a square inch of my being that they didn't have access to. I no longer had the freedom to disappear into my own little world. Every penny I made, was for them -- first. Every choice I faced, went through the filter of what was best for them. Every decision was colored by how it would effect them. And believe it our not, it all gives me such joy.

But it has also made me very sad at times. I have made mistakes. Considerable ones. I know I have disappointed them, and myself. But I can honestly say that each time, I was doing the best I knew how with the information and experiences that I'd had to date. Every mother does. Of this I am most sure. We are all just showing up each day wondering if our words will help, confuse, humiliate, or inspire. We pray that we will make the right choice. We wonder if this will be the day that we will finally feel like we are doing it right.

And that is the one common denominator in my every day -- prayer. I pray each day that I won't let our children down. That I won't do or say something that makes them lose their faith in the reliability of my love for them. But I don't always succeed. So here is what I know. It's not about me -- or my ability to always do it all right.

It's about God -- the one Mother that will never let them down. All I can do is model a radical trust in Her. All I can do is be an example of what it means to pray, do my best, perhaps fail -- and if so, seek her mercy, because She is merciful.

They may fail as parents. They may not always make the decisions that will make their own children happy. But if I can show them that even in the midst of our failures we are still loved, we can still hope, and that we are capable of persevering in our desire to do right by our children -- then, I will have succeeded in turning them towards a Mother-figure who will always be there for them.

There was a point in my life when I felt that I had failed them terribly. I wrestled mightily with self-doubt and regret. Had I made the right decision? Did I even deserve to be their mother? Would this "chapter" in our lives leave them doubting the wisdom in trusting God?

And then I thought about all the examples of motherhood that I most admired. These were not perfect humans. They were persistent examples of turning to God, models of forgiveness, and humble mentors of grace.

Today, I am moved by all the ways that divine Love is parenting us all -- as parents. To know God as Love, is my one goal. When I know how God loves, I will know how to love others more consistently. When I have failed, God has always loved me forward out of the pit of self-doubt and despair. It is this kind of love - in the midst of my human failings - that has taught me most about the love that uplifts, transforms, and heals. And it is this Love that never fails.

My children may lose their faith in me. But my prayer is that they never lose their faith in God. Her love will never leave them. Her love will never fail them.

offered with Love,

Kate

"darling, darling, stand by me..."

"If the sky
that we look upon
should tumble and fall,
or the mountain should
crumble to the sea

I won't cry,
I won't cry,
no I won't shed a tear,
just as long as you
stand by me..."

I am stepping away from writing a message with a moral tonight. This post is simply a recognition -- and a thank you -- to my husband. Florence and the Machine's lush version of, "Stand by Me" -- beautifully captured in this Game of Thrones-themed music video -- says most perfectly what is in my heart.

Marriage is not always "white lace and promises, a kiss for luck and be on your way" -- to quote Karen and Richard Carpenter. At least it hasn't been for me. Marriage has been many things -- but rarely has it been a stroll through a field of wildflowers, or a day on the beach.

When Jeff and I married, we were both grown ups who had been married before.  We had five children between us to love and nurture. The oldest three were well on their way to becoming independent adults. The youngest two were still in grade school. The last twelve years have been devoted to making sure that our children felt loved, believed in, and supported.

The youngest are our twin daughters, and we have had the privilege of raising them with their dad and stepmom -- as well as their birth mother who was part of our parenting dream team. The girls have been our day-to-day (and night-to-night) focus for more than a decade. Jeff, has been their advocate, college finance advisor, car/truck/horse trailer problem solver, banking liaison, etc. since the day he became their stepdad.

He has been willing to take whatever work necessary -- in addition to his primary jobs -- in order to make ends meet. He is often up well past midnight -- even when he has to be up by 5:30 the next morning -- filling out FAFSA forms, writing emails to the college registrar's office, or just figuring out phone plans.  He takes every call they make to him - asking for advice about anything from how to check the oil in the truck, to where they should go for fixing a broken screen.  He is the silent hero in the background of their accomplishments and successes. I am in awe of his tireless care for them. Within our parenting team -- he is on point for every situation.

When difficult bumps in the road threaten to send us careening around an unexpected curve, through the guardrails, and flying off the edge - into a logistical or emotional ravine of self-doubt, lack, uncertainty, or fear, he is as steady as a rock. He quietly reminds me that we've seen harder times, faced worse criticism, and weathered greater storms -- and that we will get through the current one as well. We might get wet, but we'll be together, and together we'll expect "a bow of promise."

When I am trembling, he is rock solid. When I am frantic, he is unflinchingly calm. When I can't find my way out of the pit of despair, it is his hand that is exactly where I need it to be to pull me up. He is faithful, trusting, God-focused, and unmoved by earthquake, wind, or fire. His peace cannot be taken from him, and I count on his calm to remind me that God is with us -- we will not be afraid.

Someone recently asked me why, after the end of my previous marriage -- one that brought three beautiful children into my life -- I would re-marry. You know, it was not something I ever anticipated doing. But when your best friend wants to stand by you -- well, it wasn't much of a choice.

Like trees, our roots have become so entwined under the surface, that even though our closest friends and acquaintances rarely see us doing anything together, we are what stabilizes the other in every storm. We trust that we are each, always, reaching towards God first, and persistently digging deeper for a spiritual foundation in every situation.

Whereas I am a turtle and would rather do nothing, than tuck deeply into myself in a storm, he is an eagle that uses the storm's invisible thermals to rise higher in his understanding of God's ever-presence.  From that higher point of view, he gathers the bigger picture and brings it down to where I am - coaxing me out of my hermitage.

Recently, it was his strength of conviction - that we were going to be safe in the midst of a storm - which gave me the courage to love when I wanted to scream, cry, wail, and weep. It was his spiritual poise that calmed my own quaking.

In the chapter "Marriage" from her primary text, Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, Mary Baker Eddy states -- with scientific certainty:

"The scientific morale
of marriage is spiritual unity." 

I have seen this proven day-after-day in our marriage. When we unite in our love for God, and our love for others -- we are strong, unflinching, and resolute in our fearlessness.

Elsewhere in a collection of articles, sermons, and questions/answers titled, Miscellaneous Writings, Mary Baker Eddy asks, and answers, this question:

"What do you think of marriage?

That it is often convenient,
sometimes pleasant, and occasionally
a love affair. Marriage is
susceptible of many definitions.

It sometimes presents the most
wretched condition of human existence.
To be normal, it must be a union
of the affections that tends
to lift mortals higher." 

I used to think that she was talking about different kinds of marriages. That some marriages were convenient, and others were pleasant, and yet others were a love affair.

