"You are not alone, I am here with you..."

"Someone whispers
in my ear and says,

you are not alone,
I am here with you...”

Jason Chen's cover of Michael Jackson's,  "You Are Not Alone"  is such a gentle version of this song. A song whose melody seems to be how I hear that phrase "you are not alone," whenever it comes to mind.

I have spent most of my lifetime comforting children who feel alone. As a big sister, teacher in a state institution for children who have been made "wards of the state," school administrator, hospital chaplain, and serving at summer camps - assuring children that they are not alone.

Each child navigates that feeling of alone-ness in a different way. Some become dismissive, some distract themselves with constant movement, and others cry as if their every breath is a labor of love.

But here is what I have learned. This is not home-sickness. This is home wellness. These children have such a full and healthy sense of home and family -- even those who have never known a parent's love -- that it fills their being. I have worked with sister children who have never felt deeply settled and still there is a love for the concept of home and family that fills their being. I have taught in a state-run facility with children who had been institutionalized by their families, and still there is a hope of family and a natural inclination towards warmth, affection, and connection.

It is not something that can be taken from them. It is a deep home-wellness that crosses all socio-economic boundaries. From the autistic 4-year old in a state institution, to the privileged child of loving parents at a sleep-over summer camp, this love for home, family, and being parented by love -- is universal. And it never goes away.

This morning, as I was reading the Bible lesson, I was so moved to realize that the Scriptural precedence for addressing this claim of children feeling alone is right there in I Samuel.

Hannah, after years of barrenness is blessed with a son, whom she names Samuel. And even though she loves him with all her heart, she knows that he is destined for service to God and as a boy sends him to live with Eli the priest from whom he would learn how to love and trust the Lord.

This is where the part of the story - that is in our Bible Lesson - begin:


"And the child Samuel ministered unto the Lord before Eli.

And it came to pass at that time, when Eli was laid down in his place, [that] the lamp of God went out in the temple of the Lord, where the ark of God was, and Samuel was laid down to sleep;

That the Lord called Samuel: and he answered, Here am I. And he ran unto Eli, and said, Here am I; for thou calledst me. And he said, I called not; lie down again.

And he went and lay down. And the Lord called yet again, Samuel. And Samuel arose and went to Eli, and said, Here am I; for thou didst call me. And he answered, I called not, my son; lie down again.

Now Samuel did not yet know the Lord, neither was the word of the Lord yet revealed unto him.

And the Lord called Samuel again the third time. And he arose and went to Eli, and said, Here am I; for thou didst call me.

And Eli perceived that the Lord had called the child. Therefore Eli said unto Samuel, Go, lie down: and it shall be, if he call thee, that thou shalt say, Speak, Lord; for thy servant heareth.

So Samuel went and lay down in his place. And the Lord came, and stood, and called as at other times, Samuel, Samuel. Then Samuel answered, Speak; for thy servant heareth."

Today, this story has come alive for me in a new way. Samuel was just a boy. Just a child. He was alone in the dark. The person who was his care-giver -- not his parent -- had put him to bed and he kept getting up and asking if Eli wanted him.

Eli said, no, I didn't call you, go back to bed. Sweet persistent Samuel. He returns again and again to Eli's bedchamber. Until Eli finally realizes that God was speaking directly to Samuel in the dark. Comforting, assuring, inspiring him directly, tenderly -- by name.

My heart burst. Each and every child in the world -- whether at sleep-over camps with well-appointed cabins, or in refugee camps on hostile borders, can hear their name being called, can feel the calm comfort of that loving Voice speaking directly to them -- assuring them that they are not alone. This Voice is the voice of God, divine Love. This voice not only speaks to them of their Father-Mother God's presence, but of their own spiritual maturity and purpose.

Hannah, Samuel's mother -- who had yearned for this little boy with all her being -- must have known this presence herself. She must have known that God would reach out to her son and call him by his name -- just as he had heard her weeping, seen her own tears, and sent her a son. For she was His child too.

I will be holding this story close. It touches me deeply. For all children -- and their parents.

offered with Love,

Cate

"A baby changes everything..."

"My whole life has turned around,
I was lost, but now I'm found,
a baby changes everything..."

Faith Hill's "A Baby Changes Everything," is a beautiful song. But it's the title that makes me smile tonight. I can't help but remember a more recent Christmas -- than the one Faith is singing about -- when a baby changed everything.

A year earlier the son we were making plans for adopting was still warmly nestled in his mom's tummy. She lived with us those last months of her pregnancy, and Christmas Eve found us all at the kitchen table looking forward to his birth only a few weeks out.

His birth was beautiful. We all loved him. When his mother decided later that winter to parent him herself, I understood. That doesn't mean that I wasn't shattered and unsure of how to go on. It was a very long year -- full of heartache, surrender, prayer, and healing.

By autumn I was able to breathe again without worrying that I'd exhale a sob. It was a step. Yet I knew I had a long way to go before I was whole inside. My younger sister had become pregnant earlier that year, and I'd been truly thrilled for her when she finally told me. It was a milestone in my healing. But I wasn't sure how I'd feel when I saw her with her newborn son in her arms.

He arrived on the night of the winter solstice. And since my husband and I had plans to fly home to Colorado (from Boston) that Christmas Eve, I knew my "growth in grace" was either going to be authenticated, or it was going to crumble into a heap of tears. I remember how nervous I was during that flight. I prayed with all my heart to be truly free of envy, sorrow, heartbreak -- the crushing ache of empty arms.

Our flight landed and we were whisked off to meet the entire family at The Brown Palace. On that drive -- through the glittering streets of Denver -- I prayed, "Let every heart prepare him room..." I wanted my heart to be as wide open and accepting as a manger.

And it was.

I remember that night as a benediction. The "amen" on a year of healing. I saw my sister with her son in her arms, and I was filled with delight, joy -- a pure un-adulterated bliss for us all. I was free of any sense of wishing it were me. I held my nephew, not wanting him to be my son. I looked at my sister -- a happy mommy -- and was filled with awe, respect, love. It was over. I was genuinely whole, healed, happy.

That Christmas was one of the most beautiful in my life. There was no promise of a baby in the future, we weren't on any adoption agency's list for consideration, there were no hints of impending motherhood -- but I was pregnant with joy.  I was filled with gratitude, overflowing with peace. 

My sister was thoughtful, tender, and generous letting everyone cuddle, coo, and snuggle their baby. Every chance I got, I happily held her son and delighted in him -- as his aunt.

I look at photos of my nephew today -- an amazing man, a husband, a devoted son, a wonderful brother, a kind and loving citizen of the world -- and I see a beautiful infant boy in a tiny little tuxedo romper -- a baby, who changed everything.

with so much love,

Kate

"Mary, did you know..."

"Mary, did you know
that your baby boy,
would someday walk on water?
Mary, did you know
your baby boy would
save our sons and daughters..."
- Mark Lowry

It wouldn't really be Christmas, if Kathy Matthea's  "Mary, did you know?" didn't begin to sing itself through my heart like a lullaby of grace.    And, I think, she did know. I believe that Jesus' mom knew the promise of peace her son was.  The promise of goodwill.  The promise of healing and redemtion.

  Nothing he did to ignore her, nothing he said to deter her, nowhere he went to escape her...could hurt her.   She was his mommy.  

The young girl in the manger, was also the woman who was "last at the cross."  She was there when the angels sang of his wonder,  she was there when shepherd kneeled in holy benediction on a frozen earth, she was there when the cattle lowed a humble lullaby.  She was there when lame men lept, when the blind saw men as trees walking, the leper was cleansed, when kings wept...and she was there with spices, for anointing, at the tomb. 

I forgot this message for a while.  I forgot the power of love that his mother's story prophesies.   It all got lost in a fuzzy sort of abstraction that separated the divinity of the Christ message, from humanity of Jesus and his story. But Mary Baker Eddy encourages us to "take the Bible as our sufficient guide to eternal life," and states that "the divinity of the Christ was made manifest in the humanity of Jesus." So how did I get so lost. The Bible I love so much, and do take as my sufficient guide, is full of the Christ message as told through the stories of Jesus' humanity. Countless stories of his very human, unconditionally loving behavior. Well, where do I think he learned how to love like this...with an affection that is unreasonable to the human mind and goes beyond the boundaries of what seems deserving.  I believe it was from a woman who never forgot what she knew. 

I have seen (and felt from my own mom) this kind of relentless, persistent, unflappable love in action...and it takes my breath away.  It always has, and it always will.

