"Thy will be done..."

"I'm so confused.
I know I heard You
loud and clear.
So I followed through,
somehow I ended up here.

I don't want to think
I may never understand,
that my broken heart,
is part of Your plan.

When I try to pray,
all I get is hurt,
and these four words:

Thy will be done..."

This afternoon, I stumbled on Hillary Scott's beautiful song,  "Thy Will." And in the span of watching her video, I was transported -- sitting alone, in an almost empty flat in the middle of the city -- wondering how I got there.

Only months before, I'd been a modestly well-respected wife and mother living in a 3,000 square foot multi-level house in a suburban neighborhood. Now here I was. And I couldn't imagine how eleven months of listening humbly and importunately for God's direction -- and getting it, loud and clear -- could feel this terrifying, confusing, and lonely.

I was not -- at all -- unclear about what God had said to me. I'd felt His Love-impelled power of it in every molecule of my being. I wasn't naive, I knew it would not be easy, but I also knew that it was the most loving thing that I could do for everyone in my life. So why, if I had been obedient to Love's unexpected direction -- did it hurt so badly? And it did. It hurt in the marrow of my being.

This wasn't how being Love's bidding was supposed to feel. And I had no doubt that I had heard God's voice -- mostly because the message with so clearly not what I thought God would say. But in the instant I heard it, without cross-questioning it, I fell on my knees and wept aloud:

"Thy will be done."

I was not naive. I knew that in my circle of family, friends, colleagues, and acquaintances, what God was asking me to do would be questioned, judged, speculated and whispered about. I just didn't think it would be as devastating as it was.

I had truly hoped that my devotion to God would have spoken for me. That those who knew me would have at least asked me, "what the hell are you doing?" Then I would have, at least, had someone's arms to weep in. But instead, it seemed as if everyone was quite willing to assume that I'd gone off the rails and blown it. The shame was crushing.

This isn't about the what I did, or why. Because, to be completely honest -- the only why is, "God said." And exactly what God said, is still so deeply holy for me that I cannot write about it. If you were to call me, and it seemed spiritually relevant, I would tell you -- it's not a secret. But to type it here -- or anywhere -- has not been something I can do. It's just too sacred.

Sitting alone at my kitchen table in the city that day, I begged God for direction, "Dear God, how do I defend myself from all the swirling misinformation and judgment?" And God's answer was just as clear as his earlier direction:

"He opened not his mouth
in defense of himself."

I got it -- thoroughly, and quickly. If I wanted to follow Christ, I had to be willing to be questioned, scoffed at, speculated about, and misunderstood. It terrified me. Didn't God understand that I was the ultimate people pleaser. Didn't He get that my early life as a stepchild -- who was forced to ingratiate herself in order to "earn" the right to be sheltered and fed -- had made me this way.

Disappointing people was my greatest fear, making them happy was my drug. And here I was disappointing everyone I loved and knew. Again, I turned to the writings of Mary Baker Eddy. I opened her primary text, Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures to page one and read:

"Prayer, watching, and working
combined with self-immolation,
are God's gracious means for accomplishing
whatever has been successfully done for
the Christianization and health of mankind."

And yes, in my copy of the book, the word "self-immolation" was bolded -- or at least it was that day. I knew what it meant. I'd been studying Eddy's work for decades. I knew that she recommended this practice of "suicide by fire," six times in her writings. And no, I didn't think she was encouraging me to grab a can of kerosene and a match -- she was urging the self-inflicted destruction of the ego.

In that moment, I understood. It wasn't going to be good enough for me to have my ego slayed by childhood circumstances, other people's choices, or chance. It was imperative that I took ownership of this humbling walk into the fire.

So I did. The ego wanted to run, to find a small rural community in Kansas to disappear into. To take my daughters (something I would never do) and change all of our names. Buy a farm and raise chickens.  But I knew better.  I'd lived that nightmare as a child.  Love demanded that I stay, walk with grace, live with courage, love with compassion, serve without hesitation, parent with dignity, and own my spiritual journey -- however scary that was.

It was not easy. In fact, there were many, many nights when I cried myself to sleep begging God to give me courage and strength to face the next day of averted glances, dismissal, and scorn. And He always did. My relationship to Jesus and Mary Baker Eddy was more strengthened by this time -- than any other experience in my life. I turned to their words and examples of grace -- continually -- for clues on how to navigate my own life.

Over and over again, I came back to:

"Thy will be done.
Thy will be done.
Thy will be done."

Long before this time -- when going through a physical challenge that had driven me to my knees -- I called someone who had been such a wonderful spiritual mentor. I needed encouragement, I needed for him to promise me that what I was going through was not spiritually right -- and to tell me that I could expect to be free of it. He didn't say those things. What he said was that "someday you are going to look back, and miss these days of being so hungry for God's touch in your life."

I thought he was mad-as-a-hatter at the time and told him so. But you know, he was right. The hard times -- those days when we are on our knees longing for answers, praying to feel the presence of grace -- they are the very best days.

Someone asked me recently why I do what I do -- take calls from people who are in pain, fearful, sad, confused. They couldn't understand why I would be so happy to get up in the morning, if I was just going to spend the day on the phone, Skyping, reading texts and emails from people who were struggling.

This is why. These challenges are not personal. When I am willing to sit with someone who is needing a "friend" to witness what they are facing, and willing to discern what is true -- I get to hear the angels with them. I discover how ripe with divine blessing our lives are when the fruit is most heavy. I get to watch the ego being slayed by the presence of divine Love.

God's will for us is to know Him in every moment of our lives. In I Thessalonians, chapter 5, verse 18, we are encouraged:

"In everything give thanks,
for this is the will of God..."

When we are willing to let go of a mortal, ego-centric sense of pride, accomplishment, acceptance, approval -- we find that everything -- and I mean everything -- is simply an opportunity to drawn nigh unto God and feel His nearness.

To those family members and friends who held me, let me weep, comforted me, trusted and encouraged me during those years -- I will never, ever, be able to say thank you with enough depth. My gratitude is unfathomable.


offered with Love,

Kate

"there are ties between us..."

"let us recognize
that there are ties between us,
ties of hope and love,
sister and brotherhood..." 

This morning, Facebook provided a perfect storm.  James Taylor's performance of "Shed a Little Light", another friend's posting of Jane Elliott's social experiment on discrimination with her third grade class in the 1960s, and a FB reminder - from last year - of my posting of this Marcus Aurelius quote: 

"Never forget that the universe
is a single living organism
possessed of one Substance and one Soul,
holding all things suspended in
a single consciousness and creating
all things with a single purpose
that they might work together,
spinning, and weaving, and knotting
whatever comes to pass."

It was what I needed.  If you can watch the Jane Elliott video without feeling a tension in your chest -- you are a stronger person than I am.


Discrimination comes in many forms.  Men and women of color don't have the luxury of deciding whether to let their differences be known.  But some of us can live with the things that make us feel small, while keeping them hidden. We think they are harmless there in the closet of secrecy.  But hidden in the dark, they fester -- becoming a hot pain of humiliation and shame.  

For me, that hidden "difference" was poverty.  My fear of being seen as poor was debilitating.  

When I was in grade school we learned that there was once a period - in the history of this country - when only those who owned property were allowed to vote.  At the same time we were learning about the extraordinary privilege and societal value of voting.  

Earlier that year, my parents had fallen into dire financial circumstances after two hospitalizations.  As the oldest child in a family of six children, I was privy to more information about our finances than I was prepared to process.  When we lost our home and had to move into a rental that was subsidized by a local philanthropy -- I was terrified.  

My skin color may have been as Irish-pale as a Kennedy, but I was a "renter," and this frightened me more than I could say -- for decades.  

After my dad's sudden passing, and our family's deep dive into survival mode, I stepped back from indulging in any dreams.  I didn't have the luxury of regretting our housing status. At that point, it was simply a miracle that anyone was willing to rent to a widow, her almost adult daughter, and their seven younger dependents.  