That was until I was married myself. 

 Now I think she means that every marriage has moments when it may seem to look pleasant one second, and wretched the next. The genius of marriage is that it gives us ample opportunity for growth in grace, and and the same opportunity for monitoring our progress -- since we must do it over-and-over again, day-after-day, with the very same person.  As a scientist, it is this controlled environment - within the laboratory of our human experience - that allows for the most accurate assessment of change and growth. 

So tonight, I am writing to say thank you to the man who demands the best from me - by always bringing his best to the table. He would rather be kind than right. He is patient, tender and true. He is willing to go the extra mile for our daughters, and the people he works with. He holds uncomplaining guard over our family -- and the world.  It humbles me. His trust in the over-arching goodness of God's sovereignty is breath-taking. I am blessed.

offered with Love,

Kate

"He withholds no good thing from us..."

"He withholds no good thing from us, 

no good thing from us.

I will open my hands, 

I will open my heart...." 

This morning I was reading Scripture, and came upon this statement from the Psalmist: 

"...the Lord will give grace and glory; 

no good thing will he withhold from them..." 

And, as you can imagine if you are a regular reader of this blog, it came into my heart in the voice of a song.  And not surprisingly, the voice of Sara Groves' singing, "Open My Hands." 

The Lord gives us grace, and glory.  Gives!  We don't have to earn it.  And, in fact, we can't.  There is nothing we can do, or say, to make ourselves more acceptable to Him.  He/She is our Father-Mother.  He loves us.  She cares for us.  

In fact, grace, glory -- "all good things," are not a spiritual paycheck.  All good things are not a salary for a life well-lived, a thought well-thunk, or a prayer well-prayed.  They are the unmerited giving of a Father who loves His child. They are the un-earned support of a Mother - for her beloved son/daughter.  

But so often when, as a spiritual thinker, I consider the phrase, "I will open my hands..." It is in easier to imagine opening my hands in service to others, to giving, or to being generous.  

It is not always so easy - or comfortable - for me, to see myself as opening my hands as a "receiver." 

Yet I am learning that to "receive" is just as vital - in the universal flow of "all good things," - as giving.  Whether the divine gifts of grace, glory, and "good things" seem to come directly from a heavenly hand -- dropping into my waiting heart, or through the kindness of a family member, friend, or stranger -- my willingness to accept these gifts, as the presence of God's love and care, must be unconditionally filled with humility, gratitude, and yes, grace. 

Any other response leaves God out of His goodness, and opens the door to believing that there is any other Source, of anything -- good, or not-so-good.  That there could be another cause or creator in the Universe.  

I can't afford to hold that in my heart.  Can you? 

with Love, 

Kate

"In your eyes, I am complete..."

"...Without a noise,
without my pride
I reach out from the inside...

...In your eyes
The light. the heat
In your eyes
I am complete,
In your eyes
The resolution of all
the fruitless searches..."
- Peter Gabriel

One of the most wonderful moments in my own journey towards a more authentic humility, and real confidence in Christ, came while driving home from church one early Spring day.  I'd  been spending most of my time quite alone that week.  My husband was on assignment in another city, and my children were on a trip with their dad and stepmom.  It was me and Mollie, our little Golden Retriever, and she wasn't talking much.  I was looking at myself and my world, through the silent lens of living, moving, and breathing, as Peter Gabriel suggests, "In Your Eye".

I'd made a commitment, earlier that year, to spend as much time in silence as was humanly possible.  In order to strengthen my practice of "deep listening" I was carving out spaces in my day for silence...blocks of time where I would open my heart to hearing only the voice of my divine parent.  No television or music at home, not even our lovely classical station or my beloved NPR (National Public Radio) in the car...and by the way, it was this giving up of "All Things Considered", "The Diane Rehm Show", "Talk of the Nation" with Neal Conan, "Fresh Air", and "Morning Edition" that gave me the shakes.  But I'd made a commitment and there was no going back during that 100 days.  I'd decided that cold turkey was the only way to go, and soon wished I'd found an AA-like sponsor to help me through the first few road trips.

On this particular Sunday I was missing the distraction of listening to someone else's talking, an inspired guest on "Speaking of Faith", or the witty brothers, Tom and Ray, on "CarTalk" to fill the silence, and to save me from my own thoughts.  They'd be funny. Whereas, my thoughts were dark, and I felt small and insignificant.

I decided to stay the course, "step away from the radio", and instead, launch into a dialogue with God. I began by asking the question, "What is it that most often leaves me feeling this way...scared and small?"  I just sat with that question until the answer became perfectly clear.  And I knew the answer was accurate, because I accepted it without another thought.  It said, "When I compare myself to others."  Hmmm.  I didn't question it for a second.  I knew it was true. 

I'd spent most of my life alternately being obsessed with, or haunted by, comparing myself with others.  Comparing my body, parenting skills, possessions, work, inspiration...to those of the people around me.  How did I measure up? Was I better than...or did I fall short of?  But the person I could most often be found comparing myself to was, well...myself.  My past self.  My imagined self.  My self that made mistakes, my self that had, in the past, reached beyond her goals, or wondered if she would ever really be inspired (or inspiring) quite the way she'd always hoped.  The self that was never good enough...the self that perceived she was separated from God, good. 

"But how do I stop?" I wondered from behind the steering wheel, in the drumming silence of a rainy Sunday afternoon.  Then I remembered I was supposed to be listening to God, not my own musings.  So I asked, "Father, why do I compare myself to others?"  God's response was quick and as clear and penetrating as glass slicing through the years of guilt, self-doubt, and regret.

"What others?" my Father's voice asked.

I got it.  In the sacred sanctuary of our relationship, there was no one else "in the room"...in God's heart...but me.

But could this really be possible?  Then I thought about my relationship with my own daughters.  I do not compare my love for Emma with my love for Clara.  I never compare one's gifts with the other's.  Each is completely wonderful, completely beautiful, completely complete in my heart.  There is no measure of love...a certain portion with one, and a different amount with the other...only All-for-each.   I fully love them, each of my children, completely, but individually...without comparison. It made me laugh to think of all the times I have heard the phrase "compared favorably"...what an oxymoron!!

I can't tell you how many times this divine question, "What others?" has stopped me in my mental tracks when the comparison snake starts to slither and hiss its sneaky self around my heart. 

"What others?"

In my relationship with my Father-Mother God, there is no one else in the room.  I have His/Her entire attention and love.  But then, so do you...
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

[photo credit:  Carol Nicoli-Matthews on an Italian beach as taken by, and through the eyes of her mother, my friend, Laura Matthews 2009]

"Whither shall I go from Thy spirit..."

