"first we fold in, then open out...."

"first we fold in,
then open out;
there is a faith
that's only found in doubt..."

This post did not start as an idea clothed in words. It started as a feeling. And then a name. Carrie Newcomer. So I went to Youtube and pulled up Carrie's station. The title,  "The Point of Arrival," gave words to the feeling. So I listened to the song -- which I'd never heard before. Yes. That was it. The feeling now had a sound, and a shape.

Now for the words. I woke up this morning and it was the feeling of kicking a ball that came to me. Now this is quite funny. For one thing, it is because I don't have any relationship to balls -- soccer balls, baseballs, basketballs. As a child I was ball-averse. I very much disliked anything that had to do with balls.

It wasn't till our daughters became soccer, volleyball, and Polocrosse athletes that I saw any reason to change my relationship to balls of any sport. And, at best, it was a distant relationship. One of an observer with a foreign object that seemed to have no purpose other than to come hurtling through space at you -- at random speeds.

So for me to wake up with the feeling of kicking a ball was actually quite arresting. So, as I do with all strange feelings, I sat with it. Thought about it. Plumbed it for some spiritual meaning.

Carrie's song helped me find what I was listening for. It is a paradox. One of my favorite things about being a conscious being, is being able to recognize a paradox and ponder it deeply.

This morning's paradox is all about the motion of kicking a ball forward. One has to drawn back the foot, in order to add velocity and distance. If you try to kick a ball from a straight leg, stationary, starting point it doesn't have near the speed, precision, or trajectory. Try it.

I have been praying about the hundreds of young men and women who will soon be leaving summer camps for the next legs of their life journey. I have heard some version of trepidation in their individual and collective voices. "I feel safe here. What if I'm not as funny, selfless, purposeful, focused when I leave here? What if I get too busy to read Scripture? What if I forget how it feels to pray?"

This concern is filled with a desire.  And it voices itself as either a desire stay longer in the place they are in, or to not have to "go back" to the life that they left before summer began -- to return to towns, friendships, school settings where they did not feel that they had previously been as kind or spiritually confident as they have been at camp.

I understand this feeling. I am feeling it too. This summer has been all about God's trajectory for my life. I have said, "yes," to opportunities that in other years I might have found a way to sidestep. In some instances I have returned to places where I'd made grave mistakes in the past -- in order to find peace and resolution. In other instances I have stepped back from my personal preferences -- for example: I like dry air and cool night, I like familiarity, I want to be near my dogs -- in order to walk forward into opportunities that were completely without a roadmap.

For those of you who are natural adventurers this might seem like a walk in the park. For me, a spiritual homebody, it was like waking up from that dream.  You know, the one where you have gone to school in your pajamas - and then realized it wasn't a dream. You actually are in math class and everyone is whispering about your flannel nightie.

But what I have been feeling today - as I've embraced this adventure - is the feeling of kicking a ball. Each time I have drawn back -- whether it is to return to a place I need to find redemption and healing in, or from my sense of personality, I am moving forward into the next moment with greater freedom, purpose, strength, and precision. Each time I have folded in and dealt with a past mistake or a deep fear of the unknown -- I open out with a new grace.

And in that motion, there is an almost imperceptible pause between the drawing back, and the moving forward. An immeasurable, timeless moment where I feel God's presence and power. It is as if, for a quadtrillisecond, there is an absolute stillness filled with peace - just before I am sent forward into the next moment - of being at play in the fields of the Lord.

This post may not make any sense to you. I am sorry if that is the case. Perhaps, I am writing it for the sole purpose of watching the feeling take shape in words. I don't know if writing this is a drawing back, the sweet pause, or the hurtling forward. But I know I am feeling God-sent this morning.

Each camper and counselor, in every camp around the world, who has spent time in servant leadership and spiritual self-discovery will soon return - be drawn back into - schools, friendships, towns, families where they will be poised for the pause -- and then they will be sent forward into a world so ready for the young men and women they have become. "Children" who are wiser, gentler, less self-focused, more intentional. And we will all be better for their summer of vision and service.

offered with Love,

Cate 

"there is a great gulf fixed...."

"all you ever wanted
was my heart, my simple heart
to You, that's all
that really mattered...”

Selah's  "Broken Ladders"  reminds me that when I follow Jesus' example, I am following someone who loves God more than self. Someone who is so willing to deny the ego -- at all costs.

It is his life of self-examination and humility that touches me most deeply these days. Every story, every parable, every wise word, and selfless deed is a signpost leading me into a deeper sense of my own oneness with God.

And this oneness with the divine cannot exist where there is a separate ego that I am defending, grooming, protecting, exalting. But within a deeper desire to for self-nothingness, every gospel story comes alive with new meaning and guidance.

This week, it was the parable of the rich man, and the beggar:

"There was a certain rich man, which was clothed in purple and fine linen, and fared sumptuously every day:

And there was a certain beggar named Lazarus, which was laid at his gate, full of sores, And desiring to be fed with the crumbs which fell from the rich man's table.

And it came to pass, that the beggar died, and was carried by the angels into Abraham's bosom: the rich man also died, and was buried;

And in hell he lift up his eyes, being in torments, and seeth Abraham afar off, and Lazarus in his bosom. And he cried and said, Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus, that he may dip the tip of his finger in water, and cool my tongue; for I am tormented in this flame.

But Abraham said, Son, remember that thou in thy lifetime receivedst thy good things, and likewise Lazarus evil things: but now he is comforted, and thou art tormented.

And beside all this, between us and you there is a great gulf fixed: so that they which would pass from hence to you cannot; neither can they pass to us, that would come from thence."

There are a few more citations to this parable -- but this is the part that was included in my Scriptural study this week, so I am focusing on it.

For such a long time, I thought that Jesus, in the telling of this parable, was judging the rich, and comforting the poor. But something about it has never sat peacefully with me.

It just seems so contrary to the same Jesus who refused to get embroiled in judging the woman who was "taken in adultery, in the very act." The Jesus who would rather write in the sand, than weigh in on an obvious case of moral turpitude.

But, if I am nothing else, I am persistent. Or as my teacher and mentor once said, "you are like a dog after a bone, when it comes to this "stuff." No argument here.

Speaking of dogs and bones -- that is where this parable came to life for me. As I read it, listened to it, and studied it over-and-over-again this week, one section in particular stood out to me:

"And desiring to be fed with the crumbs
which fell from the rich man's table..."

It was like a bur in my side. I knew that passage felt familiar. And I knew exactly where it was from. It is, for me, one of the most profound shifts in Jesus' ministry:

"And, behold, a woman of Canaan came out of the same coasts, and cried unto him, saying, Have mercy on me, O Lord, thou son of David; my daughter is grievously vexed with a devil.

But he answered her not a word. And his disciples came and besought him, saying, Send her away; for she crieth after us. But he answered and said, I am not sent but unto the lost sheep of the house of Israel.

Then came she and worshipped him, saying, Lord, help me.

But he answered and said, It is not meet to take the children's bread, and to cast it to dogs.

And she said, Truth, Lord: yet the dogs eat of the crumbs which fall from their masters' table.

Then Jesus answered and said unto her, O woman, great is thy faith: be it unto thee even as thou wilt. And her daughter was made whole from that very hour."

And suddenly I could see, this was not a parable in which Jesus was passing judgment on the behavior of others, but a window on his own inner wrestling.

Before the Canaanite woman's approach and cross-questioning, Jesus was on the fast-track to becoming the Messiah. A royal priesthood. Someone clad in the finest linen and purple. The Messiah was a nationalistic leader. He was expected to defend the Jewish nation's right to the promised land, as the chosen people.

But this woman - a non-Jew no less - throws the worst kind of wrench in that plan. She brings his plan into alignment with his message.  And without pointing fingers, she helps him see the inconsistency. Once seen, his entire ministry shifts.

He begins referring to Samaritans and strangers in his parables. He is giving water to the woman at the well in Samaria. He is found eating with Greeks and Romans. His love is inclusive. His message is universal. His healing is impartial. All are worth, all are welcome, all are whole. The kingdom of God is his nation and it is within everyone. The child of God is his brethren. The beggar - hungering after righteousness, health, and comfort -- is his mentor.

But, he must have also wrestled with the once-upon-a-time arrogance of  "I am not sent, but unto the lost sheep of the house of Israel [the Jewish nation.]"  How to reconcile his own journey from royal priesthood to hungry beggar? How to gently -- but honestly -- share this shift with his disciples and his followers? How to humbly own his journey? How to love us enough to let us walk this path with him?  A parable.

And, I love that through this parable, he claims his right to identify himself rightly - with the beggar - when he says:

"And between us and you [the rich man]
there is a great gulf fixed:

so that they which would pass from hence to you cannot; neither can they pass to us, that would come from thence."

Such complete redemption.  Such a clear sense of no longer being on that side of the gulf.  Of that old, self-certain "rich man," who can never again cross over, and enter his consciousness of being. He claims his place on the side of the beggar - those hungry for the Love of an all-inclusive Father.

He reminds us that once we have seen the impartial and universal nature of God's love for all -- we can never return to the hell of hierarchies. The brimstone of thinking that there are those who are worthy, and those who are less.  The uncertainty of wondering which side of the gulf we will find ourselves on at any given moment.

Can I just say how much I love this man's example of self-examination and compassion. I love him - more than I can possibly say. Selah's song says what is in my heart:

"Wonderful, merciful Savior,
precious redeemer and friend;

who would have thought
that a Lamb would,
rescue the souls of men? "

offered with Love,

Cate

"You do impossible things..."

"You heal the broken-hearted,
You set the captive free,
You lift the heavy burden,
and even now, You are lifting me..."

Ahhh -- friday afternoon.  A welcome milestone, set in a week that has seemed like one spiritual demand being placed on top of another. I could feel that I needed something to really lift my heart. Chris Tomlin's "Impossible Things," was perfect. I found myself singing along, hands raised, body moving -- shouting His praise.

In Chris' Facebook post, he introduces this song of praise with these words:

"During times of trial,
we must retrace the steps of our journey
and remember, God has already done
the impossible in us through His Son."  

Yes, we have the right to remember what we have already witnessed - and experienced - of His power. I remember an afternoon almost 20 years ago when I was feeling so overwhelmed I didn't want to leave the Borders Bookstore Cafe where I was hiding out from my life. There, everything was orderly, someone made hot chocolate that was the perfect temperature, no one spilled juice on my books, or started crying to be held -- the minute I closed my eyes in prayer.

I wanted to give myself ten more minutes before heading back into the storm that was our home with toddler twins. I stood up and walked over the the nearby magazine rack. The latest edition of Oprah's magazine was on display. I picked it up and returned to my neat little table. The last page was always a note from Oprah. I liked reading them first. This one was about the past.