But it was never very far from my heart.  I felt that, as long as I was a renter, I was somehow less.  It made me feel small and vulnerable.  As a wife and mother -- my confidence ebbed and flowed based on home ownership.  I would say that it didn't matter -- but it always did.  How often do you think people have the nerve to boldly ask if you own or rent your home?  Well, as someone who was very sensitive to this question, I can tell you -- a lot.

For me, renting meant "poor," and poor translated into all kinds of negative self-speak.  "You have failed.  You have failed to "demonstrate" supply, provide a secure sense of home for your children, overcome your childhood, take back all the potential that you had before your dad was killed. Without property ownership you really have no voice, no right to a vote."

In my head, it didn't matter that I had been a faithful daughter, a hard-working wife and mother, a professional who was available to her clients 24/7 - 365 days a year.  If I didn't own my own home - I was less.  Whenever my husband and I were able to  own our own home, I felt better. When we rented, I felt as if I had failed to rise out of the poverty of my childhood.  There was always an unreasonable fear, a niggling in the back of my mind, that if legislators ever decided to return to the policies of the past -- I might lose my right to vote.

One afternoon I was caught off guard.  We were leasing a small house in an upscale suburb.  Our landlord's son was our contact, and he was respectful and kind.  But he was out of town, and his mother's husband came by to check on a fallen tree after a storm.

I went out to offer him a glass of something cold to drink and we got to talking.  He asked me why such a smart woman would be renting.  He said, "I just don't have any respect for losers who don't work hard enough to get themselves out of this situation."  And yes, he did say this to my face.  With a smirk.

I didn't try to defend my current situation, but I explained to him how, as a young woman, my dad had been killed and that my mom and I had had to find housing for 9 people - over, and over again.  I told him how grateful we were for every landlord who had entrusted us with their property -- property that we had always tried to improve and make beautiful through our collective hardwork and creativity.

His response was "that doesn't change anything, those who don't own property, should have no vote in how our country is run, or how our tax money is spent."  I was stunned.  I was hurt.  I was humiliated.  I had been in the public practice of spiritual healing for over 25 years at that time.  I knew how to detect rank hatred and impersonalize it.  I knew how to pray to diffuse its false sting.  But all I wanted to do was run into the house and weep.

The truth of my hidden shame had been exposed.  I felt so small and discriminated against.  It was clear that nothing could have convinced that man that I was worthy of his respect -- or had any worth as a fellow citizen.  I had to claim it for myself.

Later that day, I was sitting in my office when the line: "can't get no light from a dollar bill" - from James Taylor's "Shed a Little Light" whispered itself into my heart.  I started to heal.  Light was what I wanted to be in the world.  And light didn't seek to own the object of its illuminating.  It was a beginning.  And I have prayed with this sense of illuminating every space I am in vs. owing my own space -- ever since.

Not long ago, I was at a meeting where it had long been assumed, by my neighbors, that I was invested in solving an important issue, because I was a fellow homeowner.  But I was not a fellow homeowner.  I was a renter who loved her neighbors and her neighborhood.  I had participated in the discussions and worked tirelessly towards finding a solution for over three years. It was an issue that had reached a tipping point, and needed resolution. I had been best suited to navigate the terrain of  working with state and local agencies to find answers that would have the least impact on the homeowners.

At the meeting there came a moment when an important vote was being called for, and I had to recuse myself from weighing in because I was not a "legitimate property owner."  I did so without shame.  That was a step.  When one of the more self-sure owners made a disparaging remark - under his breath, I navigated the moment with grace -- and without tears.  That was a leap.  Writing this post -- this is quantum mechanics.

Discrimination is not just about skin color or eye color.  It is an ugly practice that is not limited to the measuring of another's value or worth - based what are obvious differences.  Sometimes it is based on educational achievement or job title; home ownership or rental status; religious acceptability justified by geography and symbology, or marginalization of those who wear a hijab and carry a prayer rug; the kind of car you drive, or the texture of your hair.  Whether Spanish is your first language, or the cool language you are fluent in for the purpose of international travel and business.  And discrimination is not just about the way others see and treat us.  It is about the way we see and treat ourselves.  I was my worst discriminator.  