"Whither shall I go from Thy spirit
Or whither shall I flee from thy presence
If I ascend up into heaven Thou are there
If I make my bed in hell Thou are there..."
- Adapted from Psalms 139

In Tuesday, July 28th's post (scroll down in you are interested in reading it) I referred to our camp tradition of counselors and staff singing "Whither" to campers at the end of the session.  Thanks to Michael's thoughtfulness, we now have this beautiful tradition captured on film, posted on Youtube, and linked in this post...click on the title earlier in this paragraph. 

This song runs so deeply through my life, that it is like an underground stream...with the onset of the smallest fissure it springs to the surface of thought providing living waters to the thirsty...me.

This was the case last March.  The girls and I left straight from a Saturday morning soccer game, to drive almost two hours through the backroads of Missouri for the last day and a half of the Midwest Youth Summit.  From the minute I pulled up in front of the Lodge, the girls were gathered up by chaperones and absorbed into the middle school program...laughing and running from here to there with a happy group of friends. 

My day and evening were full and happy as well.  A fresh approach to hymn singing, a variety show, conversations with friends I hadn't seen in years filled hours that felt like minutes. Sometime during the evening, the girls found me in a large gathering, to say goodnight before heading off with their friends for cabin-time and a good night's sleep.

And somehow, I too, finally made it back to my room around 2AM.  After mentally reviewing a rich feast of conversations and dozens of reconnections with old friend, I prayed a prayer of deep gratitude, and softly fell off to sleep. 

It couldn't have been more than about fifteen minutes when my cell phone beeped with a text message.  It was one of our daughters.  She was facing a difficult moment alone in the dark, everyone else (including the adult chaperones) was asleep, and she didn't know what to do...and she was fearful.  I tried to text her back with encouragement and to tell her that I had gotten her message and would begin praying, but my phone repeatedly told me that I did not have enough of a signal to send a text message. I thought about calling, but I didn't want to wake the rest of her cabin.

We were in the middle of the woods in a very remote part of southern Missouri and there were few options at 3:30 in the morning.  Her cabin was about a quarter of a mile from where my room was, but I pulled a wool sweater on over my nightgown, and slipped my feet into my flipflops and wandered into the dark without a flashlight picking my way across the gravel and rocks, stones and shale...up and down a long hill to the porch of her cabin.  The door was locked, and all the lights were out.  Not a sound. 

I sat on the porch and prayed.  I very gently tapped on the door, but it was a  large cabin and I had no idea where her bed was in relation to the door.  So I quickly gave up that plan.

Finally I decided to return to the main lodge and try standing on a rise in the hill, where I thought I might be able to get enough cell signal so that I could text her.  But after fifteen minutes of trying...nothing.  I went back into the lodge. 

I didn't want to wake my roommate so I sat in the hallway and as I prayed, bing...another text came through from my daughter.  She was still awake and unsettled.  She didn't know what to do.  She was praying, but was fearful.  This situation was something that, at home, I would have gone to her immediately, snuggled under her quilts with her, whispered spiritual truths about her identity,  and stroked her temples singing hymns to her until she felt well, and had fallen back asleep.   But I couldn't get to her.  I couldn't even get a text message to go through to her.  It had me almost frantic...and yes, I was praying all the while.

That was when this song, "Whither," (I hope you enjoy this new link with my niece, Lily, performing it so beautifully) which my daughters have grown up singing at camp, and hearing throughout the year for inspiration, healing, and comfort, came to me as a new prayer.

I know it sounds simple, but something about these words completely lifted my concern for her.  I remembered.  Her Father-Mother God was already with her in her cabin, in the middle of the woods, in her narrow bunk. Her divine Parent was comforting her, assuring her, giving her all the ideas she needed to be at peace with the situation at hand, to rest upon God's wisdom and guidance, and to pray for herself a prayer of gratitude that she was dwelling in "the secret place of the Most High" where nothing could unsettle her joy.

Within moments I too was at peace.  I remembered that I loved her...and that since there is no fear in love...I was NOT fearful.  I couldn't be.  Love and fear could not dwell in the same space...and my heart was filled with love for my daughters...I was sure of that.

I returned to my room, climbed into my bed and spent the rest of the night silently singing "Whither" to myself, listening for all the assurances from my own divine Parent.  Assurances that I too was Her child and could trust all that I love, including my daughter, to Her care. 

I thought of all the times when the girls were itty-bitties and I had to leave them with my mom, their grandmother, so that I could go where I was needed in caring for the spiritual needs of others.  And as much as I missed being with them and holding their soft little bodies and cuddling with them, I never worried about them.   I knew how my mother loved, I had experienced it as her daughter.  I knew that she loved me, and my children, with an everlasting love...a love that was unfathomably deep and fiercely attentive. 

But I also knew that as much as she loved us, God loved us more.   This was enough.

I didn't fall asleep that night.  I didn't want to...or need to.  As Mary Baker Eddy states in Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures:

"The highest and sweetest rest, even from a human standpoint,
is in holy work."

And it is.  The next morning I caught up with my daughters at breakfast in the lodge, and both girls were happy, rested, and ready for the workshops and activities that would fill their day.

I was too...happy, rested, and ready. 

Here are the words to "Whither" in case you would like to sing along as you watch Michael's video: 

"Whither shall I go from Thy Spirit
Or whither shall I flee from Thy presence
If I ascend up into heaven, Thou art there.
If I make my bed in hell, Thou are there.

If I take the wings of the morning
And dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,
Even there shall Thy hand lead me,
And Thy right hand shall hold me.

Grace unto you
And peace from above.
Peace from on high,
From Thy Spirit.

Be still and know that I am God.
Be still and know that I am God.
Peace has come,
Let it stay.
Peace has come,
To all...today."

Peace unto you...and and grace from above...
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"She loved me like a rock..."

"When I was a little boy
And the Devil would call my name
I'd say "Now who do,
Who do you think you're fooling?"
I'm a consecrated boy
I'm a singer in a Sunday choir

Oh my mama loves me, she loves me
She get down on her knees and hug me
She loves me like a rock
She rocks me like the rock of ages
And loves me
She love me, love me, love me, love me..."
- Paul Simon

Okay, it may seem like a stretch, but this afternoon while driving to an appointment, I turned on the radio and Paul Simon's "Loves Me Like a Rock" started playing.  Immediately I found myself thinking about Jesus and his mother. 

She loved him. Oh, she loved him.  She got down on her knees, and hugged him.  It made me cry.