Oprah explained that there had been many years when looking back at her life's journey was fraught with anxiety and pain. The timeline was punctuated with milestone moments. One day she realized that each of those moments was one of abuse, heartache, and fear. There were few, if any, good milestones on that timeline. So she resisted looking back. That didn't mean that the past didn't haunt her, just that she didn't choose to visit it with intention.

That changed the day that she discovered that her timeline was not something she felt in control of. She decided that she would draw out that timeline and put those milestones in place, but that she would go right back to those memories and find something good -- some indication of God's presence in each of those "chapters," of her life.

She said that it took almost a year, but she did it. She reclaimed each of those milestones for God. This so resonated with me.

I will never forget one of the examples she gave. She said that one day she decided it was time to revisit the sexual child abuse she'd suffered at the hand of a family member. It took her a very deep dive into that chapter of her life, but she finally found it, the presence of God. She realized that even in the midst that dark time, she knew that what was happening to her was not right. She had the wisdom to know right from wrong. It was enough to redeem that dark time. Her timeline was forever rewritten.

That was enough for me. I decided to do the same thing. I drew out my timeline and I placed the milestones along the way. And like Oprah, I discovered that mine were all hauntingly dark and negative. Then I took the next few years to go back and reclaim each one for God -- for good.

That chapter after my dad was killed and my family was so desperate for resources, became a chapter filled with creativity and care for one another. The moments that had haunted me with heartbreak became life pages filled with comforting friends and self-discovery.

In the book of Revelation, John promises that:

"The kingdoms of this world
are become the kingdoms of our Lord,
and of his Christ; and he
shall reign for ever and ever."  

Right where the world has tried to stake its claim on our hearts, we have the authority to evict the usurper, cast out the trespasser, and reclaim that real estate on our timeline for God. My timeline was like a volume of Grimm's Fairy Tales when I started -- ogres, demons, bad choices, and very few happy endings. Today it is filled with parables of intuition, testimonies to humility, stories of spiritual growth, forgiveness and grace. If I can do this, anyone can.

In each of our lives, there are moments we want to forget. Moments when we coulda, shoulda, woulda -- if only we'd known better. There are moments when we have felt helpless or hopeless. But these self-repeated false versions of our life story only ratify the world's claim that we are self-creators and that God is helpless in most instances and completely absent in many. So much for an omnipotent and omnipresent God.

We don't have to consent to this hi-jacking of our lives. We can take each moment back for God. And when we do so, we bring that moment back into our present conscious experience, and rewrite it forever. This becomes the current edition. And this is the one we can remember without fear.

Yes, God has done "impossible things" in our lives. Some of those impossible things might seem like life-altering events, and others may only seem like another day when the sun rose again in the east. But it rose. It was there. And you glimpsed its light, you felt its warmth, you were inspired by its constancy -- it was enough. You don't need to have dramatic miracles -- only those moments we you felt the presence of good -- however faintly -- and you knew you were there.  The milestones have been set in order -- like cairns that stand the test of time.

Here, the timeline becomes a lens through which every moment is alive wth possibility for redemption and the promise of impossible things -- remembered.

offered with Love,

Kate

"a murmured prayer…"

"If it be your will,
that I speak no more,
and my voice be still,
as it was before,

I will speak no more
I shall abide until,
I am spoken for
If it be your will..."

Yesterday I was speaking with a friend. We were trying to find a time to meet for lunch this week. I suggested a date and a place. That was when she helped me remember that Wednesday was Yom Kippur.  Yom Kippur, directly translates from the Hebrew, into English as, "day of atonement."   My friend reminded me that she would be fasting with her family that day. I apologized for not being more aware, and we made other plans.

Yom Kippur is often referred to as the Sabbath of Sabbaths. It's primary themes are atonement and repentance, forgiveness and redemption. Leonard Cohen wrote, "If it Be Your Will," as his murmured prayer. For many, it has become a sacred offering on this day of atonement -- Yom Kippur.

I love its message of self-surrender and grace.  In these lyrics, Cohen offers up his voice - his song - to God. These are the most precious gifts that he - as a poet/singer/songwriter - has to give to the world.  But he is willing to be silent, if it be His will. 

I have been thinking about this very thing - a lot - lately. I love words. I mean, I really love them. The way they flutter in the heart, pour from the page, tenderly comfort in the dark, strengthen our resolve when facing demons, and encourage us when we feel most alone.

But they are only words -- symbols of something deeper than the language of lips, or paper and ink.  They are not the substance of my relationship with the Divine.  They are only my lisping attempt to describe this relationship.  And as much as I know how unwavering my devotion to God is,  there were times when I have wondered: if God asked me to be silent, would I really be able to hold my tongue and my pen? I pray that I would have the courage and the meekness to yield what delights me, to what delights Him.

A number of years ago, during Yom Kippur, I was preparing the text for a talk I had been invited to give. I was feeling confident about the message. I had humbly listened for direction in setting the tone, and honing the core elements, I'd been asked to address.  I'd typed up the final draft and it was sitting on my desk. I felt peaceful.

That was when a small volume caught my eye on the bookshelf. Its leather cover was worn and supple from use. The lay of its weight in my hand was familiar and comforting. I was drawn towards it. So many of the ideas between its covers had been helpful to me in times of confusion and uncertainty. I let it fall open in my palm and my eyes fell on a paragraph that changed the course of my ministry.

