"to know You..."

"To know You,
is to want to know You more..."

Sometimes a song brings me back to a moment when the scene shifted so completely that I could never see the world, or hear a word,  in the same way again. Casting Crowns'  "To Know You"  did that for me this morning.

It was over three decades ago. I was ready. I was taking the step I'd been yearning for since high school. I was taking primary class in Christian Science. I was eager to discover more of what it meant to heal as Jesus healed.

But I was also nervous. I knew that I could only take this course once. I wanted so badly to understand what I was being taught. But by the end of the second day's class I felt like I was in a mental fog. I knew I was intellectualizing it all, but I didn't know how to get out of my head.

It occurred to me that it was still early in the class, and that if I quit now, I could possibly retake the course when I was more ready -- whatever that meant. I called the teacher and explained how I was feeling. He encouraged me to be very still that night and listen for direction. Either way, he told me I should come to the next morning's session -- whether it was to continue, or to say goodbye to my fellow classmates.

The next morning I felt even more confused about what I needed to do. I walked to the hotel where our class was being held with a heavy heart. There was nothing I wanted more than to contribute to the world as a healer, but I also wanted to be able to do that work effectively. I knew that understanding the fundamentals of Christian Science being taught in the class was vital to doing that work honestly and with integrity.

As I sat in class that morning, my heart was as hungry as I'd every felt it. I listened to every word as if it were my last meal. But by lunchtime, I was still feeling detached. My heart sank low. Just as were were gathering our books and materials, our teacher stopped for a moment and returned to addressing us. We had spent the morning talking about man as the reflection of God. And man reflecting God.

I was sure we'd plumbed the depths of that concept in Sunday School as a child. We'd stood in front of mirrors and talked about how the image in the mirror, could do nothing that the original in front of the mirror did. We'd often talked about how man reflects, with accuracy and precision, everything that is true about God, and included in His nature.

It was all so familiar. I'd gotten it as a child. I'd felt like crying all morning. But as I was putting my books into my satchel, I heard our teacher say -- in the most casual way, "Did you ever think of the word "reflect" as a verb -- meaning to "ponder deeply." It was like a lightning bolt passed through me.

In an instant, a dozen sentences from Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures flooded my heart. For example:

"Reflecting God’s government, man is self-governed."

Man reflects infinity, and this reflection is the true idea of God.

Man is not absorbed in Deity, and man cannot lose his individuality, for he reflects eternal Life; nor is he an isolated, solitary idea, for he represents infinite Mind, the sum of all substance."

I felt like time stood still. Reflection wasn't just a noun -- it was a verb. It was something I did. In a moment I could see that to ponder the nature and character of God -- was everything. It was the "work" of a healer. I was the reflection -- the deep pondering of God. And I reflected -- deeply pondered God. That was who I was. That was what I was. It was all I was. I was -- and am -- my consciousness of God.

Everything came alive for me. I knew what I loved most in the world. To be still and know that [my] I am -- my consciousness of being -- was, is, and always would be defined by my consciousness of God. I had a way of being in the world.  I could stop anytime, anywhere -- connect with this deep sense of being -- and know my purpose intimately.  This reflection -- like that of the little girl in the photo above -- allows for the deepest conversation with the Divine.  In it, we see and know, as we are known.

I walked to lunch in a daze that day. I was on fire. I couldn't wait to get to the restaurant with my classmates, put my bag down, excuse myself, find a quiet corner and ponder God -- deeply. I still can't wait to do that wherever I am. It is still everything for me -- decades later.

I am God's reflection -- I am what God is deeply pondering. And I reflect God. I deeply ponder Him. This is the most intimate space in my life. It is where I find my oneness with my first love -- divine Love. This is where I cease to think about God, and am living in conversation with Him.  Everything springs from this. Everything. It is my life. It is my purpose, It is what is eternal, and enduring, and fills my being. It is what I bring to the table of family, church, community, parenting.

In that moment, that moment when our teacher asked us if we'd ever thought of "to reflect" as a verb, my life changed -- forever. It is a moment I will never forget.

I could sit here and write about how that moment has radiated and grown in me over the past three decades. But I will let this be enough tonight.

Mary Baker Eddy writes:

"The Divine Being must be reflected by man, — else man is not the image and likeness of the patient, tender, and true, the One “altogether lovely;” but to understand God is the work of eternity, and demands absolute consecration of thought, energy, and desire."

This is our great opportunity and it is an eternal joy. To understand God. To ponder God -- deeply. To listen to the heartbeat of the Divine within us -- to be at one with God's deep pondering of His own name and nature as our identity.

On the very first page of Science and Health, Eddy assures us:"

"The prayer that reforms the sinner and heals the sick, is an absolute faith that all things are possible to God, a spiritual understanding of Him, an unsolved Love."

Ah, the work of eternity.  19th Century pastor and author, A.W. Tower once wrote:

"What comes into our minds
when we think about God
is the most important thing
about us."

I believe this with all my heart.

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

"Silent Night....holy child"

[mother teaching her infant the sign for "I love you"]

"Silent Night, Holy Night
All is calm, All is bright...."

I was a brand new teacher and these were the first words of sign language I was entrusted to teach my new students at the Adaptive Learning Center.  The ALC was the educational arm of a state residential facility for children with severe and profound mental disabilities.   In the small rural town that surrounded its perfectly manicured but securely gated grounds, it was referred to as the "State School."  Whatever it was called, in town or at the Governor’s mansion, it was "home" to a thousand men, women, and children who had at some point in their childhood been made a "ward of the state" and institutionalized.  These children would never know a home-cooked meal, or bed sheets that smelled like sunshine and fresh air, or the way it felt to wake up to the sound of birds on a spring morning, or the sparkle of Christmas lights in the living room down the hall.

