believe me when I say, "I will..."

"I know you're feeling overwhelmed,
before the day even begins;
but I can see beyond the now,
this is not how your story ends.

I will hold you when you're breaking,
like a Father and a friend;
and I will carry you through darkness,
till we see the sun agin.

So rest your head and cry your tears,
know that I am with you here.
When you can't lift that weight,
believe me when I say,
I will..."

Just when I thought it would be a while before I posted a new song, Citizen Way's beautiful,  "I Will" found its way onto my playlist. I had never heard of them before, but you can be sure I will be looking for their music again.

My spiritual sea legs are pretty solid. These past couple of years have strengthened them. Everyday there seems to be some news that crashes into my peace, and I have learned how to bend my knees, dig my toes in to the sand, and stay upright.

At the root of that resolve is this one passage of Scripture:

"Fear not, I am with thee..."

Day after day, it is enough. Night after night, it is enough. On a recent cross country road trip, it was enough. Whether I was facing a threatening black-clouded storm on an empty Kansas highway, or resting for a few hours in a rural rest area -- I was not alone. And I felt it. Deeply. This sense of being "with the Father," is tangible for me.

And not just for me, but for my sense of my children's safety. For my grandchildren's guidance as they navigate summer school or play choices. I turn to it when my heart is breaking for mothers in Syria, or children on the border in detention centers. It is my everything.

The presence of God's love is not intellectual, it is experiential. It is as real for me as is the invisible breath of a summer breeze rippling the surface of a long lake. Or the catch in my thought as I watch a horse and rider execute a perfect barrel turn. It is in the presence of love and the power of prayer.

God is constantly saying to each of us -- with every sunrise -- "believe me when I say, I will."

offered with Love,

Kate

"Here I am..."

"I am here in the dark.
I'm the song inside your heart.
I'm the missing piece
you've had all along.

I am here when you call.
When you rise,
and when you fall.
I am here,
I am here,
here I am..."

I can't seem to get enough of Amy Grant's new CD. Her new song, "Here" is the perfect keynote for this post.

Recently I was asked how it felt to experience healing. It was a good question, and I wanted to honor the genuine spiritual hunger behind it. So, I asked if I could think about it and "get back to you."

I knew I had to speak from my experience, and mine only. So I went to a place --within myself -- where I could be absolutely still.  Then I revisited some of my most profound moments of spiritual awakening, healing, and transformation. It didn't take more than the breadth of a heartbeat before that very same feeling washed over me in visceral waves of holy remembering.

There are no words to describe it fully save:

"I am here..." 

This I am is not a human presence -- mine or anyone else's. It is the deep I AM of timeless, changeless, conscious Being. It is the I AM that is -- for me -- God.  It is infinitely near, while still being radiantly unconfined.  And I am as sure of this I AM, as I am of being conscious. It is like honey coursing through every cell of my being -- sweet, warm, heavy with the weight of promise, a constancy that goes beyond what I could ever imagine, and clear as a river of crystal.

It is very different from human thought-taking -- the kind of human reasoning that wants to believe what it thinks it knows.  And it takes me by surprise -- every time. Yet the moment I feel it, I am free. There is nothing but absolute trust.   It is not a trust that is invested in, or holding out for, any particular outcome.  It is an unequivocal, absolute trust in the divine.  A trust that surrenders self-determinism and says -- at the deepest level, with child-like joy:

"Thy will be done." 

When I feel this deeply innate sense of trust -- one that so naturally lets go, and yields everything to God's presence -- I can't even fathom why I ever wondered or worried about anything. It is how I imagine a small child must feel when she gives herself up to sleep in the arms of her parent.

Yet it's not a surrender to an "other."  It is a full-bore letting go, a yielding to the Truth of being -- the core of who I truly am -- eternally.  It is a feeling of sinking deeper and deeper into the great vastness of the kingdom of heaven within. A feeling of being submersed and yet, held aloft at the same time. It reminds me of learning to float as a child. Relaxing my entire body into my mother's arms, and then discovering that she had lowered her arms and I was being buoyed by the same water that had -- only moments before -- yielded to the touch of my tiny fingers.  


This feeling of being "with the Lord," is the best feeling I've ever known. No one can take it from me. Nothing can shake me loose from it's hold. Spiritual texts, words of inspiration, prayers of longing -- no matter how holy -- can only open my heart, and point my hopes in the right direction.   Towards the enduring promise that God's presence is as close to me as my consciousness of existence. This is the feeling that I lean into every moment, of every day.  That's my answer -- what's yours?

offered with Love,

Kate

"I would be the sunlight in your universe...."

"If I could change the world,
I would be the sunlight in your universe.
You would think my love was really something good,
Baby, if I could change the world...."

I've been sitting here, just loving Eric Clapton's "Change the World."  Listening to it tonight, I found myself remembering a day over 20 years ago, when, during a friend's visit, one of my favorite metaphors for the healing power of "living Love" began to unveil itself. 

Jacqueline and I were walking the perimeter of the estuary pond that was downhill from our little house perched up on the ridge road. We were just a few blocks from the crashing Atlantic that sunny, cold, later winter afternoon in March of 1988, and yet the almost palpable stillness of our surroundings was as quieting as the "solemn hush of nature newly born."  

Arms linked, heads bent close, we were discussing the purpose of being alive.  Each of us had been through "the valley of the shadow..." that winter and I remember our reference to it as "the winter of our discontent."  But the longer we talked, and walked, the more we realized that this gray-hearted season had actually been filled with opportunities for self-examination and surrender, quiet contemplation and cleansing tears. And in hindsight, I can see that I was more content that winter than I could even begin to glimpse in the moment. I was content to sit and think, to be grateful for small things, to listen intently to the gentle voice of a friend offering comfort and encouragement.

The sun that day glanced off the surface of the pond, bounced from the window panes  in surrounding summer cottages, and fleshed out the subtle shades of yellow in the forsythia bushes...just beginning to waken from their long winter's nap...at the pond's edge.  It was such a clear example of how something I never really even looked at (the sun itself) could change the way I see the world I live in. 

I remember taking Jacqueline's hand in mine, and saying, "Let's be like the sun and just shine...on everything and on everybody."  We laughed and talked about all the ways the sun behaved.  It didn't care what, or who, its rays touched, warmed, or blessed.  It never invited you to consider its own beauty. Its form and shape could not be outlined, or delineated, by the eye.  It remained constant regardless of what was going on around it.

We sat quietly on a felled log by the water's edge, and watched the changing, shifting colors, shadows, textures, and forms of rocks, leaves, water, and the thin layer of ice that slowly melted and joined the pond's larger body.  We let the sun penetrate the cold air, reach beneath sweaters, and set itself upon our skin and into the marrow of our bones.

Words were not necessary that day.  The inner teacher spoke through the sun's warmth.

Later, we brushed off our jeans, pulled on our mittens, and walked up the hill towards the house.  Each pane of glass like welcoming, smiling eyes, golden with reflected light. 

The sun's message that day was so clear. Just shine.  It was enough to change my world, without a word.

warmly,
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS