"i am not my story about me..."

"there is a reduction
of identity to biography..."

Krista Tippett interviewed John O'Donohue before his passing in 2008 and the above quote stood out to me as he spoke in measured, but lyrical stanzas.

Let me make this very clear. I love this man. I love his poetry. I love his heart. I love his wisdom. I have no objectivity when it comes to his words. I love them. His books of prose and poetry some of my dearest companions.

There is not a song to keynote this post - at this moment. But, the above statement plays in my heart like a song. To hear John's voice - lyrical and resonant - is a gift that sings to my heart.

t As for the content of her interview (which I have to admit I would have listened to even if he had only been reading of the Dublin telephone directory) well, took my breath away. Not because it is something new, but because it so nails what I believe to be true at the deepest level of my being.

We are not our stories. Yes, we have stories -- just like we have bodies -- but they do not define us. They are instruments of language for communicating what we think we know about our selves -- but they are not "us."

If you have this blog, you know from over 750 posts, since 2005, I have a bunch of stories. In fact, each of these posts is based on an experience. I am not a rhetorical writer. I do not know how to speak or write from the standpoint of thesis. But I can tell you what I have experienced -- a story -- and how that experience was meaningful to me, and further awakened in my a deeper spiritual understanding.

So, to say that I am not my story -- here on this blog -- might seem a bit (or a lot) paradoxical. But it is what I know to be truer than true. And to have it in John's words and spoken by his voice is only more wonderful than i can say.
We are not our stories. Sandy Wilder once shared an exercise with me that stsopped me in my tracks. It shook me -- the storyteller -- to the core. I felt that false sense of who I was shatter and crumble to the ground like a statue turning to rubble at a feather's touch.


I use these stories to illustrate some spiritual awakening in my heart. But I no longer think that these stories define me or are the historic construct of who I have become, or foundational to who I have yet to discover about the "I am." One that is continuously welling up from the depths of a spiritual wellspring in divine Love.

In thinking of this story-free spiritual identity, I can't help but remember that Mary Baker Eddy wrote her own autobiography, Retrospection and Introspection, in 95 pages. And that at page 54, she stops telling "her story," and the last half of her autobiography includes nothing of her human story, but is all about sharing her love for the Science she had discovered as Life itself.

In the last chapter of this autobiography, Waymarks," Eddy offers:

"Hear this saying of our Master:
"And I, if I be lifted up from earth,
will draw all me."

The ideal of God is no longer impersonated
as a waif or a wanderer..."
 

Without saying it, she says it all. Having been lifted up from her own earth-story -- by the cross of experience -- she was no longer the once-sickly child, or the homeless women who had lived in over 60 homes -- she was spiritual. Her story was "immovably fixed in Principle."

I will leave this here. I hope you feel the depth of your own spiritual identity. I hope you know -- at the very core of your being -- what is pre-existently and eternally "you" as the reflection of the "I AM," -- ever-unfolding, ever-fresh, ever-new. I hope that you can look at your stories as narrative language for sharing what you have discovered, not as an accumulation of experiences that define you.

And since I can't stop a song from scoring a post in my heart -- after I start writing -- I will share Kate Edmonson's beautiful recording of "A Voice." Perhaps our stories are simply the songs we sing to each other to say, "you are not alone."

offered with Love,

Kate

"a little girl, and a smooth stone..."

"At the end of the day
I will hope they will say,
that my heart looks like Your heart,
that my heart looks like Your heart..."

Chris Tomlin's  "My Heart" came as the soundtrack to this memory of my experience with school violence.

Anyone who reads this blog knows that I spent my childhood being "the new girl." We moved so often that instead of counting sheep when I can't sleep, I try to remember addresses, telephone numbers, floor plans, zip codes.

I was not the pretty, confident new girl -- that was my younger sister. And as long as I was with her, I wasn't afraid. But she was in the grade behind mine and although our classrooms were near one another in every school, she wasn't in the room with me.  I was the bookworm, the shy girl, the just-pretend-I-am-not-here girl.

For the most part, my love for learning made every classroom a safe, happy place for me. Teachers generally love a new student who lives for the sheer pleasure of doing well in any (and every) subject. And even though I dreaded the playground, I loved the classroom. Desks that were textured by years of use, the scent of fresh chalk on the blackboard, the sound of a pencil sharpener -- I loved it all. It was familiar and safe.

That was until I reached sixth grade. We'd moved to a new neighborhood. I was excited to finally be in the oldest class of elementary school. Yes, I was terrified about junior high. But that wasn't for another year. For now, I was happy to be in the graduating class.

But all my dreams of a wonderful school year -- one filled with awards, opportunities to shine, a teacher who would help me get ready for junior high - evaporated on the first day of class.

I was small. I was a bit of a timid mouse. I didn't like attention. But I liked being smart. I wasn't a child who raised her hand. I was the student who proved that she knew what she knew by doing well on tests, essays, assignments turned in at their completion -- not by speaking out.

From the second I entered Mr. S's classroom I felt threatened. His was a reign of terror. Everything was based on his experience as the immigrant son of nationalist Germans who felt misunderstood and persecuted in post-WWII America. He was a man who proudly declared that his father had served in the German Army during the war, and that his mother had been an "officer" in the Bund Deutscher Mädel - the Youth organization for girls.

I was terrified of Mr. S. And my response to that terror was to try even harder to win him over. Little did I know that - for some reason - this was the opposite of how to survive in his world order.

Mornings in Mr. S's classroom began with the playing of the music (only the music -- not the lyrics -- he wasn't a fool) to "Deutschland über alles"  - the German National anthem under Hitler's regime. We would, strangely enough, follow that musical prelude with the Pledge of Allegiance, and then an examination of our hands, faces, and the bottoms of our shoes for cleanliness.

One day, during the playing of Hayden's "Austria," - the music that underscores "Deutschland über alles" I must have had a peaceful smile on my face that was disarming to him. He came to stand in front of my desk -- paunchy belly, thick, heavy straw-colored hair flopping over his eyes, jowly chin and asked, "well, well, little rat, what is making you so happy today?"

I replied that I loved that piece of music. He narrowed his eyes at my prim, mousy little self and asked why I like it so much. I said that it was one of the hymns in our church's hymnal. This must have piqued his interest, because he asked me, "and what church do you go to that sings Deutschland über Alles as a hymn?" I told him I didn't know those words, but that, at our Christian Science church, we had a song that had the same music.

Suddenly he exploded. He grabbed me by the collar, dragged me to the very front of the room, pulled a desk right under the American flag and pushed me into a chair. He went on to rage - to the rest of the class - that I was not a Christian. That "these Christian Scientists" were not followers of Jesus. That I needed to be humbled in the sight of "our Lord."

From that moment on, my sixth grade classroom became a torture chamber. I was humiliated daily. Forced to say the Pledge of Allegiance alone, outloud in front of the class, and if I hesitated or made a mistake, I would have to say it again. I was called little rat girl. I was tiny and I had a slender face and when I smiled my eyes were all squinty. It seemed to give him pleasure to attach that name to a small child. And when the mean boys in the class took up his new nickname for me with enthusiasm, he encouraged them.

But his harshest act would be his most silent. Mr. S carried a keyfob with a small bottle of cognac encased in a resin block at the end of a short chain. He would take it out of his pocket and swing it in circles until the cognac inside of the little bottle frothed. When he was ready, he would walk over to my desk and hit me sharply on the head with the corner of the little resin square. Then he was say, in front of the class, "Well little rat, how did that illusion feel?  Can you pray it away?"

For hours I would be dizzy and in pain. This went on for weeks. I was afraid to tell my parents because I thought that if they told the principal, my life would get harder. There was only one sixth grade class in that school. And as much as I wanted to be safe with my brave sister, I didn't want to go back to fifth grade.

Finally, one Friday his sharp attack broke the skin on my head, left another huge lump, and I could barely think straight for the rest of the day. I knew I couldn't go on like that for the rest of the year. On Sunday, I waited until after Sunday School to talk with my Sunday School teacher. She was a Christian Science practitioner and one of the things I knew about Christian Science practitioners, was that they had to keep whatever you told them a secret -- just between the two of you.

I told her what had been happening and she held me close and cried. I didn't expect that. On the one hand, I was completely horrified that I had made her cry, and on the other, I was so grateful to know that someone cared about me.

When she had composed herself, she reminded me of the story of David and Goliath. We talked about David eschewing the King's weapons and armor -- even a helmet.  And I could have really used one of those!  Instead he had taken five smooth stones from a brook. And with just one of these stones, he had smote the giant.

She explained that I, too, had five smooth stones. Spiritual ideas that I had worked till they were well-honed. And that I could use them as my armor and my response to Mr. S's goading, humiliation, and painful abuse. She also told me -- and this was long before health-care professionals were legally required to report child abuse -- that she would have to speak with my parents.  I kinda knew that was coming.

She asked me what I thought my five smooth stones were. I remember two of the five I came up with: I love God. I am smart. She then told me that I should pick one to use the next day in class. I should hold it in my heart and be willing to let it fly in the face of rage, hatred, and violence. I chose: "I love God." I know she talked to my dad later that dad -- but I was not part of that conversation.

The next morning, as I stood in front of the classroom to say the Pledge of Allegiance - all by myself - I almost screamed the line: "one nation under God..." It seemed to shock him. This meek, little mouse of a girl roaring about God. Then I sat down. When he came over to my desk during math, swinging his keychain, I looked up at him and said, "I love God." He didn't say anything, but he also didn't slam that keyfob on the crown of my head.

Within a week we had a long-term substitute for the rest of the year. I don't know if my parents or my Sunday School teacher spoke with the school, I only know that my sister did not have to have Mr. S for sixth grade the next year.  We moved before the following year so I don't know if he ever came back.

Teachers are people. I was one. I loved being in the classroom with children. Most teachers have the noblest motives for doing what they do. But some teachers are carrying around stories, memories, and hurts that haven't been healed or resolved. For these teachers, a classroom can be used inappropriately. We need to provide healing support to both teachers and students who are facing demons they haven't exorcized.

When I think of teachers being armed in the classroom, I am reminded of Mr. S., and I am grateful that he was only carrying a bottle of cognac encased in a block of resin. His rage was sudden, and his willingness to take all that unresolved angry hurt out on a small child, was without any perceivable sense of self-knowledge or remorse. His willingness to teach gentle little boys and girls to model his violent, humiliating behavior towards another student -- was unchecked. He needed to be protected from himself -- and his stories.

We need to love the bully enough to separate him (or her) from settings that allow them to act out their rage with the social weapons of sarcasm, humiliation, harassment, revenge, and violence.  This separation is not dismissive.  It does not ignore the issue, but provides a setting conducive to counseling, compassion -- and yes, healing.

This experience actually made me love Hayden's "Austria" even more.  Lyrics to that hymn read:

"On the Rock of Ages founded,
What can shake thy sure repose?
By salvation’s walls surrounded
Thou mayst smile at all thy foes...."

For me, the Rock of Ages is not a big boulder, it is a smooth stone. With one smooth stone in our hearts, nothing can offend us. Nothing can reach within the walls of what we know at the very core of our being. Nothing can shake the sure repose that comes from a Truth that we have used, and proven.

And then, we actually can smile at our foes -- because, in Truth, we have no enemies. Even as a little girl, I could see that Mr. S's stories about his parents and the war -- were not filled with pride, but the confusion and hurt of a little boy trying to make sense of it all, while still find his way in the world.  I can't imagine what it was like to live in this country as a German after the war. I can only hope that by reminding him that I was a real girl - who loved God, he was able to find a smooth stone of his own to smite the giant in his own stories.


offered with Love,

Kate

"it wasn't written for you …"

"You can play the game,
you can act out the part,
though you know
it wasn't written for you..."

All week long, these lyrics from James Taylor's beautiful, "Shower the People," acted as a reminder for me to "check the script." It's a practice I started some years ago when I found myself caught up in cycles of drama that threatened to suck the life out of a cherished friendship. And since then, I've found it useful in arresting all kinds of stories that I know weren't written for me -- at least not by God.

Here's how it goes -- I will catch myself holding a script for a story that I haven't agreed to be cast in. The oldest child, the tired mom, the introvert, the organizer, the victim. It's not that these roles are -- in and of themselves -- bad. That's not the point. It's that I find myself reading lines - or in conversation, feeding someone else lines - that are not healthy, consistent with my sense of spiritual purpose, or in line with an accurate sense of my true identity.

Take for instance, a conversation I found myself in a week ago. It was steeped in the past -- an outgrown version of myself that I no longer have any attachment to, or relationship with. The character who's story I was being asked to "act out,"believed she was a victim of tragic circumstances.  And of course, if that was my character's backstory, then an invitation to talk about it would soon devolve into emotional fragility and grief.  That's how the script was written. 

For about five minutes, I read the lines.  I was so into it. Wow, I knew this character. I could play her with authenticity and great feeling. And then, the questions came gently but firmly, "Is this a part you are really willing to audition for? Is this a script you believe will tell a healing story?" The answer was immediate, "No."

I knew it was time to drop the script and refuse the role. I wasn't going to read the lines that were written, or feed the next line to my companion for her response - a response that would only forward that sad, sorry storyline -- again.

Whether the script is one of a broken heart, an inflated ego, or victimization -- we can drop it without even reading the first line. If the character description says: "obsessively neat, older sister, a bit of a control freak" -- well, I'm throwing that script across the room. 

Sometimes, we can actually refuse a script based on the screenwriter. If I know that a particular writer's repertoire is filled with heart-breaking story lines played out by pathetic characters, and I don't want to take on those roles, I'm not going to look at anything he/she has written.

This happened to me a few weeks ago. I was sitting at my desk when the thought came, "what if you had never…" I knew that "voice." It was the work of "what if…" and his scripts never play out in stories that are beautiful and healing. So, I dropped it.

These days I'm looking for script that are filled with hope, affection, honesty, humanity. I am eager to take on those roles. I know the Writer. I trust Her work. Her name is Love. Her stories bring out the best in her characters. Her plot development includes humility, attentiveness, meekness, redemption, healing. She leads her characters towards paths of peace. Sure, Her stories may not be filled with drama, villains, or chase scenes, but these are the roles I'm meant for.  These are the kinds of roles I've studied.  Her stories include character development and redemption. These are the stories I want to participate in telling.

Sure, as James Taylor sings:

"You can play the game,
you can act out the part,
though you know
it wasn't written for you.."
 

But why would we?

One of the things I imagine myself doing -- when I feel like I am standing there, script in hand, reading lines for a story I don't want to participate in producing -- is to turn to the casting director and say, "Are you kidding me, I am much too good for this role." And then, tossing the script in his face, I turn on my heels and walk off the stage.

Because I am.  We all are. We are all too good for roles that debase us. Roles that ask us to play out characters that are selfish, frustrated, tired, sick, sad, angry, gossipy, controlling -- you get the picture.

Practice dropping scripts that are not in line with stories you wish to participate in telling. Even if you have read for that part in the past. Even if you once played it with great meaning and pathos. If it is no longer your highest sense of your story you can say, "no," and leave the stage.

You won't be without a good part.  God has a perfect role that is just right for you. It is consistent with His nature. It is vital to the telling of His story. And you deserve to play it with confidence, meaning, purpose, and joy. You deserve to forward a story that will bless and heal. We all do.


offered with love,



Kate

"As a tale that is told..."

"Lay down your burdens,
I will carry you,
I will carry you,
my child,
my child..."

Amy Grant's new CD, How Mercy Looks from Here, launched today. But it's her classic, "I Will Carry You," that swept through my heart one night. I'd tossed and turned for hours.  I was burdened by a passel of stories lying so heavy on my heart that I almost couldn't breathe. And the feeling was no longer isolated to the realm of the mental and emotional, it had become physical.

As my husband rested peacefully beside me, and the girls were nestled snuggly in their rooms, I was wandering the hallways of "what" and "why" -- as if it was there, that I would find were a reasonable "cause" for the pain I was in.

I needed to think clearly, and the only relief I could find from the discomfort was in a hot bath. Slipping into my favorite middle-of-the-night sanctuary all was quiet. Buoyed in the silence of warm water I felt less distracted by the weight of the pain. I was able to listen more clearly for God's voice. And that's when the first strains of Amy's "I will carry you..." washed over me.  I let it's message lead me, and  I let go.

I opened my hands and released all that I had been grasping for.  I let my desire for a reason-able story -- one that would somehow explain what I needed to pray about --  fall away.  And I drifted ever deeper -- effortlessly -- into a conscious awareness of God's love.

The next thought that came washing through me was a Psalm:

"We live our lives

as a tale that is told..." 

Ah yes, this is exactly what I been searching for. I needed to be reminded that I could, actually, let the stories dissolve -- to go from being well-developed personal memoirs into mere words strung together on a timeline, and from word strings into a collection of letters, and from letters into strokes of a pen, and from the stroke of a pen, into ink that softly dissolved into the watery ether -- the buoying omni-presence of His abiding love. They were not mine, because they were not His.

The bath became a womb for my most childlike, pure, peaceful, and innocent self. I was not an anthology -- a compendium of dramas, tragedies, love sagas, and the occasional comedy. I didn't have to carry this "me" encyclopedia around, and unpack it as my identity.   It wasn't ever going to be a reliable reference for discovering what was causative each time that "me" wondered "why."

My only "why": "because God sent me into this moment for a holy purpose." My only thought: "Thy will be done." My one true feeling, "an abiding trust in Him."

Mary Baker Eddy wrote in her small collection, Pulpit and Press:

"You have simply to maintain
a positive, scientific sense of unity
with your divine Source
and daily demonstrate this."

I could do that.

Yes, I could always do just that.

 The rest I placed in God's hands -- joyfully acknowledging, now and forever, His supremacy, omnipotence, and omnipresence.

with Love,

Kate

"beyond the chains of your story...."

"When some time has past us,
and the story is retold,
it will mirror the strength
and the courage in your soul..."

I'd left for my walk on the beach much later than planned. And although I was thrilled to watch the ribbons of dusk turn from blue, to lavender, to salmon, to pink to the last deep gasp of twilight before a blanket of sapphire cloaked the endless sky above the sea, I was a bit unsettled by the sheer aloneness I experienced there. Not another single, solitary person for miles in either direction.

That was when the chorus to Sara Groves' "It's gonna be alright..." came to me, "It's gonna be alright. It's gonna be alright..." It was a sweet reminder that no matter how deep the darkness, how vast the emptiness, how distant the light...I am never really alone. And, it is always going to be alright. I don't live in a house, on a beach, under a tree, with a family, or along a river. I live in Love, in God. And in Love, it's already alright.

When I got back to where I was staying, there was an email from a friend, with a link to the below post from 2009. I wasn't really so surprised when I noticed that Sara's "It's gonna be alright," is the song, I'd added as a link, at the end. God is so good...sigh..

offered with Love...



"beyond thinking..."

"Hello darkness my old friend
I've come to talk with you again...."