I surrendered my words, to the Word. What I had thought I would share went into the trash, and a new message was born. It was all about trusting.  Trusting that "the kingdom of God is within you…" It fell into place like the petals of a flower unfolding. My contribution to that day would be simple. I would step aside and let God speak to each individual.  I would allow space for sacred silence.

It was a life-shifting moment for me. All desire for a platform, and a voice, dissolved. I sensed a new dance being choreographed -- one of stepping aside and letting the Christ speak intimately, clearly, tenderly, and directly to the heart of each of God's beloved children.

Each year, as Yom Kippur softly lands on my calendar - and I am invited into this space of atonement - I am reminded that this holy oneness is between each of us and God. The cry for forgiveness, mercy, redemption, and reformation is whispered. It is imitate and silent. It is a murmured prayer of hope and surrender.

It reminds me of what I have come to think of as King David's most tender psalm:

"the Lord will hear

commune with your own heart
upon your bed,
and be still.
Selah" 

Sometimes we are asked to be silent. To give up the instrument we feel most confident about in ourselves. To step aside and let the divine Voice speak, sing, pray its message in the most intimate of places - the heart.

We are asked to fast from being anything to anyone -- including ourselves. To humbly empty our hearts of self. To know our emptiness and let it be filled by the real substance of what can only, ever, be a symbol to the human mind.

This evening, as the sun sets, my Yom Kippur prayer is a simple one:

"if it be Your will..." 

May your hearts hear the voice of God, and may you find peace.


offered with Love,

Kate

"take these broken wings…"

"take these
broken wings
and learn to fly…"

This is my favorite song. This is my favorite version of my favorite song. Sarah McLaughlin's cover  of "Blackbird," from the "I Am Sam" soundtrack speaks to something in me that is deeper than bone.

This post is all about innocence. It is about purity. It is about sorrow. It is about resurrection and redemption. It is about a spiritual path to reclaiming what seems forever lost.

When most people think about lost innocence, they think of choice. We are led to believe that staying a virgin -- staying pure -- is something that a girl/woman chooses to do. If she has lost her virginity -- her innocence -- it must have been her choice. 

But for some it is not a choice, and the losing of it happens long before they even know it is something that they have.  Long before they learn it is something to be cherished, protected, or shared.


These are the little girls who have been violated without consent. They are the children without a childhood.  The ones who mourn a ghost self.

They are the girls who weep in secret, the girls who cut to feel, and starve themselves to prove they have some modicum of control in their lives. These are the women who read about lost innocence and wonder how it must have felt -- to have ever even glimpsed something so precious in themselves. They are the women who ache when they read about abstinence contracts, chastity pledges, and purity rings.  These are the girls who feel disconnected from themselves.

These are girls who dream of what they never knew. And for them, it isn't about a moral line crossed or a physical boundary broken. It is about a deep desire to know one's self as sweet and pure. To feel full of hope and promise and innocence.

For most of their lives, many of these girls feel like that blackbird who sings with a broken wing. Yes, they have learned how to act childlike -- but to truly know and feel childlikeness, is another matter altogether. You see, when a grown man begins violating a girl before she even enters puberty, it doesn't really feel as if something has been irrevocably lost -- just never known.

She wanders through the landscape of childhood -- one that should be filled with learning, and play, and imagination -- with a cloud of dark knowing, brooding over her at all times. She feels like a liar, a pretender, a fake in the vast pink kingdom of fairy princesses and happily ever after.

Her heart doesn't leap at songs like "If you're happy and you know it clap your hands." Her heart rips open - like a raw wound - with the first strains of "Blackbird singing in the dead of night…"

These girls discover that there is rarely somewhere safe to turn. Often, when she "tells," she is not mended, but broken further. When her tears spill over onto another's pillow, she is accused of darkening their path with the underbelly of society's horror story. 

Some women report that they wonder how to protect their loved ones from the pain and distrust that seems to come out of nowhere -- the confusion and anger that percolates just below the surface. For them, disassociation, divorce, death can often feel like the only way to save those they love from the sharp shards of their own shattered hearts.  

There are countless stories of brokenness - here and abroad.  Not all are dramatic and shocking.  Not all make us turn away in hopelessness and helplessness -- or even disgust.  But these girls with broken wings live among us. And their stories need to be redeemed -- and can be redeemed.  Mine was.  The particulars of my story are not important -- only that for many years I believed it defined me as someone who was irrevocably lost.

But this was where Love, divine Love -- God, found me. This is where the story of a crucified savior and a woman who had been saved -- saved me. 

I know that there is much academic speculation about whether Mary Magdalene was actually the same woman who washed Jesus' feet at the Pharisee's house. But this scholarship doesn't matter to me.  What matters -- and what mattered then -- is what her story meant to my heart decades ago on a cloudy spring day.  A day when I had lost all hope of every being worthy of love. 

You see, I needed to believe that a weeping girl of questionable reputation and broken innocence, washing the Savior's feet, was the same woman who kept vigil at the foot of the cross, and waited at the door of the sepulcher. Her story gave me hope. It saved me.

In my secret heart, I knew that I was just like that broken girl. But I also sensed -- in that moment -- that I could be just as courageous as that expectant, grateful woman.

Throughout my girlhood, an undaunted hope had lived just beneath the surface of my secret self-loathing. I'd prayed that I could find an innocent child buried within the rubble of my broken-ness.  I'd search "before" photos for a glimmer of her childlikeness.  I thought if I could find innocence in her eyes it would be familiar and I'd be able to remember how it felt and connect with those feeling.  But I never could.  I had all but given up hope of ever really knowing what it felt like to be a child.    

That hope was was kindled into an enlightened faith with the Magdalene's story. I realized that I not only could be saved from self-destruction, but that I actually had value beyond simple self-preservation.  I glimpsed that the resurrection of my own innocence could serve Christ's timeless mission of healing and salvation.

In reading her story, I glimpsed that this woman "out of whom Jesus had cast seven devils"  actually served as a reliable, vital, and unshakeable witness to the immortality of Life -- of innocence. She must have been unwavering in her certainty that what had been resurrected from the ashes of her own deadened life, was only a glimpse of what was true for Jesus. 

 It must have been absolutely unthinkable to her that Christ's life could be destroyed by hate. The resurrection of her own crucified purity had prepared her heart.  She was able to hold watch at the cross and an unwavering vigil at the sepulcher, while she waited for the inevitability of his resurrected life.

Her once-broken wings gave flight to humanity's hopes   -- and they were lifting mine two thousand years later.

Realizing that Mary Baker Eddy launches her chapter on "Christian Science Practice," -- or metaphysical healing -- with this woman's transformation, I have clung to her story  as scriptural precedence for a life redeemed -- and purposeful.  She has taught me how to serve Christ. She has unfolded for me a well-trod path towards reclaimed innocence, purity, our individual and collective intactness as daughters of God.

So, what does this Easter story mean to me -- it means we are all innocent. It means that her resurrection, was part and parcel to his resurrection. And that his resurrection was the promise of our resurrection -- each and every one of us.  We are all untouched by evil.  Inviolable in grace. We are children of God. Just think of it -- you are a child of God.  I am a child of God. I am an innocent, a babe, a pure sweet girl in the eyes of my Father who has given me wings to fly.

In a hymn written by William MacKenzie are the words:

"she knew the Christ,
undimmed by dying..." 

I know this Christ.  It is alive in me -- undimmed by dying, unsilenced by hate, unstoppable in Love. This Christ is the resurrected, ever-alive innocence in all of us.  It is the untouched purity, the inviolable hope which assures us that we are never lost, never broken, never entombed in the past.  For me, this is the Easter story that lives each day.

offered with Love,

Kate

"My heart will be blessed…"

"my heart wants to sigh
like a chime that flies,
from a church on a breeze..."

I was rendered speechless by Lady Gaga's "Sound of Music Tribute performance at the 2015 Academy Awards. What an amazing reminder to billions of viewers: never. label. anyone.

This week has been filled with instances of this very reminder. Even when someone has given you decades of information about who they are, don't believe it. We are not the accumulated sum of our human histories. It isn't written in indelible ink unless God wrote it. 

We are reminded in Lamentations that God's mercies are new every morning. We are new every morning, and great is His faithfulness to this promise.

Recently I was given the gift of redemption. The opportunity to be seen for who I am today, and not for who I was forty years ago. The person who gave me this gift was once a young girl I'd known when I was in my early twenties. I had probably given her every reason label me as a disappointment -- someone who had let her down, not lived up her expectations, and failed to keep my promises.

But even though I'd carried around my earlier failings -- like an over-loaded knapsack on my back -- she had long since decided to love me for who she always knew I could be, rather than the disappointments I'd long-imagined she saw when my name crossed her path.

The night I received her friend request on Facebook -- and later a private message that said, "I am so happy to find you," -- I bawled like a baby. She went on, in that first message, to tell me that she never gave up the hope of our reconnecting. When she'd learned from a mutual friend that I was living a life of service to others -- something even I might not have expected in those long ago days -- she said, "I always knew you'd do something wonderful with your life." Wow.  I was speechless with wonder.

There were many people who hadn't felt the same way that she did about me. Folks who didn't have such high expectations for my future. Including me. People whom I hadn't disappointed -- not nearly as badly as I thought I'd let her down. But her faith in my innate goodness -- and her belief in my promise -- were untouched by my own lack of faith in myself. I'd acted on my flagging self-worth, she'd refused to let it inform her expectations for me.

Tonight -- watching Lady Gaga's performance -- I was reminded of how important it is to celebrate the good we see in people each day, while still letting them surprise us along the way.

No matter how old we are, no matter what we have done with our past moments, no matter how often we have disappointed ourselves - or others - we can wake up each morning with fresh hope in our hearts. Hope that we really can:

"climb every mountain,
ford every stream,
follow every rainbow,
till we find our dream..." 

It's so easy to fall into a pattern of self-doubt based on past regrets. There is nothing difficult in going along with that storyline. Acting out labels we've placed on ourselves, or only seeing others through the labels we've placed on them.  But we don't have to.  We can do this differently.

We can start tonight -- by redeeming this day's accumulated information about ourselves or others.  Just try it.  Go back and review the day -- look at where you have made a difference, helped someone in need, corrected a mistaken way of thinking about yourself or others, shared, listened, or forgiven.  Then let this be your only record of the day.

And once you have claimed this day's beauty, grace, and wonder, take the next step. Establish in your heart that you are a child of God. That God's love alone defines you, your purpose, and your promise. Rest upon this one true fact about yourself. Then, be willing to rise in the morning, surprised by God's love for you and His unspeakable gifts of inspiration, transformation, and grace.

And while you are at it, be willing to give this same gift of "all things new," to everyone you come in contact with. Let their lives delight and surprise you.