Last weekend I met some moms and dads who love their teens...deeply.  They'd volunteered for a conference focused on nurturing the spiritual lives of teen thought-leaders.  These moms, dads, and adult mentors gathered on a college campus in the heartland to celebrate spiritual leadership and its  promise of peace, health, and collective prosperity in an ever-expanding global community.  It wasn't hard to see how much they loved them.   I could imagine each one of those teens...with an adoring adult on his/her knees hugging them, loving them, believing in their gifts, celebrating the remarkable thinkers they are...knowing that they can accomplish all good, because they are all good. 

I could see each of these adults at the wedding in Cana encouraging a young healer's friends to have faith that the water would become wine.  I could imagine each of these precious parents, adult friends and mentors as silent invisible "women" ministering unto their teen's mission and purpose with prayers, and hymns, and spiritual songs all along a dusty road...sometimes steep, often winding, rocky, and rugged.  I could hear their calls of encouragement, their whispered prayers for protection and guidance.  It wasn't hard to see Jesus' mother encouraging each adult to not lose sight of the vision, to remember what they'ev always known...God is with them...the kingdom of heaven is within every child.

As I drove home from the conference my route took me from the meandering beauty of the River Road ...sailboats gliding lazily, water skiiers laughing as they sliced through the water leaving a wake behind them...to the heart of our city's streets - miles of concrete, hot with Labor Day's humidity and humanity.  The "get down on her knees and hug me" kind of love for teens wasn't as easy to see, but it was palpably there in urban neighborhoods.  Moms, aunts and grandmas sat on cement stoops braiding hair, drinking sweet tea, and encouraging their sons, daughters, and neighbors to "be safe", help one another, and do something good for someone else.   Dads, uncles and grandpas grilled, washed cars, mowed lawns and by example taught their children that family matters, your neighbors deserve your respect, and your word is your pledge.  I've lived in this neighborhood, these were my neighbors, their children were, and are, dear to me. 

As we get down on our knees and hug our children...of all ages...this week, sending them off to school for the first day of sixth grade...or grad school, I pray we see the world as a place full of children with hopes and dreams...and parents who dream with them in kabbutzes, villages, and cities...in burkas, suits, or sarongs.   As we recall our own first dreams for our children's future, their first hopes to become president, physicist, inventor, fireman, or mom...I pray we can stretch our mental arms even further until they reach around all the children of the world...of all ages.  Just like our Father-Mother God who asked a unwed teenage mother over 2,000 years ago to believe an angel, walk with dignity, trust a promise, and never lose sight of a grand vision for His child.

I hope you have a wonder-filled weekend and that we can all find a moment to get down on our knees and hug a child's dream...any...and every...child's dream.  It's never too late to love them, love them, love them...

with Love,
Kate

"As long as I have a heart..."

"…As long as I have a heart
You've a safe place to dream in
A tree to carve your name in
As long as I have a heart
As long as you need a love
That time won't take away
Baby you have it made
As long as I have a heart…"
-Henry/Wilson

I was talking to my daughter today.  She is on the other side of the world in  another hemisphere.  At night she looks up at the Southern Cross.  While we are shivering in the bitter cold of winter, she is enjoying a sunny beach.  But when I think of her, and especially when I am talking to her…and the sound of her voice is filling all the space within my heart and head…I am not in a place defined by geography.  There are no latitudes and longitudes mapping out our locations.  We are one.

Her laughter is the most beautiful place I have ever been.  Her thoughts…the expanse of her dreams, the simple undulating rhythms of her day…are the landscape of this mother's heaven.   When she speaks I can feel her small fingers entwined in mine as tangibly as when we crossed streets on our way to Kindergarten when she was five.

Today, this song from Kathy Matthea's 1987  "Untasted Honey" CD sang through my heart all day as I thought of her.  My heart became her homestead the moment she arrived…tiny, strong, beautiful, feisty, funny, alert, and full of questions from the very start…she was (and still is) all of my dreams come true.

This heart of mine stands ready to yield its resources, accept the seeds of her dreams, provide shelter from the winds of doubt and frustration, remind her that we both are under the sovereign governance of a supremely good God, and welcome her home…always.

Because of her, I have learned that there is no time in this land of Love.  I have discovered that Love knows no distance and cannot be defined by space.  Love has only one address…the heart.  This heart never tires, never plumbs the depth of its capacity to respond, never thinks in portions, never holds on to what doesn't bless, and never lets go of her child's hand.  This heart is the home she can never leave and will always be there to find respite and refreshment in.

As long as I have a heart….she, and her sisters, have a home that will never change.

"…My love will always hold you near
No matter where you go…you're here…"

Kate

"Baby mine..."

"Baby mine, don't you cry.
Baby mine, dry your eyes.
Rest your head close to my heart,
never to part, baby of mine..."
-Churchhill/Washington

These lyrics from "Baby Mine" which Mama Jumbo sings to her baby in Disney's Dumbo, leave me speechless (and weeping) everytime I hear them.  In an instant I am transported back to a day that is etched on my heart indelibly. I am sitting in the back of an enormous Land Rover in the middle of the the African bush on photographic safari.  It is late Spring and we are less than fifty yards from a mother elephant and her baby.  Our guide reminds us that rampant poaching has made this picture of African serenity rare.   I am holding my three week old daughter in my arms and the connection between the four of us...mama elephant and her baby, me and my daughter...echoes across the veld and through the dry red African air like a call to prayer.  This song sweeps across my heart and I am as taken apart by it then as I was the first time I heard it in a dark Marshalltown, Iowa movie theatre when I was 8. 

These are not animated Disney characters.  There are no colorful circus tents, talking giraffes, dancing crows, or silly clowns that would soften the blow of watching a mother elephant being taken from her child.  The love is very real here.  I can actually feel the tenderness that flows through the soft curl of her trunk around her baby's chest.  It is as if we share some primordial energy causing my arm to softly curve beneath my daughter's back when I see her trunk tighten around her baby's foreleg.  We are two women and two babies.  We are mothers and daughters, devoted parent and child, trusting infant and Love-impelled mom.  There is no hierarchy of species, there is no sophistry in our communication.  We are moved by something divine...

here is the poem that fell onto the page that night...I found it in an old journal today...

loving you is not a
choice

it is a divine imperative

it is
an insistent demand

a
moment of undeniable
spiritual impulsion
on
the sea of our
deepest inner longings

it is the
coincidence
of the human and the divine

the
"as in heaven…
     so on earth"

the Word
     made flesh

the kingdom of heaven
within

the Emmanuel
    or
"God with us"…in me

it is all that is
good
and pure
and
holy
in
the universe

it is the
holy kiss

the
song
of
Solomon

it is voice of
the turtle
heard in our land

it is
the desire
that is prayer

the sweet agony of
Gethsemane,
Calvary…..
          the morning meal
          on the shores
          of the Gallilean Sea

loving you is not
a choice

loving you
came
in an
empty manger
cold and
lonely
yet
full of
grace

loving you
is not a choice

it is as
choiceless as
the flower turning
toward the light

the leaf
turning its
veins to the rain

the roots
digging deeper for
water

the dew
lifting
to echo
the open
call
of the sun's
demand for morning

it is a force
from within

the sweet pull
of
the moon upon
the water's body
of complacency
making  it
kiss the
shore in
a crescendo
of foam
and fury


loving you is not
a choice
it is
free of
decision…
reason…
pros and cons…
hypothetical "what ifs"

It is…
simply…
what is

i love you "baby mine"...
Mum

"How can I tell you..."