Simon & Garfunkel's "The Sound of Silence" speaks to me of a gentle darkness, a sweet emptiness, a delicate inner "void" I have learned to love, and am no longer unsettled by.  It is speechless.  And sometimes this silent voice of God comes so softly, almost imperceptibly, that I can really only feel Her touch if I am perfectly still, like a deer in the forest listening for the moccasined footsteps of an Indian princess as she tiptoes her scent through the fallen leaves.

When this divine whisper brushes against my heart, it is not in words, but in feelings, so tender, that I find my eyes closing unintentionally.  It is a moment of reverence so pure it takes my breath away.  And with this intake of breath, there is a shift in focus, my inner landscape takes on new dimensions, and what was once close becomes distant, while what was distant, draws infinitely near.  It is a touch that penetrates to the core place where there is neither time nor process, failure or accomplishment,  you or me.  It is beyond the chains of thinking...beyond reason.

What does freedom
look like
when you are
no longer
bound to
your
once-upon-a-time
beliefs
about
your life,
the
worn-out cliches
of someone else's story
about you,
the
fairy tale dreams
you recited
to yourself
...like mantras...
from beneath the covers,
long into the
darkness,
when
the world
was fast
asleep...

Can we ever...
is it possible
for us... 
to walk
beyond the
chains of
thinking,
wondering,
worrying,
if we might
just
be
the
product of
our own
worst
choices,
or
worse yet,
our own
best
thinking...

You are not
the outcome,
the offspring,
the effect
of
someone,
anyone
else's
rejection, neglect
abuse
abandonment...
or even,
their
love

you are
the breath of
Spirit
upon
an aspen leaf,
a drop of
holy water
on the tongue of
a saint,
the whisper of
forgiveness,
the sweetest song
to a mother
who
never meant
to
cause her
child's
tears

true
freedom
is to live
without want,
without
need,
without 
feeling
the dull ache
of thinking
there
might just be
something more...


it is
to
live
fully
within the
space of
having all,
in the
Allness
of
our
singular
relationship with Him.

it is
to be at peace
to be at home
to find heaven
in
a
closet,
a sepulchre,
a cell,
a cocoon,
a prayer....

In this space of spiritual surrender we discover that, as Sara Groves' assures us "It's Gonna Be Alright" And I believe...I really, truly, genuinely believe it is. In fact, I know it is.

""And when some time has past us,
and the story is retold
It will mirror the strength
and the courage in your soul
Oh, oh, I believe I believe,
that it's going to be alright...""

Especially when we have the courage to cast our cares on Him...for he careth for us...

for you...

Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"Every heart has so much history..."

"Every heart has so much history.
it's my favorite place to start.
Sit down awhile
and share your narrative with me.
I'm not afraid of who you are.
I'm all here, and you're all there...
Some of this is unique,
and some of it we share.
Let's add it up,
and start from there.
Oh, it's all right here...

It's what is best,
and what is worst.
And it's how I see the universe.
Oh, it's all right here..."

Over the last few weeks, I've been thinking alot about our stories - our spiritual life narratives - and why they are so important to us and to the humanity.  And this past weekend it was my privilege to conduct workshops on this subject for Dick Davenport's Midwest Bible Conference titled, "I Love to Tell the Story."

While I worked and prayed in preparation, Sara Groves' "It's All Right Here," kept lingering in my heart. 

I love that she reminds us that:

"Every heart has so much history.
It's my favorite place to start.
Sit down awhile,
and share your narrative with me.
I'm not afraid of who you are..."

This weekend I loved hearing the stories of truly brave men, and women, who were willing to unpack their suitcases of history with one another...in workshops, at lunch, and sitting on a basketball court between sessions.  Together we looked at all of those mental artifacts from our life narratives...deep sorrow, soaring joy, haunting regrets, rich accomplishments...and we listened.  I was so blessed by their stories, and I felt so honored to be trusted as a listener.  I sat in awe of their courage as they reclaimed each of those life-moments for God.

It became evident to each of us, that God had been there when the floods rose. God was there in the dark of night, the bright dawning of a new day, when bitter tears fell, and when hopes rose. God is always there, and the gift of seeing this seamless thread of His presence running golden through our life stories is an exercise rich with humility and redemption.

Looking at the Biblical life stories of people like Joseph and Jesus, Ruth and Hagar, gives us a platform for this kind of spiritual re-building in ourselves. Our lives become contemporary parables for others. 

Joseph's story is filled with pride, rejection, self-certainty, heartache.  And yet, when he recounts his life trajectory to his brothers...men who are horrified to come face-to-face with the victim of their bullying and betrayal...he doesn't ask for their apology and regret (which they are more than eager to extend) He reclaims his entire life narrative for God when he says:

"Be not grieved nor angry with yourselves, for it is not you, but God, which sent me before you to preserve you a posterity upon the earth."

Wow, arrogance, pit, slavery, false accusation, prison, rise to fame...nobody's fault, nobody's credit. He claimed he was God-sent into each moment as a blessing, and that was that.

