"it moves us all..."

"from the day we arrive on the planet
and blinking, step into the sun
there's more to see than can ever be seen
more to do than can ever be done…"

- Elton John/Tim Rice
"The Circle of Life"

I originally wrote this post in 2007 -- about an experience our family had it 2000. But the current economic climate of wage disparity and income inequality had brought it back into focus for me. When the chasm between wealth and poverty becomes so wide that we cease to see the humanity of the "other" - because we are looking at it from such a great distance - we have lost spiritual perspective. This experience -- which happened almost 18 years ago -- was a wakeup call for me then, and it continues to inform my sense of where we all fit -- in the body of humankind. 

At the time of this experience, we were living on a very modest budget while renovating a large home we had purchased in a "fire sale," And although our neighborhood was somewhat affluent, what may have looked like expendable toys to someone who thought we could easily replace them, were actually carefully budgeted purchases.

When we expect those who live on the edge of poverty to be willing to be away from their own families on Christmas Day, so that we can have our cup of designer coffee, we have lost our way as neighbors. When the poor cease to see that the tricycles in the driveway of a large house are the toys of children -- the distance between us has become too great.  This moral chasm is dehumanizing.  And when we dehumanize one another, we can justify decisions that are cruel and inhumane.  We must close the gap. I believe that The Golden Rule -- doing unto others as we would have them do unto us -- is our only hope. Not just doing unto those who are like us, as we would have them do unto us. But all others. Here is our story:

It was early December in 2000 and we were grateful for a patch of warmer than usual weather just prior to the holidays.  Emma and Clara were active, busy, rambunctious three-year-olds and a recent purchase of new tricycles had given us a playtime option they loved.  Racing around the back driveway or tearing up the front sidewalk caused an explosion of happy giggles from them like bursts of water from a summer fountain in the park.

Buying the tricycles had been a financial stretch for us, but a sale at Target, coupled with our urgent need for finding appropriate gross motor activities for two little monkeys who never stopped moving, quickly shifted the purchase from want to necessity. 

The girls awoke each morning with one major goal -- get outside and ride their new red "bikes." But as often happens in a family of five, one child's needs supersede another's, and everyone has to cooperate with a plan that might not fulfill their hopes for the day's schedule.  This particular day, our older daughter's itinerary had to come first.  We were in the throes of pre-Nutcracker rehearsals and, cast as Clara, she was in the studio rehearsing, more than she was eating and sleeping -- combined.

Piled into the Jeep that morning we were accompanied by the echoing strains of "I want to ride my bike, I want to ride my bike" -- in stereo.  I dropped our older daughter off at the dance studio, stopped by the grocery store, and then picked up the twins' babysitter so I could work for a few hours while she watched them ride their tricycles around the block.  When we pulled into the back driveway, I immediately noticed that something was missing -- the tricycles.  I was sure they had been in the driveway before we left.  Now they were gone. 

At first I thought that perhaps their dad had scooted them into the backyard, or put them in the garage.  However, a quick - but thorough - search made it clear that the tricycles were no longer on the premises.  The girls' creative babysitter quickly turned the girls' attention towards a messy, and  therefore thrilling, art project while I assessed the situation.

The trikes were gone.  Period.

I was devastated.  We had stretched our budget to the limits that month to buy them in the first place.  Replacing them was going to be hard -- even if the sale was still underway.  Of course I was already  praying to see that we could not be separated from anything that was truly ours, but more critical to my spiritual poise were the feelings of helplessness, violation, and despair I felt.  We lived in a very sweet neighborhood bordering the grounds of the university.  It was anchored by a wonderful park with a lake, and ducks, and a playground.  I felt so safe there, and I trusted that my children could play without harm.

And, to be honest, I was angry. 

As I vacillated between praying to feel a sense of peace and wanting to let loose my tears of frustration, the question kept coming to me, "Who steals tricycles from the driveway of a home?"

My prayers for inner peace finally overcame the angry tears.  I sat still, poised, waiting  for inspiration that would help me make sense of this all.  Again, the frustrated question came.

"Who steals tricycles from the driveway of a home?"

"So much for the parting of the clouds," I thought.  But then the question came again, "Who steals tricycles?" I actually listened and engaged.   Within a moment or two, my heart broke open -- wide with mercy. 

"Oh my goodness," I thought. "Only someone with small children or grandchildren would ever want -- or need -- to steal two shiny new tricycles just before Christmas." 

That was when I remembered hearing a Sunday morning pundit, speaking about neighbor-on-neighbor urban violence. He said, "Desperate measures are nothing but a measure of someone's desperation."

Anyone whose experience has made them feel hopeless enough to stop and steal two itty-bitty shiny red tricycles out of another person's driveway, must be feeling very desperate indeed.  And not only might they be feeling the bleakness of their own hardship, but they must have children or grandchildren, siblings, nieces, and nephews they were caring for.

In an instant, my prayer changed from one of "take away my anger and let me find peace," to "how can I be an instrument of change and healing in my community -- a place where someone was feeling so desperate that they would steal toddler-sized tricycles?" 

The more I prayed, the more my heart burst with ideas for how we, as a family, could participate in some way toward making a difference during the Christmas season for children whose parents may have needs so looming, that the simple traditions we enjoyed were, for them, way beyond even our modest holiday budget . 

Because our holiday plans that year were being driven by our daughter's ballet rehearsals in The Nutcracker, it was a natural first step for me to think about how we could roll out that years' performances to a larger audience.  Perhaps there were those in our community who might not have the means to purchase tickets.  And although my husband and I were not poised to write a check for a block of tickets,  I knew we could draw on an abundance of practical spiritual ideas.  What we did have was a community of dance parents who shared our desire for social advocacy and a fathomless love for the arts.  These were the things we had all chosen to invest in for our own children's future.  Why couldn't we share our abundant love for the arts with other children?

Throughout the rest of December we were overwhelmed by the number of amazing, fresh ideas that God laid at the doorstep of our hearts for how we could share our holiday bounty -- of dance, beauty, art, inspiration, and music with others.  However,  one opportunity unfolded immediately -- and it continues to fill my heart with gratitude. 

So, back to the tricycles. 