"How can I tell you that I love you,
I love you
but I can't think of right words to say
I long to tell you that I'm always thinking of you
I'm always thinking of you,
but my words just blow away,
words just blow away…"
- Yusuf Islam (Cat Stevens)

I have an mp3 version of this Cat Stevens classic just sitting on my desktop so that I can play it whenever I wish to feel the tenderness of its timeless message.  It's been covered by many wonderful recording artists over the last 35 years, but my favorite is a version done recently by Ben Taylor (yes, Carly and James' son…it's a dynasty!), and it's this version that I play when I am hungering for something to re-boot my heart.

It was Ben's voice that I heard playing through my heart this morning as I pondered the ideas shared in a post titled "Communicating Love: my first stint as a grandma" on my friend, Laura's, blog.  I hope you'll take the time to read it before going any further, but in case you are in a hurry, for me, it boiled down to the question, What if "what makes up family ties [other] than eye color or height or bone structure. [is] How we express affection… We can bring people into our family circle by extending that affection outward and sharing with others until all families are interconnected in Love…[and what if we were to] Spread the forms of affection we value, rather than the ideologies or traditions that divide us. [and then] When we meet new friends, [we could] introduce them to the things that make us feel most loved."  (I have tried to give you a snippet here…but you really will love to read her entire piece…it is short, sweet and profound….and I think it will help you understand what I am trying to say too!)

I have been thinking about this all morning.  What if we thought that the most important thing we had to share with another person was the HOW of our loving.  What would happen if what someone took away from a meeting or encounter, was not our opinions, concerns or ideologies, but HOW we express affection.

One example, for me, has been a increasing affection for my daughters' stepmom.  I had known her for some time as an acquaintance and colleague, but it has only been in sharing the office of "mom" with her, that I have discovered HOW she loves.  Each day our daughters pass along, through their expressed affection for us, some of the ways in which we each express our affection for them, and through that sharing, I have grown to feel a genuine appreciation of, and love for, her.  She has introduced new traditions of loving into our family that have made us richer for her presence.

Yesterday our daughters came home after their first day back at school with Christmas gifts they had made, but had forgotten to bring home, before their holiday break.   I was so touched by a large card that said at the top:  "Why Clara and I Love you…".  This is every mother's dream gift…a list of those things that have endeared you to your children…does it get any better?  The first sentence read:  "We are grateful for you because…."   What followed was an inventory of sweet and funny things like: "You are the funniest/embarrassing person we ever met…"   I was so touched. 

I had just finished reading the entire page when Emma innocently chirped in that they had given the same letter to their stepmom.  At first I was a bit surprised.   That is until later in the evening.  I was working in my office when Clara came in and scooched onto my lap to snuggle.  It was then that she saw the letter sitting on my desk and picked it up. She explained that she and her sister had decorated it themselves and then she began to read it aloud to me.  As she came to each of the items: peace in the midst of noise, readiness to rock and roll, an artistic approach to things, etc.…she affirmed audibly to herself...and to me... that yes, both her stepmom and I were great at doing each of these things, and didn't I think it was cool that we were so much alike. 

I told her, quite honestly, that I did.  Perhaps it was then that I realized perhaps one of the reasons the girls think we are so much alike is because of what we are each learning from our daughters about new ways of expressing love. That some of these traditions and customs...lullabies, recipes, approaches to holidays and routines... which they have learned (and are learning) from each of us, are enriching our homes and families...individually and collectively.  They are cross-pollinating our lives with "love customs" that will become shared, making us truly one big family because of the commonalities in how we love….how we express our love and affection for eachother…and for others.

So, thanks Laura.  Your post from today has helped me see that it is in how we express affection, rather than a shared name, similar features, agreed upon ideologies, or even the number of years we have shared the same address that makes us a family, a community, a "people".  Or as Randall Williams sings in his song from the recently released "Praying for Land" CD titled Draw the Line:

"It comes down to how we love,
not where we draw the line..."

Kate

"Wide open spaces..."

"Who doesn't know what I'm talking about
Who's never left home, who's never struck out
To find a dream and a life of their own
A place in the clouds, a foundation of stone

She needs wide open spaces
Room to make her big mistakes
She needs new faces
She knows the high stakes
She needs wide open spaces…"

I was thinking about the the Dixie Chicks' song, "Wide Open Spaces," it today.  A friend and I have been talking about the tug on our hearts as our daughters have struck out for "a dream and a life of their own."  This was one of my daughter's favorite "traveling down the road with the windows down, the sunroof open, and the CD player blaring" songs.  We always listened to it as we headed over Kenosha Pass and through the wide open spaces of South Park (yes, Virginia…there really is a place called South Park) on our way to camp. 

And as much as I love the song…and the sentiment, it wasn't one that really resonated with me.  Yes, I did strike out for a dream and a life of my own, but only after my parents had already moved out of the area well before I thought I was ready to be on my own.  In fact, as an adult daughter, I was usually the one following my mother from place to place still trying to get more one-on-one time.  So when my own daughter started needing her own space from me--her overwhelmingly attentive and fascinated-with-her-every-move mom--I was hurt and baffled. 

It took having her go away to school 12,000 miles around the globe for me to get the message that she was really going to be just fine without me to cheerlead her every achievement.   My friend's experience was much less drastic, but just as poignant for her.  Her daughter's new school was only 30 minutes away, in rush hour traffic, but still she felt the tug on her heart that I knew all too well.  

Since my experience precipitated hers, I felt like a bit of a Indian scout in this new territory of mother/daughter individuating. 