You can look at the life of Jesus...just take the cutting off of Malchus' ear and his rebuke...of not the soldier arresting him, but his disciple defender...in these words:

"Put up again thy sword...thinkest thou not that I cannot now pray to my Father, and He will give me more than twelve legions of angels?  But how then shall the scriptures be fulfilled, that thus it must be?"

Or Hagar who discovers God's relationship to her son in the middle of the wilderness after being rejected by her mistress and her son's father. 

And of course there is Ruth, Bathsheba, Tamar Rahab...women whose life narratives are, at best, questionable, but whose true stories are redeemed through their presence in the geneology of Jesus Christ himself as related in the first chapter of Matthew.  And then there is Mary, a girl whose suspect pregnancy is redeemed through the birth and life of a boy who will become the risen Saviour.

In his "The Gospel According to Jesus" Stephen Mitchell suggests in contrasting the life narratives of Buddha, the prince who would become a humble servant to mankind, and Jesus, the illegitimate child who would become the Prince of Peace, that:

"We can see the respective beginnings of these two great men as opposite ends of the spectrum that is the human condition.  Together, their meaning is that no life is so sheltered or so shamed that it can't be transformed into a vehicle of God's grace, a vessel filled with the deepest charity and wisdom.  So capable are we of using whatever materials (or circumstances) we are given; so irresistible is the phototropism of the human soul."

Ahhh, "the phototropism of the human soul," that irresistible turning to the light of who we are as God-sent disciples of Christ with a holy purpose.  Standing in this light, we begin to see our stories through the lens of His over-arching presence within every moment.  As Sara also sings in another favorite,  "Add to the Beauty":

"Redemption comes in strange place, small spaces,
calling out the best of who we are..."

Redeeming our life stories for God, sharing them with others, and trusting those redemption narratives to call out the best of who we are...moment-by-incredibly-courageous-moment...turns our lives into living, breathing, healing contemporary scripture, blesses humanity, and brings the kind of freedom that we can only imagine from the dark precincts of the lonely tomb where fear, pride, and regret try to  shroud us in sorrow.  Spiritual living is not measured by a string of human success stories, but by moments radiant with salvation, redemption, and peace...an inner peace that persists in storm or shine.

"It comes in loving community
It comes in helping a soul find it's worth.."

Thank you, God, for sending me into this weekend full of loving community...I am your grateful daughter...
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"He entertains angels...who listens.."

"You'll never know how much I really love you,
You'll never know how much I really care,
...Listen, do you want to know a secret
Do you promise not to tell
Closer, let me whisper in your ear..."
-Lennon/McCartney

"Listen"...I remember how much I loved this song when I was ten years old.  It might have been because it was the first time I'd heard George sing (he was my favorite!).  Or perhaps it was because at ten, what I wanted...and needed...more than anything else, was to be listened to. I needed to believe that I was someone worthy of sitting "in conversation" with.  And I thought that George was singing just to me.  In fact, I was convinced of it. If I close my eyes, I can still see the small black vinyl 45rpm record spinning on our old record player, and when I hear it, I am - once again - smitten with hope.  It didn't really even matter why I loved it then, it was a song I couldn't get enough of.  I was sure that I, and I alone, was the sole reason it skyrocketed to #2 on the charts, just behind "Can't Buy Me Love," that year.   I wanted to be listened to, and George was promising me that, when we really love someone, and when we really care, we will listen...and be listened to.

Aren't we all hungry to be really, truly heard.  To know that what fills our hearts with love, peace, joy, inspiration...is meaningful to someone, might make a difference in their lives, and could possibly be the encouragement they need to feel less alone in the world.  I think we all want to know that our thoughts and feelings, insights and stories have poignancy.

But what about the desire to listen.   To hear someone else's story.  To discover what is most meaningful to the people we know and love...or even those we are just meeting for the first time.  This is my hunger.  And it's a hunger that for a long time I tried to ignore, or simply temper to the point of only asking the more light-hearted questions. 

My children sometimes think I am just too curious.  I ask their friends a million questions when we are in the car, driving to a soccer game or birthday party.  "What is your favorite subject in school?"  "Where did you move here from?"  "Do you like to play board games?" "What is the most interesting place you've ever been?" But it isn't mindless chatter,  personal probing, or small talk for me.  I really do enjoy hearing about how another person feels.  I like hearing the details of their childhood. The rich textures of remembered moments from a wedding, the birth of a child, the way it felt to knead the first loaf of bread they ever baked,  or the tactile memory of thow it felt to grind wheat berries, by hand, on large round millstones at an ancient monastery in France.  I like giving space to their stories, their feelings about those experiences, and their insights.

I am not listening to be polite.  I am not asking questions because I think I should.  I really, truly, genuinely am interested. 