Many of us who had devoted our lives to their education, care, and recreation were keenly aware that we were the only touch of human kindness these children would ever know, especially during the holidays.  Being a new teacher, my awareness of this reality weighed heavily.  I had a class of boys ages 4 through 6.  They were extremely active, unfocused, and perseverant.  Our days were filled with  educational activities that most mothers taught their toddlers.  Repetition and simplicity were key.   I spent many a night in restless dreaming, frustrated that I too was unable to hold a small object between my thumb and forefinger, and move it into a designated hole on a puzzle board without dropping it...again.

The institution had finally hired a music therapist earlier that summer.  She, like most of us, was a fresh recruit out of college, eager to put to the test her love for children and her desire to make a difference in their lives.  She had a rigorous schedule of working with each of our classrooms, and my little guys were her favorites.  They were cute and precocious and we believed that, if we were the "miracle workers" we hoped we could be, in emulating Helen Keller's teacher Anne Sullivan, they too could become functioning members of society.  And not only would they function, they would sing...and sign.

My guys were auditorily challenged--hearing impaired--and a big part of every day was spent in speech therapy, both in the classroom and in one-on-0ne sessions with the speech therapist.  I delivered all of my lessons in both spoken and signed language.   That fall and winter we worked hard to prepare for the annual Christmas show with a signed rendition of the first verse of "Silent Night".

Day after day I positioned hands and fingers over and over again as we sang "Silent Night, Holy Night..."  Often I would come back to their residential cottage after dinner and showers to work with them during their evening time in the “day room”.  This large empty room offered a big television suspended from a platform in the corner of the windowless, concrete encased walls and floor.  It’s where they spent all of their waking free time.  They'd pace back and forth or just sit in a corner while Archie Bunker ranted and raved about the decline of society or while Big Bird cooed on about "the neighborhood".

One evening after a long day in the classroom, I was on the verge of tears.  I had been head-butted by a 120-pound six-year-old whose anti-aggression medication hadn't yet taken effect.  Scott, my "star" pupil, was going to step forward during the concert and do a "solo" signing performance of "sleep in heavenly peace, sleep in heavenly peace".  But he had been especially non-communicative, a behavior consistent with the autism we were working so hard to break through.    Scott had been making some very flitting eye contact with me over the course of a month--we are talking no more than a second or two in a day of working together--and I was buoyed with hope.  But on this night I could not help him quiet an anxiety that we had moved beyond some weeks earlier.  I was devastated.

Since there were no chairs in the day room, I had been standing with him in the corner farthest from the endless drone and chatter of the television.  He suddenly spun into an endless spiral of movement, vocalizing and hand flicking.  I slid down the yellow, thickly-painted cinder block wall and dissolved into exhausted tears.  I was no Anne Sullivan.  I was barely me and this me still had to work a shift at my second job waitressing before I could hit the pillow and find relief from my aching body and the disappointment in myself as a teacher.

I can remember the coldness of the concrete floor and the smooth ripple of the cinder block walls against my palms as I slid to stop.  Even as I type this, I can still hear Carroll O'Connor in his best Archie Bunker voice yelling "Edith!"  My tears were still hanging from eyelashes and rolling down my temples and onto my navy blue cardigan when…I felt a calloused little finger…slide across my cheek.  I looked up and there was Scott, big brown eyes staring into my face, calm and concerned.  The moment lasted fewer than fifteen seconds....but it also lasted more than five and I was stunned.  I sat there as silent and still as I could.  All was calm and all was....yes, bright. 

As soon as it had begun, it was over.  Scott's eye began flitting around the room.  He rocked back and forth singing to himself a sing-song that was not anything even close to "Silent Night".  But when I approached him to try again with the signs for "sleep in heavenly peace", he did them without resistance or confusion.
I had learned early in my still young teaching career working with special needs children not to overwhelm them in the celebration of their accomplishments, but to quietly affirm their success and encourage them to repeat it.  Soon the residential caregivers arrived to take the boys back to their beds and I followed to join them for "tuck in" and sung lullabies.  Usually this is done by a recorded voice, but on this night I wanted to reinforce the Christmas carols we had been learning.  So I stayed and sang to them.

Throughout the next week Scott and his classmates worked hard to learn the signs for "Silent Night".  I discovered that Scott's breakthrough in making sustained eye contact and connecting emotionally was real and repeated...and not just with me.  His solo came off without a hitch and I wasn't the only mom that night weeping for joy that this little guy--his white shirt and red striped bow tie pressed, his normally unruly dirty blonde hair combed to the side like a little man--had done well.

I can't hear "Silent Night" and not feel a small calloused finger reaching out to touch his teacher's cheek.  My hands still find the signs for each word of that carol in space.  My eyes still sting with tears at the memory of that group of boys in their ill-fitting Sunday best, arms and legs all akimbo putting their forefingers to their lips and waiting for my cue to begin the sign for "silent"....

This morning my mother-in-law sent me a video card of "Silent Night".  As I opened the link and heard the first strains, I was transported back to a crowded recreation room with a makeshift stage and a little boy....who spent most of his days as a "ward of the state" rocking back and forth to confused murmurings....standing tall and scrubbed and full of human dignity as he painted "sleep in heavenly peace" through the silent air in front of him with those hands that had wiped away my tears.    I have so much to be grateful for and I wish you a silent night filled with the gifts of knowing that the world is full of holy children longing for the Christ touch....just like you and me....

"Silent night, holy night
All is calm, all is bright
Round yon Virgin Mother and Child
Holy Infant so tender and mild
Sleep in heavenly peace
Sleep in heavenly peace

Silent night, holy night
Son of God, love's pure light
Radiant beams from Thy holy face
With the dawn of redeeming grace
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth "  

K & J