It was perplexing, because I had been a fierce opponent of discrimination when it came to others.  But I had been taught to accept a false paradigm about my own worth, and I hadn't been brave enough to challenge its premise or conclusion in my own life.

We are all "enough" just the way we are.  I don't care who you are, you are enough for me. You are beautiful.  Your life is a triumph of hope -- every day. Your desire to make the lives of others - even just a little less sad, difficult, humiliating, scary, small -- is noble, and decent, and deserving of honor.

The world of the ego -- individually and collectively -- has an obsessive need to feel that it is higher on the scale of being than someone else.  Persons, organizations, schools, neighborhoods, nations - none are immune.  I call it the "best dentist" theory.  Try it.  Call someone and ask them if they would recommend their dentist.  Most people will say that they have "the best dentist" in the whole town or city.

It makes perfect sense in a world defined by hierarchies of separation, ambition, and comparison.  Who wants to think that they have a mediocre dentist?  But for me, the more important question is, why would anyone ever want to think that someone else had a mediocre dentist? That is a line of thinking that makes no spiritual sense.  Only the ego would defend that kind of thinking.

This egoic need to be better than someone else -- to have more than someone else -- well, that's just what egos do.  But we aren't egos, we are spiritual ideas.  And as Aurelius suggests (above) we are one single living organism.  We are not separate trees on a hillside.  We are one tree with a billion branches that we call individual trees, only because we cannot fathom the connection. When in fact, we are all connected -- beneath the surface -- by one, invisible root system.

I had a teacher once who would never let us forget that when we point a finger at someone else, there are three more pointing back at us.  Our discriminatory practices only point out our own smallness of heart and narrowness of view about our place in the vast oneness of spiritual being.

Just think -- what if tomorrow, the measure of our worth becomes the size of our feet or the tiny-ness of our house -- instead of its massive footprint.  What if the person who lovingly cares for the most animals is seen as the most important member in a community?  Or the person who lives with the least "stuff" is the richest?   Then who would we be.  In that social construct, how would the cards fall in assigning wisdom, value, worth.

I have discovered that I have to be the first one to tell me that my worth is not defined by having my name on a deed.  I have to be the one to remember that I am defined by my heart's commitment to seeing and calling attention to the good in others.  When I am doing this most consistently, I am able to fiercely defend the value of others more effectively.  I am standing up for the merit of our individual and collective humanity in the broader global community.

As James Taylor sings, "let us recognize that there are ties between us, ties of hope and love; sister and brotherhood. Jesus said that "the kingdom of God is within you." Within us all. And this kingdom of God within us, is not religious, cultural, or national -- it is the Love that Mary Baker Eddy assures us is, "impartial and universal in its adaptation and bestowals." 

Racial, gender, religious, economic, political, or color blindness is not something that someone else can give us.  It is something we hold within ourselves.  For me, the lesson in all this has been that home is not a place to be owned -- it is something that I carry within me. And it is something that I now realize I have brought to every house I have lived in -- whether we owned that house or not.

We are bound together -- we are bound and we are bound.  The imperative is upon us to actually live this oneness. To treat one another as we would wish to be treated. To refuse to sort each other into wealthy and poor, persons of color and what-- no color? Right and left, right and wrong.  We are bound together.  We are not separate. My abundance shall supply your want -- for we are of one body.  Without your want, I have no place to give my abundance of love, of joy, of silence when you need to be heard.  There are ties, not fences, between us.  

offered in oneness - and with humble love,

Kate

"healing moral injury…"

"I am a good child,
born of God's grace,
whatever would try to claim
deliver me, Almighty One…"

Today, I discovered this post, "Beyond PTSD to Moral Injury," on Krista Tippet's On Being site, and it "had me at hello."

I love the word "moral." Especially since discovering Mary Baker Eddy's definition in her textbook for healing,  Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures:

"Moral. Humanity, honesty, affection, compassion.
hope, faith, meekness, temperance." 

Immediately I wanted to call Krista on the phone and say, "No. No, no, no - hope can't be injured. You cannot wound compassion." I wanted to send her a link to Michelle Armstrong's beautiful song,"Unfallen." A song that speaks so gently to the heart of both the wounded -- and the wounder.

Eddy's definition of "Moral," has helped me in so many ways. It continues to bring me to my knees in gratitude.  Realizing that no matter how deep the wounds, nothing can deprive me of my right to act with moral courage -- right now -- has been an untold gift of grace. No matter what I may have done to another -- or what may have been done to me -- I cannot be kept from acting with compassion, meekness, hope and faith -- today.

A few years ago I wrote a piece titled, "An active Moral Imagination." Writing the piece was very healing for me. It provided a space for revisiting memories that had always brought me sadness. It gave me a lens through which I could reclaim the word "moral," as a vital part of my daily ministry.

To be moral, is to be dynamically hopeful. To be moral, is to be actively humane, to have a living  faith [trust], to be temperate, meek, honest, affectionate.

To be "moral," was not about what we are not doing -- lying, cheating, lusting, abusing substances, being vengeful.  To be moral is to be engaged in doing something that serves God, and blesses others. And nothing on earth can injure or violate our right, or ability, to do that.

In fact, if I were lying in a bed - unable to move a muscle or even speak a word - I could still express compassion in my prayers for others. I could still think with affection, I could still bless my neighbor by holding out hope for the future of our planet, I could still be temperate in my thoughts, consciously meek.

Reading the above article, "Beyond PTSD to Moral Injury," I was flooded with so many opportunities to actually engage my moral compass -- to be moral. As I read each comment at the end of the article, I was absolutely filled with compassion, overflowing with faith, eager to reach out to others with an honest response about my own healing of "moral injury."

The world will tell you that those who have been abused, violated, or exposed to severe trauma are broken. Broken in a way that is almost impossible to heal without scarring. The deeper and longer the wounding - the harder to heal. The bullied, become the bullies. Those hurt, hurts others. The abused, turn into abusers. But I am here to tell you that is just not true.

Every abused, bullied, traumatized, wounded, or angry man, woman - and ye, child - hopes that they will find freedom from the guilt, and shame, and terror associated with the injury. And the very presence of that hope, is the power of moral courage asserting itself. You can't just get a little bit of hope. If it's there, it represents just the tip of the iceberg -- and it - hope - is always there. To quote Emily Dickinson:

"Hope is the thing with feathers,
that perches in the soul,
and sings the tune without the words,
and never stops, at all..." 

Resilient hope, persistent faith, unwavering compassion, relentless honesty...

I've seen the most wounded teen hope that she will someday be a loving mother. I've held a weeping soldier whose humanity won't let him forget that he was once a boy, who loved his brother. I've listened to the shattered spirit of a convicted child molester, who wanted to help others from the confines of a state prison cell. I've watched, while the most hardened among us, kneel to nurse an injured animal.

There is no moral injury -- perpetrated or felt -- that can't be healed. There is no shame so sharp and pointed that it can burrow it's way deeply enough to trespass on who we are at our spiritual core. There is no act of violence that can corrupt our essence. No regrettable choice that can undermine our right to be moral, right now -- to treat others humanely, to be honest, to show affection, to extend compassion, to be hopeful, to have faith, to be meek, to live with temperance.

And sometimes, that seeming broken-ness gives birth to a new light. From the depths of the shattering comes a new compassion, a deeper willingness to understand another's heartache, a gentling of pride, a fathomless humility.  A more profound desire to of care for animals, children, the broken-hearted among us.

No matter which side of the injury you (or a loved one) seem to be on -- the wounded, or the one who regrets having wounded others -- this line from Michelle's song is a prayer of hope:

"I am a good child…" 

That's the truth for each of us. We're all just children. There are no "adults of God." And we all have a divine Parent who holds us tenderly, loves us unconditionally, and gives us an infinite number of ways to express our freedom from moral injury -- every moment, of every day. We never run of reasons to hope.

with so much affection....


Kate