You may just find that your world is filled with the sound of music, a few of your favorite things, dreams that will need all the love you can give, and a heart that is blessed. I know my heart was surprised -- and blessed -- tonight.

offered with Love,

Kate

"i never made promises lightly…"

"I never made promises lightly,
there have been some that I've broken,
but I swear in the days still left,
we'll walk in fields of gold…"

If you want to see me weep at the first strains of a vocal performance, just play Eva Cassidy's recording of "Fields of Gold." It gets me every time.

It's full of heartbreak, pathos, and promise. There are times when I've felt these emotions so viscerally, that my knees buckle.

It happened a year ago last autumn. I was driving through the lush evening light of our mountain valley. I had Eva's recording playing while the sun dipped below the ragged crest of Mt. Princeton. The meadow to the south of the Link School road was cast in gold, and I felt a sob explode from somewhere deep in my heart.

The golden light, the song, the setting -- a perfect emotional storm. Joy, sorrow, memories, regret. I couldn't sort one out from another.

I was headed up the mountain to sit in on one of our daughters' classes, Explorations in Spiritual Literature, at the expeditionary school they attend here in the valley. I knew I had to put my emotional breakdown on hold, and pull it together, or the girls would notice.

I arrived just in time for the start of the class. I was still wrestling with my emotions when the teacher opened a discussion on  the spiritual message in Jesus' parable of the tares and the wheat (Matthew 13: 24 - 30):

"Another parable put he forth unto them, saying, The kingdom of heaven is likened unto a man which sowed good seed in his field: But while men slept, his enemy came and sowed tares among the wheat, and went his way.

But when the blade was sprung up, and brought forth fruit, then appeared the tares also.

So the servants of the householder came and said unto him, Sir, didst not thou sow good seed in thy field? from whence then hath it tares? He said unto them, An enemy hath done this.

The servants said unto him, Wilt thou then that we go and gather them up? But he said, Nay; lest while ye gather up the tares, ye root up also the wheat with them.

Let both grow together until the harvest: and in the time of harvest I will say to the reapers, Gather ye together first the tares, and bind them in bundles to burn them: but gather the wheat into my barn."  

I love this parable, so he had my full attention. I've spent many hours over the years exploring its spiritual relevance to my own life experience.

I have to admit that I was tempted to just jump right in, and share my insights -- but I was a guest. Thank goodness! It made me listen more attentively.  But, I have to admit, that I sat there wondering if someone would share what had become so inspiring to me:  that the kingdom of heaven is likened unto the man -- not the field, or the seed? Was anyone going to have seen that the man doesn't accuse his servants -- or anyone in his household -- but immediately knows that "an enemy" must have done this?

Wasn't someone going to share that the roots of the tares would have helped to stabilize the roots of the wheat -- so that there was less crop loss from erosion during a heavy rainfall?

But because I couldn't share -- I listened. And I was blessed. The teacher, Bobby Lewis, shared an insight that took my breath away. He said that perhaps the householder knew that when fully grown, the tares would be more easily discernible from the wheat. And that once separated and gathered into bundles, the dry, brittle tares would be very useful as kindling for starting fires.

Wow!

They weren't being burned, just to destroy them because they were of no value.  They were being gathered into bundles so that they could be used to start fires. Fires that would keep them warm on cool desert nights. Fires for cooking meals. Fires for light, and protection from predators that might come too close to their sleeping circles at night during the harvest.

Everything had usefulness. And wasn't this the exact message I needed at that moment. I'd been so confused on my drive up the mountain. All my wonderful, holy, beautiful memories -- of a relationship set in that golden valley -- seemed intertwined with the sorrow of it not having been realized as the forever relationship in my life. Regret was mixed with joy, inspiration twisted up with the surrender of a long-cherished dream.

But this insight about the tares and the wheat gave me a sense of wholeness about my life's path -- one that I'd deeply longed for.

Nothing had been lost. It had all been purposeful. I'd learned lessons -- ones that I may not have sought out any other way. I'd discovered things about my relationship with God that will endure far beyond any particular chapter in my life. Those years were vital to strengthening the roots of my spiritual trust in the unseen power of Love - a love that defies personal sense.

And those promises that were never lightly made -- and yet, had been broken -- brought me to my knees.  I'd humbly discovered that personal self-certainty is not the same thing as spiritual self-surrender.  My self-certainty had had very little to do with "Thy will be done," and more to do with "well, I can tell you that I will never…"

Out of those experiences came a sweeter heart, less judgment of others, and a deeper trust in God's ability to override a prideful sense of right, for growth in humility. In truth, I didn't really need a sense of myself as someone who always got it right. What I really needed was to harvest in myself, a greater compassion for others, less self-righteousness, and more grace.

I left that class a different person.  I'd been ransomed, healed, restored, forgiven -- by this deeper sense of my life's path.  I was walking in fields of gold, where even my tares were useful, valued, and served a holy purpose. Those golden days had never included something useless and thoroughly regrettable.  But they had given me something warm, nourishing, and enlightening to share -- a kinder heart.

A new light was shed on a much loved paragraph from page 521 of Mary Baker Eddy's Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures:

"All that is made is the work of God, and all is good.

We leave this brief, glorious history of spiritual creation (as stated in the first chapter of Genesis) in the hands of God, not of man, in the keeping of Spirit, not matter, joyfully acknowledging now and forever God’s supremacy, omnipotence, and omnipresence.

"The harmony and immortality of man are intact.