I have a very good friend.  Over a decade ago, her child decided that it was no longer importan to have a close relationship with his mother.  He was a man now, and no longer needed a mom.  She had raised him -- and according to him, not as well as he would have wished.

She had bathed, fed, supported, and believed in him for over 20 years, but he felt that she'd let him down financially. After his father's passing, he'd had to pay his own way through college.  His friends hadn't.  He felt that she should have made better long-term financial decisions.  He blamed her for his college loan debt.  And, he later explained, felt that if he had to work extra long hours at work to pay it down, reclaiming that time by not spending time calling, or visiting, with her, was the price she had to pay. 

Sure, he'd show up for holidays and family gatherings, but he wasn't going to make the same mistakes she'd made and put so much attention on these family relationships at the expense of his financial security.  He was going to be a success.  Anyway, she had church friends and neighbors, couldn't they call her on weekends.

And although her friends would say that this beloved son had been the apple of her eye, in his eyes she just hadn't done it right enough.  Couldn't she have just been a bit more...well, you name it...loving, strict, kind, affectionate, alert, trusting, prudent, generous.  But even that didn't matter now, he was an adult.  No need for mom to concern herself any longer, he was his own person.

I'd remembered this loved son as young boy.  He was sweet, gentle, and adored.  But when I met him next, he was a grown man with a chip on his shoulder. 

"Imagine," he said to me when we ran into each other,  "my mom wants me to come home for the holidays.  Can you believe it?"  He explained, hoping for an ally, that he had a life to live, a purpose to fulfill, a woman to meet, lives to touch with the genuine wonder of his deep spiritual commitment to God.  "And anyway," he said to me that afternoon on a park bench, "didn't Jesus say..." and then he paraphrased this section of scripture from Luke:

"There came then his [Jesus'] brethren and his mother, and, standing without, sent unto him, calling him.  And the multitude sat about him, and they said unto him, Behold, thy mother and thy brethren without seek for thee.

And he answered them, saying, "Who is my mother, or my brethren?"

And he looked round about on them which sat about him, and said, "Behold my mother and my brethren!  For whosoever shall do the will of God, the same is my brother, and my sister, and mother."

Okay.  Can I say here that if I hadn't know him as a sweet, gentle boy, I might have shaken him silly.  But I loved his mom...and she loved him...so...I prayed.

And that was when it occurred to me, that his seeming disregard for his mother's role in his life, was not going to change her love for him.  Her love for him was unconditional.  Her love for him was "without question."  He was still her little boy.  He was still the child that his mother (this same woman he was so quick to dismiss as irrelevant) had loved, cherished, cared for, believed in, and adored.  He was still the precious child she believed could do anything he set his heart to. 

So I took a deep breath, and in the space of that breath, I remembered my own earlier years of immaturity...and dismissiveness...with my mother.  It was such a clarion call to compassion and meekness.

And, I knew that this once precious little boy, was now a deeply spiritual young man.  We shared a love for God, a love for the Bible, and a genuine hunger for spiritual answers. So together, in the gentle, informal way that friends share inspiration, right there on the park bench, we explored the complete story of Jesus' relationship with his mom, Mary.  My young friend and I went to the master for answers. As contemporary disciples, we truly wanted to understand the role that parents play in the lives of their children - and vice versa. And together, we were led to that precious moment of redemption at the foot of the cross, when a boy looks down at his own mother and says:

"Woman behold thy son."

And then, I believe he says, to himself...in front of his disciple, John, and not to him:

"Behold, thy mother."

As we sat there thinking about his words, we couldn't help but remember Jesus the boy, who at 12, leaves his parents without telling them where he was going, during a family trip, to sit and chat with rabbis and lawyers in the temple.  We are a bit shocked by the young man of thirty, who rebukes his mother at the wedding they are attending together in Cana.  And then later, we watch on as this much sought after spiritual teacher, dismisses her in the story above. 

But, it is at Calvary, in the shadow of the cross, with only two companions and his mother - who has always loved and believed in him - standing by when all others have fled, that he finally acknowledges his mother's role in his life, and makes provision for her care after his passing.  And in doing so, he attends to her heart, and gives us a model for human behavior.  