But even in adult gatherings, I often felt unsure of myself.  For a long time I was embarrassed by my own interests in other people's stories.  I always seemed to be the person at a dinner party who wanted more and more details.  "What color were the curtains in the villa?"  "Did the woman offer you any insights about why she chose to devote her life to raising pygmy goats?"  "What did you feel like when you saw your husband for the first time on the dock at summer camp?"  "What did your father say to you just before he walked you down the aisle?"

But I am learning that this is not something to be embarrassed about.  It is not idle prattle.  When, as my friend, Chief Listening Officer (really!) of Educare Learning Institute,  Sandy Wilder, puts it, "we pull in next to someone and look out at their experience with them...from their point of view" we give them something that is greater than gold.  We honor their heart, their stories, their life experience...their wisdom and inspiration.  We tell them that they are worthy of our attention.  We remind them that the world is not, and never will be, spinning so fast that we can't slow down long enough and take a moment to listen to one another with genuine interest. 


For me the difference between being "nosey" and listening deeply, is in the details.  What am I interested in hearing?  Do I want "the inside scoop", am I asking about the lives of  people other than the person I am with, am I hoping to hear something no one else knows?  Or, am I truly interested in how the person I am sitting with experienced a situation, what insights they gathered, what lessons they learned, how they felt...and are feeling?

Mary Baker Eddy describes the untold blessings found in this kind of listening, when she wrote:

"He entertains angels who listens to the lispings of repentance
seen in a tear - happier than the conqueror of a world."

Sometimes all it take to turn a "wrathful and afflictive" experience, into a moment of courage, a lesson learned, or an opportunity for someone else to be blessed by the footprints we have left in the sand, is to have someone take the time to listen to us tell our stories.   In the telling we often hear how far we have come, how profoudly we were moved, how fundamentally we have been changed.

My friend Stacey shared this Youtube clip, "Children of Light," with me the other day...and it is worth every second you might give to viewing it.  It is about a teacher in Japan who is nurturing the lost art of listening in his students.  It shows the power of sharing our stories...and what happens when we really listen to one another.  Mr. Mifuyu remarks, following a compelling example of the impact on one child of a shared story, and how it loosened the tightness in her own heart:

"When people really listen, they live in your heart forever..."

As I think back over the years of all the stories I have told, and all the stories I have heard, I am stunned by what I now realize.  It is the people who have really listened to my heart, that have left the most lasting impression on my life.  In their listening, their deeper questioning, they have given me a window on my own experiences, insights, and the lessons I have learned.  Sometimes those listening partners have been a beloved four-legged companion.   Yes, I am now seeing, that my dearest friends, are those who have listened to, and shared with, me in times of heartbreak and celebration, inner inquiry and stream of consciousness awakenings.  And somehow, I have always learned as much from the questions they have asked, as I have from the stories they, too, were led to share during those feasts of Soul...that always turned into great potlucks...catered by our Father-Mother, God...who loves us all. 

And when we practice this kind of deeply-focused listening with others, it naturally rolls over into our moments of silence, and we begin to listen to God from that same space of hunger.  The banquet that follows is surprising, satisfying, and sweet.

Thank you dear friends.  I am deeply moved by your willingness to pull in next to me, and listen to my heart...with me.  You will live in my heart forever.  Forever...and ever...

I love you...
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

[photo credit: Nathaniel Wilder 2009]

"Happy trails to you..."

"Happy trails to you,
Until we meet again.
Happy trails to you,
Keep smilin' until then.

Who cares about the clouds
when we'ere together?
Just sing a song,
and bring the sunny weather.

Happy trails to you,
'Til we meet again."
- Roy Rogers/Dale Evans

I've been thinking a lot about goodbyes lately.  Leaving camp, one daughter half way around the world and two more on a trip to New England,  friends passing on...others living in different states...or countries, children moving into new chapters in their lives, siblings finding their "home" in far-off ports.  And this song, "Happy Trails" by Roy Rogers and Dale Evans (for those of you who grew up watching The Roy Rogers Show every week, click on this link for the familiar opening) brings a smile to my heart.

For many years, singing this song to departing campers as the airport bus pulled out of the turn circle, was a tradition.  Campers would lean out of bus windows waving wildly, as counselors (and those campers who were blessed with another session) waved back singing "Happy Trails".  It always made me feel peaceful to think that we would all see one another again.  I never doubted that our trails would re-converge.  I knew that many of us would pour through the camp gate in another year, and that we would find ourselves at the same campfire, hymn sing, or rodeo...again. 

I much prefer "see you later," to "goodbye."  I am so sure that we will see one another again.  My grandmother once told me, when I asked her, well into her 90s, "what will I do without you?", "Well, I hope you will live your life in a way that you will have great stories to share with me when we see eachother again!"  Her conviction that we would see one another again, and that I better have good stories to share with her, gave my life direction. 