We should look away from the opposite supposition that man is created materially, and turn our gaze to the spiritual record of creation, to that which should be engraved on the understanding and heart “with the point of a diamond”
and the pen of an angel."  

It wasn't about sorting my life into good and bad choices or decisions -- but redeeming every moment, by seeing God's presence, power, and purpose in it.

I am so grateful I was led to truly listen that night. I was given the gift of redemption. My trip back down the Link School road was beneath a bowl of stars set in midnight velvet. And yet, in my heart I was still seeing fields of gold (here is "Sting's version.)

thanks Bobby --


shared with Love,

Kate

"Redeemed..."

"and I know,
my Redeemer lives
let all creation testify
let this life within me cry,
I know my Redeemer lives..."

At a dear friend's request, I am resurrecting this post from last February.  I offer it with love...

I was checking out at the grocery store this afternoon, when the clerk asked me, "Do you have any coupons to redeem?"

I smiled. I'd been thinking about "redemption" all week. Salvation, and redemption -- but mostly, redemption. An earlier piece about my grandfather, and his salvage business, "You can't take that away from me..." had been a helpful reminder that we all have an untouchable, inviolable, essential spiritual core that is always ready for salvaging. But once salvaged, it needs to be redeemed. And that is where this week's deep listening has been focused for me.

So, I guess it's not surprising that Nicole Mullin's song, "My Redeemer" has been one of the songs praying through my heart.

One of the definitions for the verb, redeem is: "to exchange for something of value or substance"

This is what the store clerk was referring to. She was asking me if I had a coupon - a small, printed piece of paper - that I could give her in exchange for something of value. 

 Behind that coupon, was a sponsor.  A manufacturer who was willing to give the store money, or product, that would represent the face value of the coupon itself. If the coupon said $1 and the store accepted it, the sponsor would reimburse the store for that amount when presented with the coupon. 

It could be a coupon for a discount on the purchase of product, or a voucher that I could exchange the coupon for actual goods, merchandise, or services. But behind the symbol -- the coupon -- was the substance of its value.

So, what does this have to do with spiritual redemption.

For me, it represents the full measure of the Christ working in our lives. 

Whenever my grandad" salvaged sixteen feet of copper tubing -- from a discarded refrigerator -- he had a clear plan for its redemption. He didn't just leave it in the barn to gather dust and chicken feathers. He took it to the redemption center where they would weigh it in a balance, determine it's worth, and then purchase it from my grandfather.  Later it would be sold to someone else -- a manufacturer or craftsman -- for recycling into a product that had a more current usefulness and value.

God has the same foresight with me. 

When He gives me the spiritual intuition to see below the surface rust and chipped enamel -- the peeling paint and battered dreams of a broken heart -- to the core value, the essential goodness and worth in someone's life (including my own) He has a plan for redemption.

He needs our essential goodness to be redeemed for a holy purpose. He has the truth of who we essentially are "in Mind."  He has never lost sight of how we will be used, in humility and through grace, to fulfill a sacred calling. 

 He doesn't want us to hide in shame.  It does Him no good for us to sit in the corner licking the wounds of regret and self-doubt.  He wants us to see that nothing has ever touched the purity of who we are at our core.

An ounce of copper (or gold) once salvaged -- and purified in the fire of self-knowledge, humility, and love -- is just as valuable and useful as what we might purchase from jeweler, or find in a bank vault. 

Once purified in the fire -- where the dross is burned away -- what is essential remains.  The pure elements -- gold, copper, silver, Life, Truth, Love -- are ever the same. The gold that was once embedded in igneous crust, or buried in mud and soot, is no less valuable than the gold that has graced the crown of kings and pharaohs.

This fervent [a word that means "hot, burning, glowing, a passionate intensity"] desire for "growth in grace," that Mary Baker Eddy refers to her statement:

"What we most need, 
is the fervent desire for growth in grace,
expressed in patience, meekness, 
love, and good deeds." 

This desire, this passionate desire to be good, to live honestly, to grow in grace, is ever at work, purifying the gold in our natures. 

 In this fervency of desire for salvation, we are softened so that we are able to receive the engraving of His name and His nature on our hearts. 

And it is here -- in this fiery furnace of a humble, meek, honest heart -- that we are most pure.  And it is here that we are as ready as we will ever be, to be useful to Him. 

To be recycled by to our Redeemer - our God - according to His holy purpose is an amazing gift of grace.

There is a line from a hymn that has new depth for me tonight:

"We, now redeemed through Love, return to Zion,
singing to Thee our deeply grateful praise;

For we are Christ's, and Christ is Thine, O Father;

His joy remains in us through endless days."

I feel this truth to the core of my very being. 

 Like gold or copper, joy is an essential element. In fact, Mary Baker Eddy says that "sinless joy," actually, constitutes our being. 

 It -- this joy -- remains in us through endless days. It may seem battered by grief, buffeted by pain, tarnished by regret, but below the surface of our day-to-day experiences -- the challenges, demands, mistakes, and all that exercises in us the discovery of moral courage -- lie these changeless essential elements of being.   

Joy, humility, innocence, beauty, grace, honesty, purity -- are always ready and waiting to be used in His field of service. 

Eddy define "Zion" as:

"Spiritual foundation and superstructure;
inspiration; spriitual strength.

Emptiness, unfaithfulness; desolation."

The first part of this definition, I believe, refers to the spiritual -- to the "redeemed" sense of "Zion."