After the girls were settled in the kitchen with Julia and their messy art project, I headed to my "office" at the local Border's bookstore café near our home.  Since I was often there for appointments with clients, I had become quite close to the managers and employees.  That morning as I sat at my favorite table praying for answers, Heather, the store's events manager, approached.  She'd noticed me staring into the middles distance somewhere between where I sat and the snow-covered mountains looming in the west, and playfully asked what I was daydreaming about.  

I told her, "A way to bring The Nutcracker to children whose parents can't afford tickets."  Then I went on to tell her about my morning and the tricycles. 

Within the span of ten minutes, we had our first gift to the community all wrapped up with shiny paper and satin ribbons.  We would bring The Nutcracker to Borders bookstore on the busiest Saturday of the holiday season and perform scenes throughout the store.  I called the Director of the ballet, and she agreed that this would be a perfect opportunity to share The Nutcracker with children who may not be able to otherwise attend, promote the performances, and give the dancers another dress rehearsal.  It was done. 

Throughout the month, opportunities to share what we had with others quite literally fell into my lap.  For me, a "once upon a time" very poor little girl, it was as if I had been given the greatest gift imaginable -- to be able to give back.  The gift I received in return was priceless -- a new perspective that didn't put me on either side of an economic chasm -- privilege or poverty.  I realized that I had the tools - and the heart - to build bridges of compassion and humanity.

I stopped seeing desperate parents, children, teens -- or desperate measures.  Instead I saw families eager to care for one another's needs. I saw mothers willing to bake and serve cookies at a bookstore rather than be out shopping for their own children at the mall.  I saw -- through grateful tears --   children wide-eyed with wonder as the strains of Tchaikovsky's "dum-dum-da-dum-dum-dum" ushered in E.T.A. Hoffmann's story of a girl, a toy, some sweets and a dream.  I saw children so fully satisfied by the beauty of it all that hunger was forgotten -- for a moment at least.

That was one of my favorite Christmases of all times.  As I sit here writing, I realize that I can't, for the life of me, remember how or when we replaced the girls tricycles.  Somehow it happened, but it simply escapes me today -- in the light of what we discovered about ourselves and our neighbors.

When we see someone resorting to desperate measures, we can either feel angry, hopeless, vulnerable and frustrated ourselves, or we can look for ways to bridge the chasm between desperation and innocence, with practical prayer-based solutions that break through despair with the light of hope and kindness.

The answers to Virginia Tech, Columbine, 911, and Darfur do not lie solely in the portfolios of Senators, on the maps of Generals, in the promises of presidential hopefuls, or the hands of prison guards.  They lie in the most accessible place on earth -- the heart.

"It's the circle of Life
and it moves us all
through despair and hope
through faith and love

Till we find our place
on the path unwinding
in the circle,
the circle of Life."

There is more to do, but it can be done...


with Love,


Kate

"Christmas wedding bands...."

"I'll be home
for Christmas,
you can count on me..."

Tomorrow, I will walk into a local pawn shop - as I do each Christmas. I will ask the person behind the counter if he/she has a sense that there had been a mom, or dad, over the past few days, who'd needed to pawn something precious to them, in order to make Christmas for their children. Then I will offer to redeem that pawned item.

Later, the person behind the counter will call the owner of the item and ask them to come back and pick it up. I will not know who they are, and they will not know who I am.  This post will be the first time I've shared the details of this very private holiday tradition.  But, it has been the best gift I have given to myself - every year.

Here is why:

The year I turned 11 was especially difficult for our family. The youngest of six children had been born. Dad had been out of work for nine months, and we had lost our home.

In September, Dad found temporary work towing mobile homes cross-country. It was hard work, but he had a large family to feed.

Because we'd lost our own home earlier that year, we were living in a house that was located in a much different neighborhood. We were going to another new school and starting to make friends. Dad was away much of that fall, and in early December he left on another long trip across country. Driving a wide load tractor trailer in the middle of winter was treacherous.

Each day we listened to the weather forecast and hoped that clear skies would allow him to make good enough time to be home for Christmas.

As the other children in our neighborhood talked about the gifts they wanted for Christmas, we, too -- not realizing the financial constraints our parents were under -- asked for new bikes, train sets, a full-size play kitchen, and other childhood gifts.

Mom, being alone with six children, and having no financial support until dad returned to collect his paycheck, could be heard working late into the night. While we were in school she'd gathered orange crates from the local supermarket -- as well as stove burners, knobs, and dials from discarded appliances at the junkyard. She painted the crates, glued on knobs, dials, and burners -- turning another family's junk, into our play kitchen.

A sheet of plywood - found in an abandoned lot - became a miniature town with painted train tracks, twigs glued on for trees, and cardboard houses for neighborhoods and stores. Tiny cardboard cereal boxes with button wheels were painted and strung together to make a train set for my younger brothers.

Slowly our garage became a Santa's workshop, and her treasure bag grew.

While she prepared for Christmas in her way, we prepared for Dad's arrival. In school, each of us had learned a Christmas song that we shared with our younger brothers and sisters. That song, coupled with my new ballet/tap skills, turned us into a song-and-dance troupe that we hoped would "wow" dad on Christmas Eve.

But as Christmas grew near, weather conditions on the other coast became hazardous. Financial constraints prohibited phone calls, so each day we watched and waited, practiced and built.

But no matter how resourceful Mom was at the junkyard, she couldn't come up with the two-wheeler bikes my sister and I dreamed of.

On Christmas Eve, we vowed that we would not go to sleep until we knew that Dad had made it home. But somewhere between Bing Crosby crooning, "The Little Drummer Boy," and "Chestnuts roasting on an open fire..." we dozed off.

The next morning we woke up and quickly gathered the rest of our brothers and sisters. We ran into the front room, and there on the sofa, still in his work clothes, was Dad. Mom was asleep, with her head on his knee.

The Christmas tree had presents under it, but none were as important to us as the picture of our parents sleeping. When they woke up - to our noisy shushing of the younger children, we performed our Christmas songs, to the generous applause of our parents.

We opened our gifts, and each one drew breathless surprise - a homemade kitchen set, the miniature plywood town with it's painted cardboard trains, bowling pins made from felt-covered cardboard tubing filled with dry beans, a hand sewn ball for the baby, doll clothes remade from our too-worn-for-hand-me-down clothing.