As I prayed for inspiration, it became clear to me that this "space" is not really created, or even initiated, by the child or the parent.  This space is a gift from God.  It is a natural part of the ongoing process of surrendering, letting go, yielding.  This is the exercising and flexing of those mother-muscles that I have found to be the very heart and soul of parenting.  You know the ones…the ones you helped your child learn to use when they needed to open their hands and let a butterfly they had caught in the garden…fly. 

From the moment our children come into our experiences, we are asked to begin exercising this letting-go muscle.  At first it is in sharing the news of our expectancy with our spouses or partners.  Next we are asked to share our precious bundle-of-joy with extended family, neighbors, childcare providers.  Soon they are going off to school for the first day…and so on, and so on.  Until one day we are watching as they pack their own footlockers for camp or college and before long are loading their bed and dresser into a U-haul to furnish their first apartment.  Each time we are expected to open our hands (and our hearts) wider and wider letting them stretch their wings, while we discover, ourselves, that those "release" muscles are becoming more flexible with every opening.  Each opportunity give us greater confidence that even as we loosen our grip and spread our fingers, our palm is always just below their wingspan as they take those first few fluttering attempts at flight. And more importantly...so is His.

I remember my daughter's first half day of Kindergarten.  It was just as hard as the day she flew off to Africa last year...some 13 years later.  My sister and I sat outside the kindergarten room where our children, five-year-old cousins, were happily learning new things…for the entire morning.  My younger sister was probably adjusting to her son's new adventure with a great sense of peace, but I think she stayed with me seeing that I was truly unable to walk away without breaking down in tears.  When our children came out, walking in a straight line like little ducks behind their teacher for a mid-morning recess, the teacher took one look at us and shook her head with an understanding smile.  I doubt we were the first moms to be unable to walk away from the playground on the first day of school.

But I wasn't there all morning the next day.  I learned quickly that her time in morning Kindergarten was also my time for accomplishing household chores, meeting with patients, and a few precious hours of uninterrupted time for study and prayer.  Soon our weekday routine of saying goodbye at the front door of Cameron Elementary was as dry-eyed as saying goodnight and walking out of her bedroom door…another "walking away" exercise that took me weeks to master without trauma...long after she was fast asleep.

So as I sat there two mornings ago thinking about our daughters' need for "space" I had this image of God, again, as the Great Gardener.  I know, bear with me.

I saw my daughter and I as two beautiful tulips standing next to each other in the garden.  Each season we grow, and as we grow we get closer and closer.  So every fall, the Gardener comes to the garden and breaks up the bulbs and replants us further apart so that we have space to grow more, to wriggle our roots and search out water without getting in each other's way.  And because of this space we will produce more bulbs, bigger and more beautiful flowers, and stronger roots.  There will be less opportunity for molds and other invasive microorganisms that produce the kind of root-rot that is often the result of over-crowding.

It is only my false perception of each woman's situation that would lead me to think that one daughter wants "space", while another is forced into accepting "space" by circumstances, and yet another (who also happens to be a mother) is uncertain about what that need for "space" really means.  I now know that it is always God who is creating the space so that we can both grow… mother and daughter.

So tonight I am wriggling my toes in the rich dark soil.  Our children are tucked into beds in San Francisco, Oakland, Johannesburg, and St. Louis…and I am trusting that God has planted us all right where we need to be.  He is giving each of us room to grow roots that seek out the depth of our relationship with Him, that reach for the nourishing waters of inspiration, and that stretch us to grow in new directions…often towards each other…but from the depths where we have rooted ourselves in His love. 

And from the distance of this new space, I have a better view of how beautiful and strong and tall my daughters (and son) are growing. 

Thank you Father for your unspeakable gift… 
Kate

"...and I don't want to miss a thing.."

"Don't want to close my eyes
I dont want to fall asleep
Cause I'd miss you girl
And I dont want to miss a thing…"

This song was playing gently at the end of a You Tube video clip that I watched on my friend Laura's blog today.  But as I sat there wiping my eyes after watching British Idol phenomenon, Paul Potts' audition footage I realized that there was more to my weeping than his remarkable performance.  And when I could finally sort through my feeling…it was this song. 

This past summer I had flown over 24,000 miles to visit my daughter in South Africa.  It was a very simple trip…once you got past the travel.  I spent my days and nights there just experiencing her in her new home…going to school, interacting with her family/friends, laughing, window shopping,  eating, sleeping…breathing.  It was everything a mother does when she hasn't seen her child for almost a year. 

It was almost impossible to leave.  When I heard the faint strains of Aerosmith's  "I Don't Want to Miss a Thing" today…well, a flood of emotions I had been pushing aside, like an elephant in the dining room you just keep covering with a bedspread, came rushing forward.  "Where had all this been hiding?" I asked myself.  So, I thought back to the day I left South Africa and the last view I had of my daughter as she and her mom drove away from the airport.  Her hand was raised with the ASL sign for "I love you" pressed against the car window…I am surprised I could see a thing…but for me tears have a way of magnifying poignant moments…rather than obscuring the details.

I thought my heart would collapse in on itself.  But not because I thought she should come home with me…I knew that she was already "home".  My trip had proved to me that she was happy and healthy and living her dream of being reunited with her mom, and becoming a true citizen of her birth country. 

My tears were totally selfish.  I knew that I would miss many things…between then and when I would see her next.   And I didn't want to "miss a thing".  The were tears of surrender and resignation and gratitude for the 18 years I had the privilege of being her mommy.

Life is like a feast for me.  There are so many experiences to take in and process.  Every one seems to require so much emotional energy.  There is the very moment of experiencing it, which often leaves me drained.  So then I have to take it into the heart of prayer and find God's hand in that very moment…redeeming it for His purpose.  Then listening, I wait for His benediction on the lessons learned, which makes way for humble gratitude for those very lessons.   After giving thanks there is the review, then the cataloguing of the lesson - filing it away for future reference, insights, inspiration and sometimes, sharing.  Sometimes I think it would be easier to just stay under the covers in the morning and not be so overwhelmed by this feast of feelings called life. 

But this moment was too big…too massive to even hold.  So I put it in this pressure cooker of a heart of mine and, by writing poems let off just enough emotional "steam" to keep my heart from bursting and spewing, sobbing and railing all the way across the Atlantic.  Something I could have easily given in to, but which would have been very uncomfortable for the very large man from the Congo who was my seatmate and only spoke French. 