The second, I believe, refers to the chipped, battered, and bruised view of our lives. That which would try to call itself the home of the pure and true. It would try to say that the coupon, the symbol -- gaudy, flimsy, crammed with codes, folded, tattered, even ripped from being hastily stuffed in a pocket -- is the real.

But the redeemed is all that is real. When you give the store clerk that tattered coupon, and get the actual product, or service, you never think that the coupon's condition would define the value, or worth, of the actual cash or product you've received.

I know, my Redeemer lives.  And redeemed, through Love, I return to Zion (my spiritual foundation) singing with Love,

my deeply grateful praise...


Kate

"redeemed through Love..."

"and I know,
my Redeemer lives
let all creation testify
let this life within me cry,
I know my Redeemer lives..."

I was checking out at the grocery store this afternoon, when the clerk asked me, "Do you have any coupons to redeem?"

I smiled. I'd been thinking about "redemption" all week. Salvation, and redemption -- but mostly, redemption. An earlier piece about my grandfather, and his salvage business, "You can't take that away from me..." has been a helpful reminder that we all have an untouchable, inviolable, essential spiritual core that is always ready for salvaging. But once salvaged, it needs to be redeemed. And that is where this week's deep listening has been focused for me.

So, I guess it's not surprising that Nicole Mullin's song, "My Redeemer" has been praying through my heart.

One of the definitions of the verb, "redeem" is: "to exchange for something of value or substance"

This is what the store clerk was referring to. She was asking me if I had a coupon, a small piece of paper, that could be given, in exchange, for something of value. Behind the coupon, was a sponsor who was willing to give the store  money -- or product -- equal to the face value of the coupon itself.

If the coupon said $1, and the store accepted it, the sponsor would reimburse the store that amount when presented with the coupon.  The coupon might offer a discount on the purchase of a product, or serve as a voucher that could be exchanged for actual goods or services. But behind the symbol, was the substance of its value.

So, what does this have to do with spiritual redemption.

For me, it represents the full measure of the working of Christ in our lives. Whenever my grandad - the consummate salvage man -- pulled sixteen feet of copper tubing from a discarded refrigerator, he had a clear plan for its redemption.

He didn't just leave it in the barn to gather dust and chicken feathers. He took it to the redemption center where they would weigh it in a balance -- a scale -- to determine it's worth. Once its value had been established, they would purchase it from my grandfather so that it could be sold to someone else for repurposing into a new product.

God has the same foresight with me. When He gives us the spiritual intuition to see below the surface stories -- the peeling facades, rusty histories, and battered dreams of a broken heart -- to the core value (the essential goodness and worth in someone's life) He has a plan for its redemption.

His intent is for our essential goodness to be redeemed for a holy purpose. To be used in humble service, and through grace to fulfill a sacred calling. He doesn't want us to hide in shame, or sit in the corner licking the wounds of regret and self-doubt. He wants us to see that nothing has ever touched the purity of who we are at our core.

An ounce of salvaged copper that has been heated and purified has the full value of a copper coin we might find in a bank vault.

Once the copper or gold is released from the dross by fire, what is essential -- the pure elements -- are the redeemable. The gold that was once embedded in igneous crust, mud, and soot, is no less valuable than the gold that once graced the crowns of kings and pharaohs.

This is the fervency [a word that means "hot, burning, glowing] desire for "growth in grace," that Mary Baker Eddy refers to her statement:

"What we most need,
is the fervent desire
for growth in grace,
expressed in patience,
meekness, love,
and good deeds."

This burning desire for grace -- to be good, to live honestly is purifying the gold in our individual natures.

And in this fervency of desire, our hearts are softened, so that we are more able to receive the engraving -- the impress -- of His name and nature on our hearts.

In this fiery furnace of a humble, meek, honest heart we discover we are pure. It is in the furnace that we are most ready to bend to His purpose for us. To be repurposed by our Redeemer, according to His holy purpose.

There is a line from a hymn (#356) that we sing in our church services. Tonight, it has a new ring to it for me:

"We, now redeemed through Love, return to Zion,
singing to Thee our deeply grateful praise;
For we are Christ's, and Chrsit is Thine, O Father;
His joy remains in us through endless days."

I feel this truth in the core of my very being. Joy is an essential element. And like all essential elements, it lives in me thorough endless cycles of repurposing.

In fact, Mary Baker Eddy says that sinless joy constitutes -- is the very make up of -- our being. It remains in us through endless days. Our joy may seem battered by grief, buffeted by pain, tarnished by regret, but below the surface -- of our day-to-day experiences, challenges, and exercises in discovering moral courage -- lies this enduring essential element.

Eddy define "Zion" as:

"Spiritual foundation and superstructure;
inspiration; spriitual strength.

Emptiness, unfaithfulness; desolation."

The first part of this definition, I believe, refers to the spiritual -- the redeemed -- sense of "Zion." The second part, refers to the chipped, battered, and bruised that would try to package itself as the home of the pure and true.

If we didn't know better, we might be fooled into thinking that the coupon (the symbol) with its gaudy colors, numeric codes, folded, tattered, even ripped from being stuffed in pockets, is the real (the substance.) But what it is redeemed for, is all that is real.

When you give the store clerk that tattered coupon, and get the actual product, or service, you never think that the coupon's condition would define the value or worth of the substance behind the symbol. Our tattered stories do not, never have, and never will define our essential value or worth.

singing with Love,
my deeply grateful praise...


Kate