Soon we were bustled off to the kitchen for breakfast. Mom asked me to get the milk from the refrigerator, but there was none to be found. With feigned surprise she said she must have left it in the cold, on the back porch. I headed for the back door, but instead of finding a gallon of milk, there were two beautiful new bicycles.

No one was more surprised than our dad. He just stared at Mom's glowing face. I don't think I had even seen her look so happy or so beautiful as that day, sitting at the kitchen table with chin in her hands and her eyes on us.

It would be years before I would notice that her engagement and wedding rings were missing from her hand. They had been pawned, so that she could surprise us with the bikes we'd dreamed of.

For a very long time, I couldn't understand why it had made her so happy to give up the beautiful rings she loved. Rings that had been given to her by someone she loved.  Rings that she had never been able to get back.

That was until my 16th Christmas. It was the first time I had held a full-time job, and I had saved up enough money to buy a beautiful dress for the Christmas dance at school. I had seen it in the shop window for three months, and after receiving my paycheck, I could finally go and pick it up.

On the way there, with my every penny in hand, I passed the jewelers. Suddenly, I noticed the wedding bands sparkling in the shop window. They were more beautiful to me than anything I had ever seen. I walked in and picked out a very modest gold band for my mom, without giving that dress another thought.

That Christmas, I sat with my chin in my hands, watched with a smile on my face - and finally understood.

offered with Love,

Kate

If the substance of this story sounds familiar, it first appeared in The Christian Science Monitor in the late 1980s.

"when I had none at all..."

"When my bankroll is getting small,
I think of when I had none at all,
and I fall asleep counting my blessings..."

Sometimes I am stunned by God's love for us all. This afternoon, He led a dear friend to re-read this post from Christmas, 2010. She, in turn, wrote to say how much it meant to her. So, I re-read it myself. And wept.

How could I have let this moment fade from memory. For months after that day, I woke up each morning "remembering" this example of grace, and used it as a springboard in my prayers and for my actions.  I am so grateful for my friend's email. So, I share this post again -- with Love:

"When my bankroll is getting small..." 

"When I'm worried and I can't sleep,
I count my blessings instead of sheep,
And I fall asleep counting my blessings..."

I grew up singing this song to myself long into the middle of the night, all through the Christmas season. Long before VHS and DVD copies of Irving Berlin's "White Christmas" were available for any-time-of-the-year viewing, my sister and I would check the TV listings in the newspaper to find that one showing of "White Christmas" we could count on each year.

For me,"Count Your Blessings," became a prelude to prayer.

Today this song came alive in a well-worn booth at a McDonald's restaurant overlooking the Mississippi River.

My husband and I had been driving all over the city on post-Christmas errands, and were both thirsty. Thankfully, there was a McDonald's. Perfect. Since the drive-thru lane was already a dozen cars long, I suggested we park and go in - thinking we'd have a much better chance of getting back on the road quickly.

I was wrong. The line at the counter was eight deep, with quite a few folks waiting for their orders to be filled. It wasn't hard to notice that more than a few customers were in pretty dire financial straits. Pennies were being carefully counted out, old sweaters/shirts/jackets were layered on six deep, and one man had duct tape wrapped around doubled-up pairs of socks for footwear.

We placed our order, and I went to the drink station while my husband waited for his hot chocolate to be prepared.

As I stood in line at the drink dispenser, I noticed a young family sitting at the end booth -- very close to where I was waiting in line to get my drink. The dad looked very, very tired, and the children: a boy around 10 years old, and a girl about 6 or 7, looked as if they'd been sleeping in their clothes, coats, and hats for days. 

But there was also a palpable sense of dignity with which this young father cared for his children. He reminded them to use their napkins, to say "please" and "thank you" when passing the small cups of ketchup he'd gotten for them, and to excuse themselves when getting up for more salt.

It wasn't long before the dad himself got up to use the facilities.  Before leaving, he asked his son to be very watchful of his little sister. 

He hadn't been gone long before the little girl asked her brother, "When do you think we will get our Christmas presents?" Her brother looked quickly in the direction his father had gone, and then said, "This is our Christmas present. It is all they can afford this year." 

 "Oh..." said his little sister.

I looked at their table. Each child had a simple cheeseburger, a small order of fries, and a milkshake. Dad had a cup of coffee.

I was standing there on the verge of weeping, when suddenly their father slid back into the booth. His daughter got up from where she'd been sitting next to her brother, and scooched in next to her dad. 

 She wrapped both her little arms around his arm, and laid her head against his shoulder and said, "Daddy, this is the best lunch I have ever tasted. Thank you for bringing us here. I love you."

I could barely take it all in. There was such humility, gratitude, and grace radiating from that table. Dad leaned down and kissed the top of his daughter's head, and then he reached across the table with his free hand to cover his son's cold-chapped hand with his larger one.

I walked away sobered, inspired, shaken, and deeply moved.

Talk about counting your blessings instead of sheep -- or stocks and bonds, cars and vacation days. I filled my cup, and returned to where my husband was standing. Then I leaned into his chest - trying to still the waves of emotion that were on the verge of taking me under.

I wasn't sure if I was more devastated by sadness, or moved with inspiration. I had learned more about grace in that moment of humility, than from all the Christmas "moments" I had witnessed, read about, or watched during the last few weeks leading up to the "big day."

This year Christmas came in the warm manger of a McDonald's booth.  It was lit by the stars of love in a child's eyes, the gentle wisdom of a brother's words, and the humility of a father's gift.

I thought about giving them something -- money, a gift card -- but then I realized that this time I needed to be a graceful recipient.  Their's was the greater gift.  And I could honor that.

I needed to, as the hymn says, "receive it, still." Receive their gift in the stillness of a manger heart. I needed to honor the dignity of their lives by walking away in silent awe.  I needed to respect their manger.  

My gift to them was a heart filled with prayer, gratitude, and an aching hope that they neither lose the richness of who they are, nor the sweetness of what they gave to me today.

I have no doubt that God will bless their lives with all that they need. Just look at what He gave me today through their example. It was more than I could ever have hoped.

Thank you for Your unspeakable gifts.


offered with Love,

Kate

"I think of when I had none at all..."

"When my bankroll is getting small
I think of when I had none at all
And I fall asleep counting my blessings..."