Without editorializing, here is one of those poems:

If I would chase
the dawn to
see you…
If I would pursue the
rising sun and meet it
in its course as
it rose from the east
and looked
down on us – small and hopeful - traveling
away from the darkness
yet towards the light that
is your face – a light
more brilliant than
this star at
its zenith…

If I could claw my way above
the sea
towards
the red soil of
an African veld…just
to watch you sleep…

then I can ride
this torrent of
tears
that will now carry me back
away from where you are

But
I will run from the
ticking clocks
and setting suns that
inch me further and
further from
your face
left behind
a jet stream
trail
of
tears

I will not
go eagerly into
that western night

I will fight for
just one more
moment of
your laughter
your voice
your sleepy whisper in the night…
a mother's favorite
symphony of sounds

I will go
but only because she is
here..
to watch you
sleep
and fall in love
and eat
and
breathe

I will ride this wave of
tears
across a dark ocean of stars
and feel true peace at last
not because I
will not ache each day
for the sound of
your voice,
but 
because
once upon a time
He sent you
to my life
to let
me know
He'd heard my
prayer
and now
has brought you
home to her
and
she
loves
you…
too.

Kate

My native tongue...

"Deep in your blood or a voice in your head
On a dark lonesome highway
It finds you instead
So certain it knows you, you can't turn away
Something or someone has found you today..."

I pray in poems
Unrhymed stanzas of
long undulating metaphors and
vivid mental pictures
that pierce complacency
and leave me aching
for moments
that are pregnant with Your
infinite nearness...
your touch so familiar
I cannot tell if it is my own
hand upon my heart...or Your
fingers on the pulse of my desires
palpating them into life...
so close I sometimes
cannot see
the Forest for
the trees...

But...
in these poems
There are lines
I cannot speak
Sentences that
catch in my throat and pen
and make my fingers
hover above the keyboard
hesitant to string letters
together in a way
that will reveal what
simmers within
the chambers
of prayer

my sacred words
may
not be welcome
in 
their sanctuary

i write about
You

i pour my
prayer
onto the page
and it reads like
a lunatic woman
beating her breast
weeping and
wailing

i can't seem to find
the words to
say
how
far into
this sanctuary of earnest
     longings...
this chapel of surrender
this triage of healing and salvation
this gnashing 
and wrestling with angels...
Your eloquent silence
has taken me

is the sacred in us
so raw
and unsettling
and naked...and messy
that
all the hymns we sing
all the solos written
all the articles
all the testimonies

are only a tellable
version
of
what
causes us to
rock ourselves to sleep
...tears
pouring
out so endlessly
that we  finally
have enough
to wash
feet

were the first
40 days
so unspeakable
that he only shared
the thoughts
that followed...
thoughts that were
more palatable to
a world of followers,
admirers
and disciples
that would
make him
their Messiah

or were they so private
so intimate
so completely
self-shattering
that
he could not let them
(or us)
into that place
of deep
nakedness

I have no default behavior
no
practiced coping skills
no
false convenient mask
of acceptable words
for painting
the landscape
of
this
journey....

toward You

"I don't remember a voice
On a dark, lonesome road
When I started this journey so long ago
I was only just trying to outrun the noise
There was never a question of having a choice..."
-Mary Chapin Carpenter

Kate

"Turn around...turn around..."

"Where are you going my little one, little one
Where are you going my baby my own
Turn around and you're two,
Turn around and you're four
Turn around and you're a young girl
Going out of my door..."

Sniff...sniff, sigh….oh my gosh... it is way too soon…

Today is the first day of school…again.  It is happening far too fast these days. I want to slow down the calendar, the clock, the seasons…whatever it takes to hold them right here...at ten.  I like ten.  Ten was my favorite age to be, to teach, and to dream out from.  I love the kinds of conversations the girls and I can have right now.  I love that we can talk about feelings, choices, abstract concepts…like appreciation and affection…and love.

I love that all conversations about boys include a facial expression somewhat akin to how they look when they eat plain yogurt with wheat germ…a silent, "not too disgusting, but certainly not my choice unless I would starve without it in the wilderness…"  The other kinds of conversations about boys will come later...but for now these "looks" are perfect.  Tolerant...but not giggly.

I love that they took responsibility for their own reading lists this summer and that they know more about how to re-configure a network connection on my computer, than I do.  I love that they still call me their favorite "snugglebuddy" at bedtime (including the snuggling) and yet are able to make their own PB&J sandwich for lunch.

I love everything about being their mom…except how quickly it is all going. 

But I know...don't I...that progress is a law of God…and I love every law of God…so in reality I must realize my love for their progress…even if it makes them taller than me in the next few months. 

And progress, being a law of God includes innocence, purity, grace and childlike wonder.  I must remember...no adults of God – just children.  But, oh my goodness...as Paul Simon sings,

"These are the days of miracles and wonders"

I think the "miracle" is just that we get to do it…this extraordinary thing called life and motherhood and fatherhood and sharing space with eachother in this moment of eternity.  And the wonder…oh my goodness, the wonder is in every second, every moment that I feel God's mercy in giving me "a second chance"…a billion times a day…to do it better…to be more childlike (myself…through their example), to be more patient (with myself as I rush blindly around trying to keep everything "on task") to be more filled with…yes, wonder.

So…as we drove into school this morning and Emma read the first part of our Bible study readings aloud to Clara and I in the car (like I said it's happening way too fast) I couldn't help but think that, like Simeon who was recorded in the Chapter of Luke as having "waited for the consolation of Israel", we too can see progress as innocence, as a childlike purity, an infant hope…in ourselves and others…no matter how many first days of school we have experienced….as students, parents, teachers, administrators, counselors, lawmakers.

The sun has already taken on that golden light of "back to school"…I don't know what this year holds for each of us…but I know it will be good…progress is a law of God.  I'm counting on it.  I'm counting on it to keep us all filled with the wonder of being ten…or seventeen, or thirty-two, or fifty-three.  Counting on it...as we walk out the door in brand  new shoes and with freshly sharpened pencils, 200 sheets of lined notebook paper and a clean three-ring binder under our arms ready to innocently (and expectantly) greet the Christ-child being born in our world each day…in the classroom, on the floor of the Senate, in a shelter in Baghdad, or as we sit at a traffic light during rush hour.

"…Turn around (turn around)
Turn around (turn around)
Turn around and you're a young girl
Going out of the door…"
- Harry Bellafonte

have a great day...and be sure to eat all your lunch,
Kate

"You raise me up..."

"When I am down and, oh my soul, so weary;
When troubles come and my heart burdened be;
Then, I am still and wait here in the silence,
Until you come and sit awhile with me.

