"Heaven when we're home..."

"..And something tells me
that there must be something
better than all this..."

I love listening to the Wailin' Jennys' "Heaven When We're Home,"* for all the obvious reasons...and then, for some reasons that may not be so nakedly clear. 

I've realized recently that, in the past, I've had a tendency towards dragging my baggage around searching for the perfect place to drop it.  But more often than I want to admit, the baggage I've been dragging around, close behind me, is not filled with the precious artifacts of a life well-lived...as I've always thought.  No, as much as I'd like to think I'm toting around time-softened antique quilts and hand-rubbed leather-bound first edition volumes of the classics, what I've really got in there is a mixture of metaphorical pulp fiction and a tattered old chenille bedspread stained with tears and ink. 

So what is this piece all about?  Not sure yet.  But, I think what I heard in my heart while listening to this song again this morning, were the first strains of a travelin' song...the kind of song that moves you forward when you are really just shuffling your feet.

It all started as I loaded my heavier-than-I'd-like carry on bag, and tote bag (filled with books, knitting, journal and, yes, a Chocolove's Sea Salt and Almonds in dark chocolate bar for the road) into the rental car after a wonderful weekend at camp.  A weekend teeming with over 250 teens and adult volunteers together for the Discovery Bound Leadership Conference gathered to explore the real qualities of a spiritual leader.  It was dark as I left in the wee small in between hours of a hushed crowd.   And I watched the soft violet dawning of a brand new day, as I headed east towards Denver International Airport.  Yup, just me and my baggage on a quiet drive through the Rockies, and across the Front Range.

After dropping off the rental car, I pulled the darned things into, and out of, the shuttle van, across the vast travertine of the main terminal, through the security checkpoints (at which time I unloaded little bits and pieces for scrutiny and re-packing), and down the concourse where I searched for a place to rest my weary head...and body...until it was time to board. 

I located a long row of seats that, thanks to my less than statuesque frame, would serve as a makeshift couch for napping (as long as I could twist myself into a pretzel-like shape...grateful for years of dance and yoga.)  Hmmm, I think, this is all looking quite promising, until I notice the luggage and totebag I've been dragging behind me. 

And, in light of the constant reminders about the heightened holiday travel security...warnings pouring through the airport's sound system...I realize that "leaving my baggage unattended" could result in untoward consequences.  So, I am pretty sure that falling asleep in front of your bags would be considered leaving them unattended.   In that case, I decide to put my suitcase on the seat next to me as a pillow of sorts...a very uncomfortable pillow I might add...and use my tote as something I can wrap my arms around like a child's teddy bear, and in this very uncomfortable position,  I try to rest. 

But I am resting on my baggage.  In fact, I am embracing my baggage.   I want to fall sleep on my baggage.  That's just one, too perfect, a metaphor!  But I can't.  At first I am pretty cranky about the situation.  And then, since I am clearly awake and not going to drift off into dreamland, I start to unpack the metaphor...with the help of the Jennys' song, now playing in my head. 

I realize that in order to stop dragging around my life's baggage, I have to leave it "unattended."  I have to unzip it, take out what is purposeful in helping others, and let the true source of my security, God, confiscate and destroy the rest. 

But to begin, I do have to leave it unattended. 

The word "attend" comes from the Latin root "attento" to wait for or expectation of, and is a cousin of the French "attendre" which means "to listen to, to pay attention, or give ear to."  Well, I have been attending to...paying attention to...my scuffed up baggage for way too long.  I've been dragging it around behind me, taking out little bits and pieces only long enough...and in small enough portions...to barely get me through to the next level of security clearance.  I am so focused on my journey...towards finding the "right" place to finally unpack it all and hang it on the walls of the next perfect home.  An imagined place where, I believe, what is my old junk, will somehow be transformed into the precious artifacts and antiques I imagine they could become...precious and worthy of hanging on to.  Ahh,  if only I could put them in the right setting.

But, a tattered and ink-stained bedspread will never be a hand-crafted quilt stitched together from vintage fabrics, once pieced together by a loving hand. And a dog-eared copy of hastily written pulp fiction, will never be a gold-leafed volume of love sonnets wrapped calfskin. 

Trying to rest on my old, carefully attended to baggage, has only given me a sore neck and made me want to get up and wander the concourse, looking for the next perfect place to try and rest again. 

I can't help but think of Mary Baker Eddy's "An Allegory" about a a traveler and his "baggage" which can be found in in her Miscellaneous Writings 1883 - 1896 (starting on page 323).  I chuckle to think how often I have read this with book in one hand while dragging my baggage with the other.  Especially the part that reads:

"Despairing of gaining the summit, loaded as they are, they conclude to stop and lay down a few of the heavy weights, -- but only to take them up again, more than ever determined not to part with their baggage."

It is time for me to leave my baggage un-attended...period.  To first salvage all that is good and useful from within, to responsibly report it to security myself, to let Love confiscate its no-longer-useful contents, to trust that they will be properly discarded, and finally, with Love's blessings, to walk away unscathed, unfettered, unscarred, and unburdened by what I would never find the right setting for anyway.  Realizing then, and there, that I was already happily, gratefully, wonderfully at home...within.

"It's a long and rugged road,
and we don't now where it's headed,
but we know it's going to get us where we're going.
And when we find what we're looking for,
we'll drop these bags, and search no more,
'cause it's going to feel like heaven when we're home..."

So, these were the thoughts that kept me company...poking, probing, sometimes less-than-comfortable company in Terminal A this morning.  I will be unpacking these thoughts for a while I think. 

But tonight as I actually unpacked my suitcase and tote, I realized that I had not used even 80% of what I'd taken with me.  I'd spent four days dragging around "stuff" that had never been worn, read, written in, or used...and I'd had a most wonderfully purposeful and inspiring weekend.  Just sayin'....

Thanks Sam, for getting me to listen "Heaven When We're Home"...over and over again...I love that it makes me think...
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

*I know that some of this song's lyrics may not be across-the-board consistent with what I believe to be true...but the core message of letting go and moving forward is giving me so much to think about...and I love that.

"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]