Sometimes I am stunned by God's love. This afternoon He led a dear friend to this post from Christmas, 2010...and she, in turn, wrote to say how much it meant to her...then, and now. So, I re-read it. And wept.

How could I have let this moment of grace fade from memory. For months I woke up each day "remembering" this example of abundant grace and using it as a springboard in my prayers about family, economy, employment, home...love. I am so grateful for my friend's email. I share this post again...with Love,

"When my bankroll is getting small..."

"When I'm worried and I can't sleep
I count my blessings instead of sheep
And I fall asleep counting my blessings..."

I grew up singing this song to myself in the middle of the night during all the months between December and, well...December.  Long before home video and DVD copies of Irving Berlin's "White Christmas" were available for any-time-of-the-year viewing, my sister and I would check the television listings in the newspaper, from Thanksgiving weekend on, to find that one showing of White Christmas we could count on each year.  

For me, "Count Your Blessings" was always a prelude to prayer.

Today this song came alive in a pretty well-worn McDonald's restaurant overlooking the Mississippi River. 

My husband and I had driven through the city on a post-Christmas errand, and were both thirsty.  There was a McDonald's.  Perfect.  Since the drive-thru lane was already a dozen cars deep, I suggested we park and go in, thinking we'd have a much better chance of getting back on the road quickly. 

I was wrong.  The line at the counter was eight deep with quite a few folks waiting for their orders to be filled.  It wasn't hard to notice that more than a few customers were in pretty dire financial straits.  Pennies were being carefully counted out, old sweaters/shirts/jackets were layered on six deep, and one man had duct tape wrapped over pairs of doubled-up socks for footwear. 

We placed our order and I went to the drink dispenser while my husband waited for his hot chocolate to be prepared. 

As I stood there, I noticed a young family sitting at the end booth very close to where I was waiting in line to get my drink.  The dad was very, very tired looking and the children--a boy around 10 years old, and a girl about 6 or 7--looked as if they'd been sleeping in their clothes, coats, and hats for days.  But there was also a palpable dignity with which this young father cared for his children.  He reminded them to use their napkins, to say Please and Thank You when passing the small cups of ketchup he'd gotten for them, and to excuse themselves when getting up for more salt.

It wasn't long before the dad himself got up to use the facilities, asking his son to be very watchful of his little sister.  He hadn't been gone long before the little girl asked her brother, "When do you think we will get our Christmas presents?"  Her brother looked quickly in the direction his father had gone, and then said, "This is our Christmas present.  It is all they can afford this year."  "Oh...," said his little sister. 

I looked at their table.  Each child had a simple cheeseburger, a small order of fries, and a milkshake.  Dad had a cup of coffee. 

I was standing there on the verge of weeping when suddenly their father slid back into the booth.  His daughter got up from where she'd been sitting next to her brother, and scooched in next to her dad.  She wrapped both her little arms around his arm, and laid her head against his shoulder and said, "Daddy, this is the best lunch I have ever tasted.  Thank you for bringing us here.  I love you."

I could barely take it all in.  There was such gratitude and grace radiating from that table.  Dad leaned down and kissed the top of his daughter's head, and then he reached across the table with his free hand to cover his son's cold-chapped hand with his larger one. 

I walked away sobered, inspired, shaken, and deeply moved. 

Talk about counting your blessings instead of sheep.  I refilled my drink, returned to where my husband was standing, and leaned into his chest, trying to still the waves of emotion that were on the verge of taking me under.

I wasn't sure if I was more devastated by sadness, or moved with inspiration.  I had learned more about grace in that moment of humility, than from all the Christmas "moments" I had witnessed, read about, or watched during the last few weeks leading up to the "big day."

This year Christmas came in the warm manger of a McDonald's booth, with the light in a child's eyes, the gentle wisdom of a brother's words, and the humility of a father's gift.

I thought about giving them something...money, a gift card...but I realized that this time I needed to be a graceful recipient of their greater gift to me.  

I needed to "receive it, still."  Receive their gift in the stillness of a manger heart.  I needed to honor the dignity of their lives by walking away in silent awe.  My gift to them is a heart filled with prayer, gratitude, and an aching hope that they neither lose the richness of who they are, nor the sweetness of what they gave to me today.

I have no doubt that God will bless their lives with all that they need. Just look at what He gave me today in their example. It was more than I could ever have hoped.

Thank you for Your unspeakable gifts...
Kate

"Till I remember - everything is beautiful..."

"Buried in the questions
I can find the answers
I close my eyes and listen,
till I remember...
Everything is beautiful
everything is beautiful
everything is beautiful...here"

Sometimes it might feel as though we've been handed a bitter pill, a hard road, an empty cup. But, I am learning that it is in these very moments...when it looks like we have so little, or less than nothing...that we discover the very best, most creative, extraordinarily beautiful things growing inside of us. 

The other day I was feeling as if my resources were stretched pretty thin.  How to make what looked like too little time, not enough money, or exhausted energies go as far as they needed to go, seemed like an impossible equation to factor.  It almost felt as if I were wringing drops of water from a stone.  I needed something, but what. 

That's when "Everything is Beautiful" by Ann Marie Boskovich filled up the achingly unsettled spaces of my heart.  "Ah yes," it said,  "you need to remember." 

I sat quietly and let the silence carve out a little room.  There, on its inner walls, God could play a slide of the countless instances when I had experienced, or witnessed, His abundant grace in the midst of heartache, fear, lack, or doubt.  I snuggled into the warmth of His embrace and let Him show me what He wanted me to see...right then.

Ann Marie's music swelled as the opening credits rolled...God, God, God, and as an image came into view. 

It was in the weeks just after my daughter's birth, and she and I were staying with friends at their game farm near the Botswana border with South Africa.  It was a large compound, and you drove through the surrounding bushveld to reach the farmhouse and other buildings at the property's gated core.  

Once there you were in colonial Africa.  A place where Isaak Dinesen would have felt most at home.  Inside a gated compound, was a lovely farmhouse with terraces, orchards, gardens, and a watering hole where non-predatory animals and birds could often be seen drinking during the day.