You raise me up, so I can stand on mountains;
You raise me up, to walk on stormy seas;
I am strong, when I am on your shoulders;
You raise me up: To more than I can be…."
-Josh Groban

Like most adventures in my life these days, I believe that if  I were to actually mull over them in advance…I probably wouldn't have the courage to actually go through a single one.  So it was with my trip to South Africa.  I knew that I needed, and wanted (more than anything), to go see my daughter and meet her "first" mom (face-to-face and heart-to-heart).  But getting on a plane, much less getting on four planes and traveling for more than 45 hours in 10 days seemed paralyzingly scary. 

I don't like to fly.  Period!  I don't enjoy any part of the process.  Deciding on dates, looking for fares that are less than the cost of a small eastern-european country, purchasing tickets, checking in, choosing seats, security, customs, waiting, waiting, waiting…boarding, waiting, take off, sitting, trying to get comfortable, waiting, not sleeping, waiting, turbulence, waiting, landing, disembarking, waiting, customs, waiting, waiting, security…waiting for my ride.  I never even get to think about all the wonderful things I am going to do between landing at my destination and taking off again for home…I spend most of my time thinking about how much I don't want to get back on the plane again.  It is a vicious cycle and I have been in its grip…way too many times.  I spent almost five years traveling…a lot…for my work with a national speakers' bureau (earning my platinum status on more than two airlines' frequent flyer programs)…and I vowed when that chapter was finished I would no longer travel anywhere I could not drive myself…no matter how long it took.   Little did I know at that time my daughter would decide to go live in South Africa.  Can't drive there…if you could…I would have tried.

And I haven't flown since I finished that appointment.  Other than one short flight in 2005, I have kept my feet soundly planted on terra firma since…hmmm…then it occurred to me…it was since 2001.  Actually it was since mid-September of 2001.  Even my 2005 flight was less than two hours and it was just one way…and I got on kicking and screaming inside…and only because I couldn't drive to my destination at the very last minute.  If it hadn't been a commitment that I absolutely couldn't cancel…I would have tried…well, actually I did try and then saw that I would have been letting people I loved down in a big way.  When plans for traveling to South Africa began to percolate I suddenly realized that even though I didn't think 9/11 had effected the way I lived my life…it had.  In a very sub-conscious way I had decided that I would not fly any longer…and had never connected that decision to 9/11.  Hmmm. 

Here's how it finally came to a place of healing for me.  I was sitting in my cabin at camp this past June and my husband was on the phone trying to get me to commit to a flight schedule for my trip to South Africa.  But I was doing every thing I could to avoid his request for a confirmation of times and dates.  At the same time, I was offering my daughter an "out"…instead of coming over in July, I could come for two weeks at Christmas-time rather than 10 days now…and I was sweating bullets every time I even thought about flight schedules.  I needed to make a commitment and so what did I do…I convinced Hannah and Jeff that a trip this summer was just not good timing.  And then I realized how relieved I felt.  "Ahhh..." you think…but no, this was not a good kind of relief.    It's the kind of relief that is just the avoidance of something that needs deeper healing.  It's the feeling that says, "Whew, I escaped that…" and it's a feeling that I've come to recognize as the sure sign that I need to reconsider a decision.

So, I called someone I knew would hold my toes to the fire…my daughter's birthmom…for many reasons I had grown to trust that she was putting our daughter's needs above everything else…this time that included my own unspoken fears. I asked her if she thought it would be better for me to come in December and she said, "absolutely not…now is the right time…no matter how hard it is, we'll figure it out".  Little did she know that the "hard" (at that moment) was not about the uncertain dynamics of Hannah having both of her moms in the same room.  That "hard" had never crossed my mind, and it never crossed our path.  But I digress...I do that alot on this blog.  So to get back on track...she said, "absolutely not...now is the right time...no matter how hard it is, we'll figure it out."

Hmmm…allrighty then.  I had known in my heart that this was true, I guess I needed someone to override my terror.

The minute I got off the phone with her I picked up the phone and called my husband to say, "Book it".  Then I started to pray.  I became very still and just listened with all my heart.  Waiting in the silence was like sitting on my porch early in the morning when the clouds are still hanging low and watching as they lift and disperse.  And it was in the space of this silence that I realized what really had me paralyzed with fear about flying.  It was not a specific fear, like, "I am afraid that terrorists will be on board", or "I am afraid that we will crash into the ocean".  No, that would have been obvious enough for me to actually identify, pray about and see through.  This fear was just so subtle.  I would start as a prickling of discomfort that crept over me like a swarm of ants until I felt like I could not move without inciting an ant riot that would leave me full of welts and gasping for air.  And it was this very subtlety that gave me my first clue as to how insidious the fear was…and how ridiculous. 

I had never flown…just to fly…so why would I be afraid of "just flying"…period.  I always flew with a sense of spiritual purpose…to fulfill a commitment, to help a friend, to celebrate a union, the birth of a child…to support the family of someone who had passed on.  I always traveled with intent and as Mary Baker Eddy says, "Nothing but wrong intention can hinder your advancement."

So I went back to what was my intent for this flight.  My intent was to love my daughter and to celebrate her life and her family in South Africa.  I was flying to "mother"…period.  That was when I remembered that the most peaceful, time-less, wonderful flight I had ever been on was the one I took in 1989 when I traveled by myself to South Africa to adopt Hannah in South Africa.  I never remember it as a long flight or a difficult flight, but as a blessed flight, an expectant flight, as a flight pregnant with promise. 

And this was how I began to think about this flight to South Africa.  I wasn't taking a flight…I was taking this flight.   This blessed, purposeful, divinely authorized flight to see my beloved daughter and her family.  I was being sent on this flight by God…I was not being borne blindly by steel and rubber and jet fuel through a politically-charged global environment.  I was being sent on a love-based mission via an instrument of intelligent design and through an environment full of angels, prayers, and hope.

When the day for my flight arrived I held to what the intent for this flight was and trusted that the Love which was sending me, was going to be with me every kilometer of that trip.

"O longing hearts that wait on God
   Through all the world so wide;
He knows the angels that you need,
   And sends them to your side,
   To comfort, guard and guide."
-Violet Hay

My flight was glorious.  Peace-full, purpose-full, blessed.  As we took off into the night sky above Washington D.C., and the lights of our country's capital faded like the jet stream behind us as the vast Atlantic became our landscape far below I felt as serene as if I were sitting on the porch of my cabin at camp reading the lesson while a hundred campers milled about on the lawn.  It was as if God had placed his hand under the Adirondack rocker and just...oh so gently..."raised me up" and was carrying me to my daughter.  Or as Mary Baker Eddy relates, in describing her spiritual journey, it was "sweet, calm, and buoyant with hope..."

I am so grateful…for so much...

More to come,
Kate