Mary, did you know?  Yes, I think she knew   She knew who her son was and the promise his life held, for a waiting world.  I think all mothers know this very thing about their sons and daughters. We know the promise our children offer to a world hungry for innocence, strength, intelligence, beauty, grace, courage, integrity.  We know the truth of all that they can be...and we bear witness to that promise every day.

In Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, Mary Baker Eddy writes:

"A mother's affection cannot be weaned from her child, because the mother-love includes purity and constancy, both of which are immortal. Therefore maternal affection lives on under whatever difficulties."

What a promise!  No interruption in the eternally flowing affection of mother-love in the lives of either the parent, or the child...now, or ever.

The story of Jesus' relationship with his own mom is a gift to each of us.
 
My friend's son and I both "got it" that crisp autumn day in the park.   And when Christmas rolled around, we were both with our moms.

My friend has been so blessed by her son's willingness to be led into a deeper affection for his mother. She enjoys spending many of her holidays with a loving, kind, deeply spiritual and attentive son who never misses an opportunity to include his mom in his life.  And I am blessed by his friendship, by the lesson we learned together that day in the park, and by his willingness to let me share this story.

warmly....

Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"Daddy here I am again..."

"Daddy here I am again,
Will you take me back tonight?
I went and made the world my friend,
and it left me high and dry."
- Casting Crowns

I was listening to Casting Crowns' "Prodigal," and remembered a daydream I'd had a few weeks ago. A daydream in which the parable of the Prodigal Son (from the 15th chapter of Luke's gospel) came to life for me in a new way, and gave me new questions to consider. Don't you just love it when that happens? 

As an aside, did you know that the word "prodigal" never appears in the King James' version of the Bible?  I discovered that the word means, "having or giving something on a lavish scale," and that this word we so quickly associate with an errant, selfish boy, actually has its root in the Latin word, "prodigus" which means "lavish."   I'm thinking that I might want to consider reclaiming this word for God, and calling it the parable of the Pridigal Father, as the one who lavishes understanding and compassion on his family.

Anyway, back to my daydream.  In it, I was standing at the end of a dusty road, quietly listening to a conversation between the boy's father and mother.  Her heart was afraid of his hope...afraid of how it might disappoint him...and her.

Come in old man...

He is
gone.

Left
long ago
with his
portion...

I send your meals
to you as
you sit here
waiting...why?

You have a son...
a faithful son,
a good boy, 
one who works beside you,
and asks for nothing

Can't you see how
he
waits for your
attention,
a place in your heart...
while you
wait at the end of the road
searching the
horizon
for
some sign of
the errant one.

Let him go.
Let him be a feckless
child...
wasting
his
substance on
wine, and women,
and games of chance in the
town square.

I cannot let him go.
He is
precious in my sight.
He is
a prince...to me.
He is fighting for his
life...
for his right to
live with
passion...and 
personal vision.

I know he may have
made mistakes,
but he is trying
to make us
proud of him
by doing it all
himself,
all that
he thinks
we think
he
could not do without
our help.

We taught him to
trust his heart...
and our God. 
Now, we need to trust
our God
and His love for him
completely.

Yes, you are right,
he does not
choose my fields today.
He does not
want to stand beside me
in rows
of
barley
counting
ephah of grain.

But he only asked for
the portion he thought was
his birthright,
and the freedom to
explore his
talents
with
out
my
oversight,
or his brother
weighing in.

I may not understand
his path,
but
he is still
our son.

He is still the boy
you sang to sleep.
He is still the boy
whose laughter I love to hear
as it dances
in the wind, and swirls around
me as I work...making my
day lighter, and my
heart smile.

He is still our son's
brother.

I
know you,
wait for him,
too. 
I see you standing by the well,
shielding your eyes from the
sun,
as you scan the horizon
for a sign.
We can trust
that
the Father of us all
has
a plan,
a reason,
a purpose for him...
is teaching him grand lessons...
humility,
courage,
grace...and will
guide  him
safely
home.

I will be watching.
I will be waiting.
I want to hear his story.

I want to
see his face
Hear his voice
Watch him weep in your arms.
Hug his brother.
Share his story....
so others will
not be afraid
to come home.

"Not all who wander
are
lost."

from one who as been waited for...with Love,

Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"Not all who wander are lost."  -  J.R Tolkein

"Just the two of us..."