But outside of the gates, one traveled by Land Rover, and guns were de rigeur.  The home was well-staffed and I had become close to the young housekeeper whose help in navigating the newness of being a mom was priceless.  I knew that she lived outside of the inner compound, but she arrived so early in the morning, and slipped out so silently at the end of her day, that I never thought about where she went. 

One afternoon when our hostess and I were out bouncing around in the Land Rover on photographic safari, with an armed driver for protection, we passed a small clearing and my host noted that this was where their young housekeeper lived.  I was stunned.  We were in the middle of the bush.  There was nothing for miles in any direction.  I asked how she got back and forth, and my hostess said that she walked.  She then asked our driver to take us into the small courtyard. 

We pulled in, and there was a one story, one-room cinderblock building with a corrugated metal roof and dirt floor.  This was where she, her husband and their five children lived.  The house was surrounded by a dirt yard, and  that was encircled by a cinder block wall that seemed to be about 6 feet high.  From outside the courtyard, the wall was gray cinder block, but once inside I gasped with delight. 

Almost every inch of the cinderbock wall was covered with the most exquisite motifs and primitive designs I'd ever seen, and could never have imagined.  Spirals, chevrons, animal images in heavenly shades of umber, sienna, gray, charcoal, khaki, rust, pumpkin, a fiery red. I was rendered speechless. 

"Who did this?" I asked, as I slowly turned to take it all in.  My hostess told me that our young housekeeper was the artist.  "What is her medium?" I asked.  The colors were so alive with a delicacy and richness I hadn't seen before. 

"Dung," she said. 

Then she went on to explain that this young woman...wife, mother, housekeeper who seemed to manage a constantly changing staff with seamless poise, precision, and efficiency...would collect fresh dung on her walks back and forth through the bushveld.  Because the animals ate different seeds, berries, meat, roots, bark, plant life, beetles, the dung provided a very diverse spectrum of shade and consistency.  When she arrived home she would spread the dung on the wall with her hands, using the different colors, and textures, to determine that day's palette, and inspire her designs.

I was deeply moved. 

I later learned, from a conversation she and I had while bathing my tiny daughter, that she just loved making things beautiful and that one day it occurred to her that she could make her wall beautiful using the different colors of dung she saw on her way home.  She told me that when that thought came to her, she felt is if she had been given a great gift and her spirit soared. 

As she spoke, I thought about all the times I had complained to my parents that "real painters" needed fresh canvases, tubes of paint, the right brushes, when I was in a high school funk about my art projects.  

So back to my recent reach for spiritual direction and inspiration...

It became clear to me, immediately, just why this was the "remembered moment" that God played out on my heart the other day.  This memory of a young woman who painted with dung and was grateful for every color she found and gathered into the skirt of her dress as she walked through the bushveld she called home, was a reminder that I needed to embrace what seemed to stink in my life and let it be the medium for beauty, and creativity of spirit.  

And it really was just what I needed.

Sometimes you just have to stop long enough to hear the reminder, "What hast thou in thy house...in your consciousness."  And you may just find that what looks like dung in your life, adds color, texture, richness...

...a richness, a wealth of ideas, concepts, vision, and beauty...always beauty...

to what only moments before looked like a dusty, empty cinderblock courtyard. 

Just a thought...

with Love,
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"When my bankroll is getting small..."

"When I'm worried and I can't sleep
I count my blessings instead of sheep
And I fall asleep counting my blessings...

When my bankroll is getting small
I think of when I had none at all
And I fall asleep counting my blessings..."
-     Irving Berlin

I grew up singing this song to myself in the middle of the night during all the months between December and, well...December.  Long before home video and DVD copies of Irving Berlin's "White Christmas" were available for any-time-of-the-year viewing, my sister and I would check the television listings in the newspaper, from Thanksgiving weekend on, to find that one showing of White Christmas we could count on each year.  

For me, "Count Your Blessings" was always a prelude to prayer.

Today this song came alive in a pretty well-worn McDonald's restaurant overlooking the Mississippi River. 

My husband and I had driven through the city on a post-Christmas errand, and were both thirsty.  There was a McDonald's.  Perfect.  Since the drive-thru lane was already a dozen cars deep, I suggested we park and go in, thinking we'd have a much better chance of getting back on the road quickly. 

I was wrong.  The line at the counter was eight deep with quite a few folks waiting for their orders to be filled.  It wasn't hard to notice that more than a few customers were in pretty dire financial straits.  Pennies were being carefully counted out, old sweaters/shirts/jackets were layered on six deep, and one man had duct tape wrapped over pairs of doubled-up socks for footwear. 

We placed our order and I went to the drink dispenser while my husband waited for his hot chocolate to be prepared. 

As I stood there, I noticed a young family sitting at the end booth very close to where I was waiting in line to get my drink.  The dad was very, very tired looking and the children--a boy around 10 years old, and a girl about 6 or 7--looked as if they'd been sleeping in their clothes, coats, and hats for days.  But there was also a palpable dignity with which this young father cared for his children.  He reminded them to use their napkins, to say Please and Thank You when passing the small cups of ketchup he'd gotten for them, and to excuse themselves when getting up for more salt.

It wasn't long before the dad himself got up to use the facilities, asking his son to be very watchful of his little sister.  He hadn't been gone long before the little girl asked her brother, "When do you think we will get our Christmas presents?"  Her brother looked quickly in the direction his father had gone, and then said, "This is our Christmas present.  It is all they can afford this year."  "Oh...," said his little sister. 

I looked at their table.  Each child had a simple cheeseburger, a small order of fries, and a milkshake.  Dad had a cup of coffee. 

I was standing there on the verge of weeping when suddenly their father slid back into the booth.  His daughter got up from where she'd been sitting next to her brother, and scooched in next to her dad.  She wrapped both her little arms around his arm, and laid her head against his shoulder and said, "Daddy, this is the best lunch I have ever tasted.  Thank you for bringing us here.  I love you."

I could barely take it all in.  There was such gratitude and grace radiating from that table.  Dad leaned down and kissed the top of his daughter's head, and then he reached across the table with his free hand to cover his son's cold-chapped hand with his larger one. 

I walked away sobered, inspired, shaken, and deeply moved. 

Talk about counting your blessings instead of sheep.  I refilled my drink, returned to where my husband was standing, and leaned into his chest, trying to still the waves of emotion that were on the verge of taking me under.