I knew the kind of stories she was talking about...we were both Christian Science practitioners who devoted our lives to helping others discover more about their relationship to God...she expected stories of healing, redemption, transformation, salvation, and resurrection.  She would settle for nothing less.  Nothing else would interest her. 

She had proved that throughout our relationship as grandmother and granddaughter.  Every letter, every postcard, every phone call was full of spiritual inspiration and stories of healing.  As a teenager, this was something that I didn't understand or even like.  I wanted her to talk about grandma things.  To ask me more about my dancing, clothes, boys, school.  But her letters were always about God, and me as His child...pure, perfect, whole, and good.

I still strive to live my life in such a way that I will have good stories to share with her.  But I also try to do the same thing for my daughter who lives 12,000 miles away in South Africa, my friend who lives in another state, campers and counselors I will not see until next summer, and other loved ones who have passed on.

In remembering the lyrics to Happy Trails, I couldn't help but remark on the stanza that is often forgotten:

"...Some trails are happy ones, _
Others are blue. _
It's the way you ride the trail that counts, _
Here's a happy one for you...

Happy trails to you
'Till we meet again..."

Good stories are not just defined by sunny days full of light and laughter, joy and comfort.  Good stories are stories where "the way you ride the trail" counts more than the horse you're on, the weather you encounter, or the scenery along the way.  Were you kind, did you turn to God -- immediately or eventually, were you patient with yourself and others, did you give generously of what you had to share - the act, not the amount being what mattered, did you love much, laugh often, and live with abandon.  

It's the way you ride the trail that counts.

As I look back on the stories of this summer, I am blessed with countless instances where I had a front row seat to campers and counselors who rode their trail...rocky, steep, smooth, dark, or rugged...well.  Very well.  They rode with grace, with courage, with unselfed affections, with persistence, with patience.

My grandmother will love these stories.

Happy trails to each of you...till we meet again,
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

[photo of Brittany Richardson by Ashley Bay 2009]

"Your life story...a gift of love..."

"Carry with you maps and string, flashlights
Friends who make you sing
And stars to help you find your place
Music, hope and amazing grace…

Everybody strains to hear the sound
Of their heart's calling
Now you can write yours down
It's your life story…"
-Mary Chapin Carpenter

I sometimes wonder what difference it will make whether I write this, my life's story…or not.   Does it matter if I let a Tuesday pass without an installment…will Thursday's square on the calendar suddenly frown up at me from my Daytimer if I fail to exorcise something from the depths of my own experience.  Because that's all this is…just small snippets from the fabric of my life's story…sewn together into a patchwork quilt of songs and memories…tears and prayers.

I lost a friend I never met this past week…at least not in person.  Children's author and inspirational allegorist Madeleine L'Engle passed on before I could sit in her lap and ask her all the questions of the universe…which I hope she might have answered from the wrinkled folds of time and space she traveled in.  Her heart laid out life's lessons bare before us through her writing.  Her "voice" was magical and warm, innocent and wise…and I loved her…deeply.  A day full of sorrows could be resuscitated by just one pop into the pages of "A Circle of Quiet", or "A Swiftly Tilting Planet".  Her words were deeply inspiring, her characters touchable, and her worlds of wonder and delight were a retreat into hope and goodness.

"Why does anybody tell a story?" Ms. L'Engle once asked, even though she knew the answer.

"It does indeed have something to do with faith," she said, 'faith that the universe has meaning, that our little human lives are not irrelevant, that what we choose or say or do matters, matters cosmically."

I believe this is true.  Her life's story, as told through fantasy and allegory, mattered to me.  I drew fresh breath from characters who, although broken, fought the darkness and discovered threads of light so strong that it led them home.  I found comfort and solace in the hollowed out places of warmth she feathered for her characters…and her readers.  Places where the light was golden and the quilts scattered about were already soft with wear.  I could almost feel her cool fingers stroking my temples as I lay curled into myself waiting for the book to warm me.

Jesus once said, "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." I think this is what we do when we tell our stories.  When we are willing to share…whether it is through fairytale or testimony, blog or blathering…doubled up in laughter or spent with weeping…we love. 

Even if you are not writing a blog, a book, a lecture, or an article…and you have a story to tell, call me…I am always ready to be loved by someone's laying down of their life.  Or you could send it in an email to your mom, your sister, your bestest best friend…or me...I'm sure there's almost nothing we'd rather read…

You never know how it might carve out a place of comfort and healing…a space of sanctuary…in the midst of sadness, indifference, despair…or just on "a dark and stormy night"… for a weary heart.

Thank you Mama Madeleine for loving us all enough to share your stories, for sharing Mrs.Whatsit, and Meg and tesseract-ing, and teaching us that when we love intensely evil cannot stand…thank you, thank you, thank you…

"Maybe love is all anybody
Ever should believe in…
Maybe time can choose
Whether to be earthbound or to fly…
I won't worry, the truth's always been found
In your life story…"

Kate