"Just the two of us
We can make it if we try...
Just the two of us
Building castles in the sky
Just the two of us
You and I..."

You may think this is a love song.  You are right.  It is a love song for my husband and his son. And by the grace of God, our son.

Jeff is a gentle, kind man who, with is former wife, Beth, has raised up a gentle, kind, smart, funny, thoughtful, loving, socially responsible son.  Jeremy turned twenty-one on Monday.  He is now a wonderful man.  I have been so blessed by his presence in my life.

For a number of years, Jeff and Jeremy were "Just the Two of Us" (I love this version with Will Smith and his son -- I REALLY hope you will watch it as it is part and parcel to this piece!).  They shared a home, a car, household chores and time.  The peace and mutual respect they held for each other was palpable.  Their home was modest and definitely a guy-inhabited space, but visiting them was almost oasis-like in the absence of tension or selfishness.  Each bent over backwards to anticipate the needs of the other. 

As a friend, I always felt blessed to be invited for a game of Scrabble or dominoes, or to join them and other friends for a rousing gathering at Starbucks or a local performance by one of our children.  Theirs was a world that was foreign to me. My world was so full of girls, women, and "the feminine."  And I liked it that way.  Or at least I thought I liked it that way, somewhat to the exclusion of all masculine models of behavior.  I soon discovered that I still had some serious learning to do about the wholeness of each man, woman and child... the fully balanced qualities of the masculine and feminine in individual completeness.

You see, I never thought I would be a good mom to a son.  I didn't think I got boys.  They were a mystery to me.  I thought they moved largely, and boisterously,  through space, and I always felt like curling up in the corner of any room I had to share with boys.   As a girl I always had the sensation that they'd sucked all the air out of any space we had to share...classrooms, parties, work-spaces, relationships.

I was always so, well, almost desperately, grateful when each of my daughters happened to be girls.  I felt like I understood girls.  Wasn't I, one of five sisters?  Girls made sense to me.  They were soft and quiet - gentle and graceful.  More thoughtful and intuitive.  Right?   As I said, I still had so much to learn.

When we were expecting Emma and Clara I had a dream, just before they were born,  that they were boys.  I woke up in a cold sweat.  I knew I could do anything but twin boys and was extremely relieved when they were born later that day...and were girls.

It wasn’t that I didn’t like boys. Much to the contrary. It was just that, to me, they were just like a lush, vibrant foreign culture, whose language I didn’t speak. I loved listening to its loud musicality. Much like Italian. It was colorful and best experienced with food or in an open-air “performance”…plays, sporting events, opera in an amphitheater, speeches made from the back of a jeep (think General Patton)…but much too flavorful and spicy for my blood on a daily basis. Especially if I was going to be responsible for its cooking and seasoning. I had a simple palate. I always admired mothers of boys. They, somehow, seemed more serene to me. All that energy and they were still able to think…miraculous! 

But back to this story.  Long before my husband and I went from being friends, to life partners, I knew his son, Jeremy, as one of my daughter's good friends.  He was funny and sweet.  He was the kind of boy that girls love to have as a best friend.  He was a good listener, thoughtful, and someone you could count on.  In middle school, I can remember hearing my daughter laughing from her room...long after lights out...because she was talking to Jeremy on the phone. 

Funny thing, his dad was like that too.  We'd all been friends, fellow parents, and colleagues for years.  It was easy to see what a gentleman he was in his relationships with men, and women, alike.  I remember thinking, having known his dad -- Jeremy's grandfather -- that all three of them were truly lovely men who took after their divine Parent.  They were attentive friends, good-humored colleagues, and thoughtful family members.   I'd observed each of them in diverse settings, and always felt as if I was in the company of great kindness when they were around.

Jeremy's dad and I were married just before Jeremy's senior year of high school.  And since his mom lived out of state, we were blessed to have Jeremy live with us.  It was a wonderful year.  We had a great flat in the city, we made soup, shared omelettes, played late night games of highly competitive Scrabble,  and tried to figure out how to share one bathroom as a family of five.  Jeremy was a great "big brother" to his new sisters.  He drove them to school each morning and stayed unruffled when they were bouncing off the wall.  They were, without question, "in the company of great kindness."

Then he graduated from high school, left for camp, spent his "gap year" establishing residency in California, and following a summer at camp, started college over two thousand miles away.  He was gone from the day-to-day rhythm of my life, just as quickly as he had entered it.   I missed him. 