I wasn't sure if I was more devastated by sadness, or moved with inspiration.  I had learned more about grace in that moment of humility, than from all the Christmas "moments" I had witnessed, read about, or watched during the last few weeks leading up to the "big day."

This year Christmas came in the warm manger of a McDonald's booth, with the light in a child's eyes, the gentle wisdom of a brother's words, and the humility of a father's gift.

I thought about giving them something...money, a gift card...but I realized that this time I needed to be a graceful recipient of their greater gift to me.  

I needed to "receive it, still."  Receive their gift in the stillness of a manger heart.  I needed to honor the dignity of their lives by walking away in silent awe.  My gift to them is a heart filled with prayer, gratitude, and an aching hope that they neither lose the richness of who they are, nor the sweetness of what they gave to me today.

I have no doubt that God will bless their lives with all that they need. Just look at what He gave me today in their example. It was more than I could ever have hoped.

Thank you for Your unspeakable gifts...
Kate

"Thank God for you..."

"Thank you,
thank you,
thank God for you,
the wind beneath my wings..."

Bette Midler's "Wind Beneath My Wings" says it all.  My siblings would probably agree that without our mother's courage and grace...we would not be who we are today.  She has always been content to let us shine. 

Our dad passed on when I was 19, and the youngest of her eight children were toddler twins.  Here is the story of that first Thanksgiving, and just one of the reasons why she is, still, my hero.  If this story seems familiar, it was written for the Christian Science Sentinel as a children's story in 1988 and was told from my grade school-age sister, Lila's point of view.  TMCYouth (this link will take you to a special Thanksgiving page with a number of stories of gratitude...mine is just one of them) recently requested that I write it from my own point of view for their website.  I share it here with my love and gratitude:

Unrestricted Giving

I was 19 that autumn. My dad had been killed in an accident, and I'd just given up on the dream I cherished for longer than I could remember-and had worked so hard to make come true. I was walking away from a full-ride scholarship to the Ivy League university of my choice, so that I could work three jobs, go to school at a local college…one class at a time, and help raise my 7 younger brothers and sisters. This was not in any long-term plans I'd had for my life.

Dad's passing that summer was heartbreaking for our family. We'd gotten through the memorial service and the early weeks of grief, surrounded by extended family and church friends. But by the time late fall rolled around, we were really on our own.

The aunts, uncles, and cousins had returned to their homes in other states, and the church my family attended was almost an hour away in another city. We were living on a leased farm in the middle of Pennsylvania Dutch country, eating the last of that summer's home-canned harvest and watching the pantry empty out faster than a grain silo with an open door.

My sister, Nancy, was working at a local fast food restaurant after school, I worked three jobs, my sister Linda babysat, and the boys did odd jobs when they could. But we were barely able to pay the rent on the old stone farmhouse, and keep the utilities on. Mom still had toddler twins to care for and the station wagon that had been my dad's pride and joy a few years earlier, was now a gas-guzzling behemoth with more than 100,000 miles  under her sequoia green exterior.

I could barely breathe some days as Thanksgiving drew closer. We had a large bag of rice, and a few remaining mason jars filled with green beans and red beets to look forward to, rather than the turkey, stuffing, cranberries, and pie with ice cream we'd enjoyed just the year before.

And it wasn't the food itself I worried that we would miss.  It was the joy of preparing it together as a family. The steamy kitchen, the scent of sage and nutmeg, the boisterous rebuke dad would get from our mom, when he tasted the stuffing before it was its time...and mom's "can you believe it, right out of the back of the bird" as soon as she heard the oven door creak open...knowing it wasn't because he was basting her masterpiece.

I felt sick as the days tumbled towards that most loved holiday. Some days, the fear of disappointment, seemed greater than the fear of starvation and homelessness looming over me each night as I tried to fall asleep under the heavy quilts next to my mom.

The weather the week before Thanksgiving was glorious. Bright blue Pennsylvania skies haloed the pristinely painted, and cared for, red Amish barns dotting our winding country road. As my school-age siblings ran from the school bus stop, I could hear the squeals of joy and crunch of leaves that preceded a their burst through the kitchen door.

Mom greeted them, as she'd been greeting each of us since I'd started Kindergarten 14 years earlier, with the eager curiosity of a child. "What was it like?" "What did you learn?" "Did you bring me a picture drawn (or a story written, a note from the teacher)?"

Their answer that day made my heart sink like a lead stone. right to the pit of my stomach. There was going to be a food drive, Lila, Ricky and Wayde explained, and every child that brought in something would be able to sign the big card that would be given, with the food, to a needy family.

"Great," I thought, as my mom did what I knew she'd do from the minute the children started telling her about the project. She went to the pantry and took the last three mason jars full of beans and beets off the shelf and brought them to the kitchen table for wrapping in brown paper she already had the children decorating with colored pencil and crayon drawings of turkeys and pilgrims.

I pulled her aside and in my most grown up "hiss" of disapproval I reminded her that we had no money left to purchase food for our own Thanksgiving dinner, and that if she gave the children those vegetables, our own meal would consist of nothing more than rice...and more rice. I'd had it.

I was angry at Mom for being so clueless about the direness of our situation. I was angry at Dad for leaving us without insurance, pension, or a house of our own, and for leaving me to clean up this mess. I was angry that I'd given up my dreams of attending university full-time, in exchange for waitressing at night, and typing all day. I was angry at God for not sending anyone to help me navigate a sea of debt and fear. I was way over my 19 year old head and beginning to drown.

But it was as if Mom didn't even hear the tone of my voice. She smiled gently as if she were brushing off a teenager's "whatever."

Later that evening, she proceeded to remind us all of how Jesus had fed the multitudes on the hillside. She pointed out that Jesus hadn't produced loaves and fishes from mid-air, but that he had asked the disciples what they had to give, had taken it, blessed it, and then had given it back to the disciples, to give to the multitudes. She then, in her most mother tiger-like voice-the one you didn't mess with-said that nothing, and no one, would deprive her children of their right to be generous. To be givers.

And that was that.

The children wrapped their precious canned goods in the homemade wrapping paper, and the next day took their contributions in to add to the school food drive, and to sign the big card for the needy family.

When Thanksgiving Eve arrived I felt cynical, bitter, and yes, so terribly disappointed I could barely stand the bile in my throat and the ache in my chest. I missed it all. The smell of pumpkin cooking on the stove for pies, the sound of pans clattering, the small yellow box of Bell's stuffing seasoning on the counter as mom pinched it into the bowl of stale bread we'd have been tearing into little bits for weeks.

I was beyond crying. I was tense with fear, and sick with anguish, for myself and for my siblings. I couldn't imagine we'd ever know another happy Thanksgiving again.

When Mom happily suggested that we all gather around the big table in the kitchen to prepare for Thanksgiving in a fresh, new way that year, I has so thoroughly resigned to just getting through the next day without collapsing that I actually joined them, with arms tightly folded at my chest and a look of disgust on my face.

Mom explained that she wanted us to go around the table and tell each other what we were grateful for. I am sure, even now almost 40 years later, that I rolled my eyes in derision. Ricky was grateful for his bicycle. At that Mom stopped us and clarified the goal a bit more. We were to think of things we were grateful for that you couldn't see with your eyes or touch with your hands. Hmmm…it was quiet for a bit.

And then Lila said that she was grateful she had finally memorized "The Lord's Prayer" from start to finish (see Matthew 6:9-13). It had been a Sunday School assignment and she'd worked hard to accomplish it.

Mom thought that this was a great thing for us all to be grateful for, and suggested that Lila lead us in saying The Lord's Prayer aloud. With another eye-roll of exasperation at my mom's spiritual idealism and unwillingness to acknowledge how desperate our situation was, I complied.

We began:

"Our Father, which art in heaven,
Hallowed be thy name.
Thy kingdom come.
Thy will be done
In earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread…."

Just as we got to the part about the daily bread, the doorbell rang. Faster than Mom could get up, the younger children were up from the table and out of the kitchen, running down the long hallway to the front door. Nancy got there first, and when she opened the door there were at least twenty parents, children, and teachers from the grade school.

We were all so surprised, me especially. Surprised and humbled. We lived in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by Amish farms...and these "plain and simple" neighbors had ventured beyond their quiet isolation, to care for our needs. Our visitors had boxes and boxes of food. And there, in the hands of a tiny kindergartener, was the card that Lila, Ricky, and Wayde had signed at school, earlier in the week,  once they'd placed their carefully wrapped mason jars next to the other donations.

Mom was smiling, and there were tears in her eyes. Today I know that her tears were those of gratitude. What she'd wanted most for her children that Thanksgiving was some assurance…a real reason to believe…that they could trust in the power of giving, and the right to be generous, no matter what your human circumstances are. And of course she invited everyone to come in and celebrate.

Later, as she was putting on the milk to make hot cocoa (milk and cocoa that came from the donated food in the boxes), Mom called me in to help her with getting out the cups, pouring, and serving. While she stood at the stove stirring cocoa and sugar into the pan of hot milk, she asked me to take her copy of Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures by Mary Baker Eddy down from the kitchen shelf where she kept it, and read the passage marked by blue chalk and a slip of paper.

I read aloud:

"Giving does not impoverish us in the service of our Maker,
neither does withholding enrich us"

  Then Mom gently explained that she believed -- with her whole being -- that the best way she could serve God, was to trust Him...to trust His tender, unconditional care and infinite supply, not only for her family, but for all families. I didn't know what to say. I just hugged her, and then I helped my little sister find the marshmallows for the hot chocolate.

But that night something softened in me. My anger started to dissolve and my own trust started to grow.

Mom (and God) taught us all one of the most important lessons of our lives that year. She taught us that nothing could deprive us from being generous givers. Neither numbers in a check register, the barometer of an ever-shifting economic climate, a depleted job market, or an empty pantry could inform us about our right to give. We were givers, period.  And we were generous givers. It was our divine right.

And the food our family received that Thanksgiving eve, it lasted until my dad's social security benefits started to arrive 6 weeks later.

Over the course of the ensuing 25 years…through my youngest sister's graduation from college…Mom got up each morning, prayed, made breakfast, then set about the task of raising, feeding, clothing, educating, and modeling generosity for her eight children.  She taught us to rely on God's love for our support in every situation.

Eventually we all went to college, and one day, many years later, I found myself at that Ivy League dream school sitting in a classroom, having already learned the most important lessons of my life…not from college professors…but from a woman who trusted God. A woman who defended her children's right to be generous with others, no matter what the circumstances.

She is my hero.

Thank you Amy (and the TMCYouth team) for prompting me to rewrite this story...it has been quite a journey down a leafy autumn lane...full of light and gratitude.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone....with unbounded love,


Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

Photo is of my mom, Nancy Rosetta Clark McCullough, with her granddaughter, Desi.

"More to do than can ever be done..."

"From the day we arrive on the planet
And blinking, step into the sun
There's more to see than can ever be seen
More to do than can ever be done…"
- Elton John/Tim Rice
"The Lion King"

It was early December in 2000 and we were grateful for a patch of warmer than usual weather just prior to the holidays.  Emma and Clara were active, busy, rambunctious three-year-olds and a recent purchase of new tricycles had given us a playtime option they loved.  Racing around the back driveway or tearing up the front sidewalk caused an explosion of happy giggles to spout from them like bursts of water from a summer fountain in the park.

Buying the tricycles had been a financial stretch for us, but a sale at Target coupled with our urgency in finding appropriate gross motor activities for these two little monkeys who never stopped moving, quickly shifted the purchase from a want to a need. 

The girls awoke each morning with one major goal…get outside and ride their new red "bikes." But as often happens in a family of five, a third child's needs supercede the others and everyone has to cooperate with a plan that might not fulfill their greatest hopes for the day's schedule.  This particular day our older daughter's needs had to come first.  We were in the throes of pre-Nutcracker rehearsals, and as "Clara," she was rehearsing more than she was eating and sleeping…combined.

We had all piled into the Jeep accompanied by the echoing strains of "I want to ride my bike, I want to ride my bike"…a litany...in stereo.  We dropped our older daughter off at the dance studio, stopped by the grocery store, and then picked up the twins' babysitter so I could work for a few hours while she watched them ride their tricycles around the block.  When we pulled into the back driveway, I immediately noticed that something was missing…the tricycles.  I was sure they had been in the driveway…and now they were gone. 

At first I thought that perhaps their dad had scooted them into the backyard, or put them in the garage.  However, a quick but thorough search made it clear that the tricycles were no longer "in the house."  Julia quickly, and miraculously, turned the girls' attention towards a messy, therefore thrilling, art project while I assessed the situation.

The trikes were gone.  Period.

I was devastated.  We had stretched our budget to buy them in the first place.  Replacing them was going to be hard…even if the sale was still underway.  Of course I was already  praying to see that we could not be separated from anything that was truly ours,  but more critical to my spiritual poise were the feelings of helplessness, violation and despair I felt.  We lived in a very sweet neighborhood bordering the grounds of the university, and anchored by a wonderful park with a lake and ducks and a playground.  I felt so safe there and I trusted that my children could play without harm.

And, to be honest, I was angry. 

As I vacillated between praying to feel a sense of peace and wanting to let loose my tears (and feelings) of frustration, the question kept coming to me, "Who steals tricycles from the driveway of a home?"

The prayers for inner peace finally overcame the angry tears.  I sat still.  I was poised, waiting  for the inspiration that would make sense of this all.  Again, the frustrated question came.

"Who steals tricycles from the driveway of a home?"

"So much for the parting of the clouds," I thought.  But when the question came again, "Who steals tricycles?" I actually listened and engaged.   Within a moment or two, my heart broke wide with mercy. 

"Oh my goodness," I thought. "Only someone with small children or grandchildren would ever want two shiny new tricycles just before Christmas." 

I remember hearing a Sunday morning pundit, speaking about neighbor on neighbor urban violence, once say, "Desperate measures are nothing but a measure of someone's desperation."

Anyone whose experience made them feel hopeless enough to stop and steal two itty-bitty shiny red tricycles out of another person's driveway…must be feeling very desperate indeed.  And not only might they be feeling the bleakness of their own hardship, but they must have had children or grandchildren, siblings or nieces and nephews they wanted, and needed, to care for.

"...More to find than can ever be found
But the sun rolling high
Through the sapphire sky
Keeps great and small on the endless round..."

In an instant, my prayer changed from one of "take away my anger and let me find peace," to "how can I be an instrument of change and healing in my community which includes someone feeling so desperate that they would steal toddler-sized tricycles?" 

The more I prayed, the more my heart burst open with ideas for how we, as a family, could participate in some way toward making a difference during that Christmas for children whose parents may have had needs so looming that the simple traditions that we enjoyed were, for them, beyond even our modest holiday budget . 

Because our holiday plans that year were being driven by our daughter's ballet "career" and her performance in The Nutcracker, it was a natural first step for me to think about how we could roll out that performance to a larger audience…those in our community who might not have the means to purchase expensive tickets.  And although my husband and I were not poised to write a check for a block of tickets,  I knew we could always draw on an abundance of practical spiritual ideas, a generous desire for social advocacy we shared with our friends, and a love for the arts that was fathomless.  These were the things we had invested in for our own children's future.  These were the things we could offer to share with others.

Throughout the rest of December we were overwhelmed by the number of amazing, fresh ideas that God laid at the doorstep of our hearts for how we could share our holiday bounty…of dance, beauty, art, inspiration, and music with others.  However,  one opportunity unfolded immediately…and it continues to fill my heart with gratitude. 

So, back to the tricycles. 

After the girls were settled into their messy art project with Julia in the kitchen, I headed off to my "office" at the Border's bookstore café near our home.  Since I was there much of every day for appointments with patients and inspirational study, I had become quite close to the managers and employees.  That morning as I sat at my favorite table praying for answers, Heather, the store's events manager, noticed me staring into the empty space between where I sat and the snow-covered mountains looming in the west just beyond the plate glass windows.   She playfully asked me what I was daydreaming about.  

I told her, "A way to bring The Nutcracker to children whose parents can't afford tickets."  Then I went on to tell her about my morning and the tricycles. 

Within the span of ten minutes, we had our first gift to the community all wrapped up with shiny paper and satin ribbons.  We would bring The Nutcracker to Borders bookstore on the busiest Saturday of the holidays and perform scenes throughout the store.  I called the director of the ballet and she agreed that this would be a perfect opportunity to share The Nutcracker with children who may not be able to otherwise attend, promote the performances, and give the dancers another dress rehearsal.  It was done. 

Throughout the month, opportunities to share what we had with others quite literally fell into my lap.  For this "once upon a time" very poor little girl, it was as if I had been given the greatest gift…to be able to give back.  The gift I received in return was priceless…a new perspective that didn't put me on either side of an economic chasm…privilege or poverty, but gave me the tools and the heart to build bridges of compassion and humanity.

I stopped seeing desperate parents, children, teens…or desperate measures.  Instead I saw families eager to care for one another's needs. I saw mothers willing to bake and serve cookies at a bookstore rather than be out shopping for their own children at the mall.  I saw, through grateful tears,  children wide-eyed with wonder as the strains of Tchaikovsky's "dum-dum-da-dum-dum-dum" ushered in E.T.A. Hoffmann's story of a girl, a toy, some sweets and a dream…children so fully satisfied by the beauty of it all that hunger was forgotten…for a moment at least.

That was one of my favorite Christmases of all times.  As I sit here writing, I realize that I can't, for the life of me, remember how or when we replaced the girls tricycles.  Somehow it happened…but it simply escapes me today in the light of what we discovered about ourselves and our neighbors.

When we see someone resorting to desperate measures, like Cho, the young man who voiced his desperation in such an angry, violent way, we can either feel angry, hopeless, vulnerable and frustrated ourselves, or we can look for ways to bridge the chasm between hearts with practical prayer-based solutions that break through despair with the light of hope and kindness.

The answers to Virginia Tech, Columbine, 911, and Darfur do not lie solely in the portfolios of Senators, on the maps of Generals, the promises of presidential hopefuls,  or in the hands of prison guards.  They lie in the most accessible place on earth…the heart.

"..It's the Circle of Life
And it moves us all
Through despair and hope
Through faith and love
Till we find our place
On the path unwinding
In the Circle
The Circle of Life."

There is more to do....but it can be done...
with Love,
Kate