But last spring, Jeremy came home for a visit.  It was wonderful.  Even though his dad was working out of town, he still came home, to be with the girls, and with me.  I was nervous and honored.  Nervous that I probably still wasn't such a great mom for a boy, and honored that, even with his dad away, he would still come home to us...to his pre-teen sisters and me.

That week was amazing.  Every moment he was here, was as if his dad -- who I missed terribly -- was home again.  Jeremy anticipated the girls', and my, needs.  Even before I could, "arrive" at the moment when I would have remembered that we actually had a need, he was "on it."  The dishes were emptied from the dishwasher before I got up in the morning.  The recycling was taken out.  He was dressed, and ready to take the girls to school, before I'd even pulled a pair of sweatpants under my nightgown to warm up the car in the morning. 

I had forgotten what it was like to have him home.  He appreciated every little kindness.  I discovered that the meals I prepared were "delicious," and he was still willing to play Scrabble with me, long after midnight. 

When he left at the end of the week, I bawled.  I have missed his company more than he knows.

When I mentioned to his dad that his visit had been one of the most wonderful weeks of the year, Jeff smiled and told me that Jeremy had actually decided to come for a visit, with the intent of anticipating how to make things easier for me -- for all of us.  I felt it.  It meant the world to me.

He and his dad -- and his grandpa -- have all learned how to be whole, complete, perfectly balanced men from their Father-Mother, God.  They have taught me so much about accepting this wholeness in everyone, as a divine gift.  God has promised us that:

"Before they call, I will answer,
and while they are yet speaking, I will hear."

His Robertson "sons" have followed beautifully in their Father's footsteps.  He has raised up gentle men, who are teaching me how to be a gentler woman.

I love, love, love all of our children, but it has been a divine surprise to discover the unbridled gift of having a son.  I am so grateful that he has let me love him, and has been patient with me as I've learned to how to be part of his life.

Thank you sweet boy. I love you, you are wonderful in so many ways.
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS


Jeremy doing something he loves -- slack-lining.

"He's my son..."

"Can you hear me,
am I getting through tonight?
Can you see him,
can you make him feel alright?
If you hear me,
let me take his place somehow.
See he's not just anyone,
He's my son..."

Sometimes I can't help but wonder about her journey between the manger and the cross.  This song "He's my son," (in this link the song is set to scenes from The Passion...a couple of the scenes depicted are difficult to watch) by Mark Schultz, found me tonight and made me wonder if, just as she knew so much about his divine appointing, and his purpose...and "pondered them in her heart"...did she know it all...

This poem poured out as I listened to Mark's song...

Where am I Father
I have lost my
bearings.

I don't know why
You
would send us
here...
here, of all places
far from
all that
feels like
home
so far from all that
speaks to me of
comfort and joy...except You
and Your promise
that he is Your beloved
son
too...


I have traveled
long and
I am tired...
this child of Yours
is ready
to begin his
reign on earth and
we are
nowhere near
a temple
or a canopy.

what kind of
King
holds court
in a
stable with
only
sheep and
goats,
shepherds and doves
for
subjects...

what  kind of prince of
peace
hears only
the sound of
a cow's lowing
to mark
his entrance
into
the kingdom
he will
govern

what kind of
Counselor
cannot yet speak a
word...
will his first language
be
the
language of
beasts and
doves,
stars and straw?

What has this
world
taught him so far?
that he
is not welcome
in the inn...
that his parents are
strangers in a
strange land...
that
he will
never know a
place to call his own?

Where are
my parents,
his grandparents...
on a night like this
when
their grandson
comes
to save a
waiting world

Will anyone
ever wonder
where
they were
or
will the story
be told
as if I was
not only a virgin
but an
orphan....

The cost of
this journey
has been great and it
is not over yet.

But tonight I
will promise my son
that he will never
know
a night this dark and
full of pain
without
his mother's
love...
without my love...
ever
even when he thinks
he doesn't need me
near

Didn't
they wonder
if the same angel
who prepared me for
his arrival
would have also
prepared me for
greater agony...
his departure...

I will be ready
I will be there
he will not
be alone...he is my son...
and Yours...
we will be there.

staying in the manger with them tonight...with Love,
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS