"it's all right..."

"you can close
your eyes,
it's alright..."

There are so many version of this JT classic on YouTube. This morning I got lost while watching covers of it, by artists like Sting, Linda Ronstadt, and others -- but it's James Taylor and Carly Simon's version of "You Can Close Your Eyes," that I always come back to. It brings me such peace.

I have been thinking a lot about how naturally we trust God -- without even realizing it. We lie down at the end of a long day, close our eyes, and surrender the mechanism of the human mind's whirring, to the peace of conscious knowing. We watch our children and grandchildren drift off to sleep, without a concern that they will not wake up. We release ourselves from worry, and rest our hopes, concerns, uncertainty on the presence of Something unseen.

There is grace in this level of trust. It is not something we earn. It is not something we have to work at. It comes so naturally to us. We know it from birth. As a mother, I would lay my tiny infant daughters down for a nap, and the go take a short nap myself. There was no "what if," in the complete surrender I felt, to the rest that I knew would come. I trusted.

This week's Bible study is all about Who and What we trust. It is all about God, and His love for each of us. It is about the grace that doesn't demand some kind of intellectual understanding about the "why" of our trusting.  It is all about the inherent trust that comes from being a child, in the arms of his/her divine Parent.

I remember some years ago feeling like I was in an uncomfortable position -- physically and socially. My body hurt, and my heart hurt even more. Everything felt twisted and upside down. I prayed to feel right-side-up and in control.

That was when I came upon a photograph of a father holding his infant. The baby was being held in what is sometimes referred to as a "football hold."  The baby's head was in the palm of the dad's hand, with her arms and legs draped on each side of his arm. His other hand was supporting both his own arm, and the infant. The child was upside down, and her eyes were closed and her face couldn't have been more peaceful.

I looked at that photo, and for a split second, I could see the baby without the dad in the photo. "Wow, what an awkward position," I thought. It looked as if the baby was hanging upside down in mid air, with no visible means of support. I immediately "got it."

My Father's love for me was just as attentive, tender, and firmly supportive as that infant's. And He loved, not only me, but our children, grandchildren, global neighbors, strangers, and friends -- with the same kind of tender care. I could close my eyes and rest in the constancy of that love. My life might seem awkward and I might feel as though I am hanging in mid-air -- arms and legs dangling -- but I am not. None of us are. And, at the deepest level, we know it.

We can close our eyes -- and its alright.

Whether you are feeling under-supported, or you just aren't seeing how it will all work out, remember that in the deepest part of yourself, you do trust that there is Something or Someone that will hold you while you rest. At the deepest level, you know that you can:

“close your eyes,
it's alright..."
 

Rest your heart here.

offered with Love,

Kate

"and when I don't belong..."

"and when
I don't belong,
you say
I am Yours..."

Lauren Daigle's "You Say," was the fire that drew me to her side this morning -- as the first snow of the season, fell gently on the last of summer's roses.

Some days I wake up without a sense of belonging in the world. Not just in big abstract ways, but in the details of the day. I look in the refrigerator for something to eat and nothing seems right -- and not just "not right," but foreign. I walk out the front door and I feel detached from the community I have loved and cherished for decades. I feel like a stranger in a strange land.

I have to yield a sense of who I am based on context -- the where I live, who I know, what I do version of my self-- to something invisible and indivisible in me. This lyric from Lauren's song really spoke to me this morning:

“The only thing that matters now
is everything You think of me..."
 

It doesn't feel disorienting or disassociating when I yield to this one "thought of me," but I actually feel more connected, more fully engaged, more at peace with my place in the world. I am able to sit for hours and hours in my office and feel the presence of a community so inclusive and universal that all those feelings of "not belonging" drop away.

As I was pondering this line her song:

“You say I am loved,
when I can't feel a thing..."
 

I realized that it does not feel at all personal for me. How often do we pray that our children, friends, colleagues, neighbors, strangers on the border, or soldiers and refugees in a far away land can actually feel that they are loved -- truly, viscerally loved, deeply held, completely protected and defended.

How many times have I felt empty and bereft of love in my own life? Too often. But no matter how loudly it feels like that emptiness is echoing in the cavity of my longing, it is not true. And I can know it is not true. In fact, I can actually prove that it is not true.

For example: I, myself, am filled with love.  Even though it may not feel that it is coming at me, or towards me -- from someone else at that particular moment -- but it is always radiating from within me. My love for my daughters, my love for beauty, my love for honesty, goodness, innocence. These are always there -- ready to be called up as a reminder that I am not "without love" in my life.  This is consciousness of the presence of Love, is the I AM of divine Being.

Mary Baker Eddy gives us such clear direction in our search for identity, belonging, an invariable sense of who we are in the world -- and how we fit -- when she wrote:

“How shall we reach
our true selves?

Through Love."
 

What God -- divine Love -- says about me, or you, is all that matters. Everything else that might be said about us is lovely -- or not. Whether those voices are from others, or just the false voices that hiss in the night.  Either way, they don't matter.  They can just as easily bring us joy and comfort one minutes -- and the next, drive us to our knees with the weight of insecurity and self-doubt. They are fickle and unreliable sources.

But we are not limited by those voices of admiration -- or dismissal.  We each have the right to ask ourselves, where is this "message" of grandeur or smallness, belonging or emptiness, success or failure, love or fear -- coming from. If God isn't saying it to us -- we can question it.  We can decide to sit with those feelings a little longer, and let them instruct us in compassion, or we can listen more deeply until we hear the voice of divine Love reminding us:

“you are not alone,

what I say about you
is all that matters,
and you are Mine..."
 

It is enough to lift us up, to dissolve our fears, to humble our ambitions, to walk us forward...

offered with Love,

Kate

"this is my Father's world..."

"this is my Father's world,
O, let me ne'er forget:
that, though the wrongs
seem O, so strong,
Love is the Ruler yet..."

Fountain View Academy's beautiful video recording of "This is my Father's World," was just the reminder I needed this morning as yet one more news cycle of "he said, he did..." erupted.

I stood up from where I was working and walked to the back door. Standing on the small deck just off our kitchen, I gazed out at the shifting season splayed across the foothills and in the canyons of our valley -- leaves turning, cooler temperatures, the sun reaching from further south as it warmed the brick pavers in our courtyard, and remembered Mary Baker Eddy's promise:

"All nature teaches
God's love to man."
 

Yes. So what was God telling me about what seemed so confusing. That His government overarches every human choice, decision, mistake, seeming exercise of egoic willpower and self-preservation. All yielding to the power of Love.

As much as we might love one season over another, the sun's position shifts, the temperatures change, the cycles of light bring surrender, release, reclamation, stillness, redemption, renewal. As much as I think that I would love a year of September days, without winter's silence, or spring's rain I would not have the beautiful colors and soft lessons of autumn.

This is my Father's world -- I trust me to His care. I trust my children, my neighbors, my world to His loving governance.

In her "Daily Prayer" from the Manual of the Mother Church, Mary Baker Eddy further encourages:

"Thy kingdom come
let the reign of divine Truth, Life, and Love
be established in me,
and rule out of me all sin;
and may Thy Word enrich the affection
of all mankind, and govern them." 

This is not just a prayer, but a promise. God's Word is speaking in each human heart, enriching everyone's affections for good, for honesty, for humility, for integrity, for grace -- and for governing them. Each of them. Each of us.

This law of God's invariable Love and His sovereign government is impartial and universal. We can trust this with our whole hearts.  No one - no matter how well-positioned -can "go rogue," in the face of His omnipotence -- anymore than a single leaf can decide to not turn to the Sun's light, or a single stone can resist the silent, but irresistible, hold of gravity.

I needed this reminder. It brings me peace today.


offered with Love,

Kate

"have mercy on the traveler..."

"Lord, make soft
the stranger's bed;

rest the weary feet
see the mother,
see the father
see the child,
have mercy on the traveler..."

This summer I've been a traveler. Thousands of miles. Tonight, as I think about beginning my long journey home, Sara Groves song touches me deeply. If you haven't heard  "Jesus, See the Traveler,"  I hope you will take a moment to hear this prayer.

Jesus saw the traveler. He was with them on the road.  Not the Pharaoh carried by slaves in a livery. Not the King in a golden coach.  Not the soldier high in the saddle on a noble horse. No, he spoke to, and of, the stranger in a strange land. The son who wanders from the security of his father's home. The Levite who is robbed on the road and left for half dead until another stranger - a  Samaritan - binds up his wounds. The Canaanite woman who brings her daughter to a strange land for healing.  And he is a stranger who asks for water in a foreign village.

He ministers to the ten lepers he meets on the road. He, himself, a traveler - from city-to-city - preaching the gospel of the kingdom. A stranger, a wanderer, a man in exile, an errant son, an immigrant, a border crosser - these were his people.

When I was preparing to leave home for my own 7 week journey this summer, I was not fleeing anything but familiarity and routine.  But still, I was wakeful for nights learning up to my departure.  Was my car sound enough for such a long drive?  Would our pups think I'd disappeared?  Would my children feel that I'd gone "on holiday," when they were working so hard.  Was I being fair asking my husband to take on my household chores in addition to his own? What if I broke down on the highway? Where would I sleep in the middle of the night?

Knowing that I am an intelligent woman with a car, a credit card, and a love for road trips - you might think that these are silly concerns. But they were insinuating themselves aggressively. I had my car trip-checked my our mechanic twice within a two week period. I called my credit card company and back to let them know exactly what states I would be driving through so that my cards would not be rejected.

And then I thought of the many refugees and asylum seekers who are may be fleeing hostile countries with small children -- and I wept. I had so many resources, and still I was anxious. How must it feel to leave all that is familiar with just what you could carry, with children needing your assistance?

I remember when the girls were little and we would drive from the Midwest to camp each summer. I would get tired and need to rest. I would pull into a rest area and because it was often quite warm -- even at night -- I would leave the car running and tell the girls that "mommy just needs to closer her eyes for a minute" -- but I couldn't rest. I worried that somehow the car would engage into gear and start rolling. I would fret that the girls would figure out how to open their doors -- even though I had the child locks set. I worried about how to keep them safe while I rested. I was not a mother with a baby on her back crossing the desert. I was in a luxury SUV with air=conditioning, snacks, movies, and child locks.

I sorely felt my privilege in the context of their circumstances. How could I be anxious? Yet, I was. However, it was what we had in common that finally brought me peace. Each and every one of us -- as travelers -- has the same, "God with us."

And we have the example of the ultimate spiritual traveler. A man who carried no credit card -- or even a scrip for holding resources, gathering victuals, or saving something for later. This traveler knew that whether he was crossing the wilderness, sleeping in the desert, or navigating a storm-tossed sea, His Father was with him. Paving the way, providing what he needed, comforting him in the night, bringing him to a place of rest.

He had hundreds of precedent setting cases of spiritual trust to refer to. He knew the story of Moses parting the Red Sea, of Hagar finding water flowing from a rock, and the prophet's promise that there would be streams in the desert. He trusted that his Father loved him, just as much as he loved Moses, and Elijah, and Joseph, and Abraham, and...

As I prepare for the next leg of this journey, I am following him into a deeper trust. This passage from Mary Baker Eddy's Science and health with Key to the Scriptures is a traveler's prayer:

"As the children of Israel were guided triumphantly through the Red Sea, the dark ebbing and flowing tides of human fear, — as they were led through the wilderness, walking wearily through the great desert of human hopes, and anticipating the promised joy, — so shall the spiritual idea guide all right desires in their passage from sense to Soul, from a material sense of existence to the spiritual, up to the glory prepared for them who love God. Stately Science pauses not, but moves before them, a pillar of cloud by day and of fire by night, leading to divine heights."

Whether your summer travels are finished, still in progress, or ready to begin again; -- I pray you feel God's presence guiding you and guarding your every step, mile, boarder-crossing.

offered with Love,

Cate 

believe me when I say, "I will..."

"I know you're feeling overwhelmed,
before the day even begins;
but I can see beyond the now,
this is not how your story ends.

I will hold you when you're breaking,
like a Father and a friend;
and I will carry you through darkness,
till we see the sun agin.

So rest your head and cry your tears,
know that I am with you here.
When you can't lift that weight,
believe me when I say,
I will..."

Just when I thought it would be a while before I posted a new song, Citizen Way's beautiful,  "I Will" found its way onto my playlist. I had never heard of them before, but you can be sure I will be looking for their music again.

My spiritual sea legs are pretty solid. These past couple of years have strengthened them. Everyday there seems to be some news that crashes into my peace, and I have learned how to bend my knees, dig my toes in to the sand, and stay upright.

At the root of that resolve is this one passage of Scripture:

"Fear not, I am with thee..."

Day after day, it is enough. Night after night, it is enough. On a recent cross country road trip, it was enough. Whether I was facing a threatening black-clouded storm on an empty Kansas highway, or resting for a few hours in a rural rest area -- I was not alone. And I felt it. Deeply. This sense of being "with the Father," is tangible for me.

And not just for me, but for my sense of my children's safety. For my grandchildren's guidance as they navigate summer school or play choices. I turn to it when my heart is breaking for mothers in Syria, or children on the border in detention centers. It is my everything.

The presence of God's love is not intellectual, it is experiential. It is as real for me as is the invisible breath of a summer breeze rippling the surface of a long lake. Or the catch in my thought as I watch a horse and rider execute a perfect barrel turn. It is in the presence of love and the power of prayer.

God is constantly saying to each of us -- with every sunrise -- "believe me when I say, I will."

offered with Love,

Kate

"do something you've never done..."

"if you want something
you've never had,
you must do something
you've never done..."

This post might be the beginning of a new freedom for me. For the past 14 years I have been contributing to this blog. At first it was 3 times a week -- religiously. Each post included a song that had somehow served as a healing catalyst in/on my own spiritual journey.

At about year five, I gave myself permission to post, "only when the spirit moved." That meant that in some weeks I posted three or four times, and in others not so much. But always with a song. If you have read this blog for the past 14 years, you know that I have listened to, and prayed with, a lot of songs. Some of them have re-surfaced over and over again.

A few years ago, my postings became more and more infrequent. Not because I was having fewer experiences, but I just wasn't feeling as song-driven. And the thought of posting without a song as the keynote, just didn't feel like an option. So I rarely posted.

But today, I am giving myself permission to just post without it being perfectly formatted. I don't have to have the right song, or a couple of the right quotes from my primary sources -- the Bible, Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, and the other writings of Mary Baker Eddy. You can be assured that those sources are always standing right behind every experience that is shared.

This blog still has, as it's primary purpose, to "speak from experience," and to assure readers that "you are not alone." That has been the purpose of this blog from day one -- June 5, 2005. It is still its reason for being.

Some days there will be songs, some days there will be quotes. Some posts will just be "just the facts" of what I thought or experienced. I will try to write more frequently.

Today's post is all about doing something I've never done:

If you know me, you know that I am someone who loves routines. I love sameness. I have long held close the definition of "still," that sings of this nevertheless-ness. I am still a girl who loves a uniform. I am still the woman who eats dark chocolate for breakfast. I still use the same moisturizer I have used for decades. I still think of myself as a Colorado girl.

Of course I inhabit the words: still and stillness, for their motionless, silent, unruffled characteristics. But I have taken great comfort in the changeless nature of my spiritual name: Stillwater. If there is a word that most characterizes my sense of my nature, it is "stillness." I am very reliable. I am most myself in the quiet, motionless, changeless place of who I am.

So, for me to do something different -- well, that's such a stretch that it feels unfathomable when invitations come.

but I have learned that, for me, it is only when Love invites me into a new space, that I am able to take even the tiniest step in that direction.

For example, when my daughter was living in south Africa, I was willing to board 19 hour flights over the ocean to spend time with her. When my church asked me to do something I had never done, I found myself launching into new waters without hesitation.  The examples are many.

Earlier this year, a dear friend and colleague asked me to consider a different kind of summer. Since I love him, and the work that we share, I was willing.  So, here I am, on an adventure that - to others - may seem quite tame. But for me, it represents all that is wild and unknown. It is asking me to suspend my need to know, my need for the familiar, my hunger for being comfortable in "my own skin," or in this case, my own clothing. And trust.

So how am I reconciling this with my sense of who I am. Still water. I am still trusting Love. I am still when the winds of change seem to be tearing the tattered, worn out garments of how I see myself away from the dry bones of a lifetime of being comfortable with my surroundings and the people I know. I am still in the knowledge that though the faces and places may be unfamiliar, the work is ever the same.

I'll keep you posted. But for now, I am feeling like my youngest niece who will have her sleep-over camp experience tonight under a starry Maine sky, with the lapping waters of Long Lake and the call of loons. We will be more alike than different even though we span 60-ish years of bookending our family.

with my love -- and Hers...

Kate

"i have a Voice inside of me..."

"I have a voice,
simple and clear;
it speaks the Truth,
for all to hear..."

This afternoon someone posted Kinard Middle School's video of their student choir singing  "I Have a Voice." It moved me deeply.

It speaks to me of a prayer from my own faith tradition -- Christian Science. It is a short prayer that the founder of Christian Science, Mary Baker Eddy, included in The Manual of the Mother Church -- a document that helps members of her church self-govern. It is called "The Daily Prayer," -- and it reads:

"Thy kingdom come
let the reign of divine Truth, Life, and Love
be stablished in me, and rule out of me all sin,
and may Thy Word enrich the affections
of all mankind and govern them."

This prayer is fundamental to my own spiritual practice. I don't just pray with it daily, but many times throughout the day. It it a prayer of guidance. And it is a prayer of promise.

This song, "I Have a Voice [here is a link to the Broadway Kids performance]"  affirms the last line in the Daily Prayer, which reads:

"...and may Thy Word
enrich the affections
of all mankind
and govern them."

Throughout the day, when I hear reports of contention, discord, or disappointment -- I return to this prayer. I trust its message. We all have this Voice speaking within ourselves. No one is left operating in a vacuum. This Voice guides us, corrects us, assures and comforts us. Nothing can silence it. No one can interfere with it, or take it from us.  I trust its presence.  I trust its power to reach each of us -- right where we are.  We only need to be still.  And in this stillness we hear the Voice - and know.  We just know.  We know what is good.  We know what is true.  We know what we love.

From the tiniest baby to the centenarian, we all have this Voice within us. My children and grandchildren have this voice speaking to them as they navigate college, work, school, home, sports. Our neighbors, colleagues, friends and world leaders have this same Voice speaking to them.

I trust this.

It gives me hope.

offered with Love,

Kate

"what if..."

"What if I gave everything?
What if I stopped holding back from You?

Starting now,
I'm stepping out onto deeper waters

Ready to give everything..."

Casting Crowns' "What If I Gave Everything," reminded me of something I heard at a recent gathering of spiritual thinkers and healers.

In referring to lessons learned over the past year, one participant shared that -- like most of us -- they'd been buffeted by "what ifs.." I was silently nodding my head in agreement.  "Me too," I thought.

However, it was what they shared next that has stayed with me since that day. They said that they realized that it was an opportunity to ask some very different "what if" questions. Questions like: "What if I prayed?" Or, "What if I listened to God?"

I loved this.  It is a reclaiming of "what if" for God. Instead of the insidious voice of darkness hissing, "Yes, but what if you fall off this cliff? What if you never find your wallet?" Or, "What if this spot on my body means something?" 

We can immediately turn these "what ifs" around and ask ourselves, "What if God is All-in-all, as the Scriptures promise?" "What if I just take a moment to be still and recall all the ways that God has cared for my family?"

In Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, Mary Baker Eddy reminds us that:

"The starting-point of divine Science
is that God, Spirit, is All-in-all,
and that there is no other might nor Mind,
— that God is Love,
and therefore He is divine Principle."

This happens to be one of my favorite statements. Especially her use of the word "might." Might doesn't just mean power or strength, but also possibility. What might happen. What might be true. Eddy promises us that in divine Science -- or in the science of God's allness -- there is no other possibility, than that which is consistent with God's All-in-allness.

We can return to this "starting point" over and over again throughout our day.  This statement takes all the hypothetical possibilities, all the speculative theories, and all of the "what ifs" about what "might" be true - or happening at any given moment, and puts them right where they belong: "in the hands of God, in the keeping of Spirit."  In fact, on page 521 of Science and Health Eddy clearly states:

"All that is made is the work of God,
and all is good. We leave this brief,
glorious history of spiritual creation
(as stated in the first chapter of Genesis)
in the hands of God, not of man,
in the keeping of Spirit, not matter,
joyfully acknowledging now and forever
God's supremacy, omnipotence, and omnipresence."

Next time the dark voices begin to taunt you with their "what ifs," turn them around -- with confidence.  Ask yourself, "What if I trusted God supremely?" Or, "What if this moment is really just my opportunity to step into deeper waters, and be held in the buoying arms of divine Love?" And when you answer, answer with your whole heart. You may find that those bullying taunts simply turn tail and run -- scurrying into their dark native nothingness when questioned in the light of your love for God.

offered with Love,

Kate

"to love mercy..."

"wonderful,
merciful Savior;
precious redeemer,
and friend..."

Sometimes I listen to Selah's, "Wonderful, Merciful Savior"  just to remember how expansive God's love is - and to give thanks.

For so much of my life, I seemed to live from mistake-to-mistake. It was never intentional. But it did seem to be the path I walked.

When I returned to the study and practice of Christian Science, I was so grateful for this passage from the book of Micah:

"He hath shewed thee,
O man, what is good;
and what doth the Lord
require of thee,
but to do justly,
and to love mercy,
and to walk humbly with thy God..."

I loved these clear and simple instructions. I could do this. But it was the "love mercy," part that felt like a bit of a "no-brainer" to me. Who didn't "love mercy?" Why would that be a requirement. It seemed so natural.

That was until the first time I wasn't the biggest mistake-maker in the room. It happened. It was a small injustice. But I felt it, and I was a bit [okay, more than a bit] self-righteous about the other person's misstep. Shouldn't there be consequences, repercussions? But no, there was mercy.  There was leniency.  Really?

Thank goodness for the Weekly Bible Lesson outlined in the Christian Science Quarterly. That week's collection of citations from Scripture, and from Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures by Mary Baker Eddy included the above-referenced spiritual instruction from the book of Micah. 

Reading it -- in the context of my self-righteous indignation about the other person's mistake -- I finally "got it."  It was easy to love mercy, when you were the person being shown mercy. But what about the mercy that is being shown to another.  What about the need for real consequences when a mistake has been made? That is when loving mercy, is not as easy.

In these times of "he said, she said," and deep polarization -- with accusations flying like flaming arrows in the battle scene from Braveheart -- it is always easy to see another's mistakes.  And it is even easier to feel indignant.  Especially when the guy on the other side seems to be shown what we deem is unmerited forgiveness or leniency.  Sometimes we feel even further wronged by what we perceive as a failure to impose an appropriate consequence.

These are the moments when the injunction to "love mercy" becomes a rigorous spiritual imperative. It requires the exercise of our utmost trust in divine Love.  In Its overarching justice, oversight, and correction -- according to the operation of Principle -- not our personal sense of right and wrong.

To love mercy is to trust that our Father-Mother God has "got this." This summer, I walked straight into the fire of my own past mistakes. This passage from Mary Baker Eddy's autobiography, Retrospection and Introspection, perfectly describes that chasm of self-sorrow:

"Into mortal mind's material obliquity 
I gazed, and stood abashed. 
Blanched was the cheek of pride. "

It wasn't the past mistakes of a young girl that I saw in this obliquity of self. But the pride, self-righteousness, and self-certainty of a woman who had lost sight of what it meant to live in a state of "constant self-immolation," as Eddy suggests.

But rather than look for someone else's mistakes to focus on,  I didn't look away. I gazed into that space of self-examination with a deep trust in divine Love's ability to mercifully correct and restore Her child's innocence and humility. And that is when the remainder of that paragraph, from Retrospection and Introspection, came alive for me:

"My heart bent low before the omnipotence of Spirit, and a tint of humility, soft as the heart of a moonbeam, mantled the earth. Bethlehem and Bethany, Gethsemane and Calvary, spoke to my chastened sense as by the tearful lips of a babe. Frozen fountains were unsealed. Erudite systems of philosophy and religion melted, for Love unveiled the healing promise and potency of a present spiritual afflatus. 

It was the gospel of healing, on its divinely appointed human mission, bearing on its white wings, to my apprehension, “the beauty of holiness,” — even the possibilities of spiritual insight, knowledge, and being."

Here was the mercy and redemption that brought hope, promise, and purpose. This was the Love that silenced self-hate. The Truth that vanquished error. The Soul that leaves us feeling worthy of our work, not relieved from duty.

I think I will leave this here. Let us strive to not only do what is good, and walk humbly, but to truly love mercy. Love it for everyone. Love it with all of our trust.  Our trust in the Source of its power -- Love.  It is Love's province, to redeem and reform.

offered with Love,

Kate

"Thy will be done..."

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

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

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

Thy will be done..."

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

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

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

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

"Thy will be done."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Over and over again, I came back to:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


offered with Love,

Kate

"what we hold gently...."

"We have come to believe
there's hidden good in common things,
You can't always tell
but sometimes you just know..."

The connection between Carrie Newcomer's beautiful song, "Geode," and this post may not be easy to recognize. But there is something about knowing what to hold firmly, and what to hold gently, that celebrates the remarkable, in the common for me. The hidden promise, found in the familiar.

One of our oldest traditions at the Adventure Unlimited Ranches is a practice we call, "Alone with Your Thoughts." Once, during every two week summer session, campers of all ages gather around the fire ring. The Ranch Director shares remarks offered as a springboard for inspiration. Then, she tells the story of camp founder, Cap Andrews' time on a submarine during World War II.

This activity, held at dusk, is deeply meaningful for me. Cap's practice of spending time alone on the deck of a submarine - in the middle of the Pacific Ocean - inspired his dream of founding a camp to, in his words, "teach boys to appreciate God, and learn how to turn to Him in prayer."

Cap's story begins with a night alone in the dark. What started as a desire to consciously focus on God without any distractions, became a lifelong journey towards longer and longer periods of time in quiet contemplation of the divine. 

After the Ranch Director shares her own message and tells Cap's story, campers and staff are invited to find a quiet spot in nature and silently listen for inspiration.  No books, no media, no conversation -- just an hour alone with your own thoughts.

I've heard Cap's story scores of times over the years, and it always inspires me. I've heard many Ranch Directors share their inspiration and I've taken away something special from each of them. But there is one that stands out to me -- above all the rest. And it is an idea that I find myself turning to often.

It was Ranch Director, Alison Peticolas', first summer in her new role. It had been her first year making the final hiring decisions and job offers. In late winter she felt she had assembled a wonderful team of camp directors, program heads, and counselors. But by Spring it looked as if her perfect teams was falling apart. Family demands, internships, and financial needs started whittling away at the teams' shape.

As she returned to the drawing board,  she said that it was hard.  She felt as if she'd already had a perfect team in place, and it was difficult to let go of that plan. One day, as she was praying about the situation it came to her that she needed to be clear about what she needed to be holding firmly, and what she could hold more gently.

For example, it was right for the Whitewater Rafting Program Head to be an experienced boater, have demonstrated leadership skills, be awareness of safety laws, show compassion for campers, be organized, etc. Those were the things she could hold firmly as she explored new candidates. Whether it was a particular guy or gal, their number of years of experience, camp history, etc. -- those where the things she could hold gently.

She told us that from that moment on, she approached the hiring process with less anxiety and greater expectations. And every position was filled perfectly.

I think about this often in my life. What are the things I hold firmly as I make plans, consider choices, or frame expectations. Am I holding -- too firmly -- the things that are not essential? Or am I willing to be dispossessed of my certainties about what is "perfect," and discover a solution that is inspired.

Recently, I felt I had a very clear sense of how I thought things should work out in a particular situation. I found myself getting tense when it didn't seem to be unfolding in the way that I thought it should. That was when I was reminded of Alison's talk. It brought me back into alignment.

I remembered to ask myself, "what do I needed to hold firmly?" That was clear -- God is good, His power is unquestionable, and my purpose is to serve Him. And I also remembered to ask what I needed to hold gently -- the who, what, where, when and how of the outcomes. It was such a small adjustment. But it was enough. A situation that seemed complex and fraught with detours, fell into place in wonderful new ways -- ways I couldn't have even imagined.

Geodes are actually like that. On the outside they appear as muddy-colored, almost insignificant round rocks. There's just no drama to them. They are often buried in quarries or ravines, and overlooked by rock hunters looking for the obvious. But tapped with a small hammer and "voila!" a hidden crystal world opens up to you. By holding firmly all that is spiritually essential in our hearts and tapping into the changelessness of what is deeply constant -- while holding gently the details that are unfolding before us, we often find new perspectives, solutions, pathways that are more brilliant than anything we could have imagined.

For many years, Alone with Your Thoughts has enriched my spiritual practice with new inspiration, peace of mind, and a deepening trust in the divine. It's not a flashy practice, but quiet, modest, and without drama. But this quiet time with God has become as natural to me as breathing. I am grateful for Alison's humble and inspired sharing each summer. And tonight, I am simply grateful for this particular lesson about what to hold -- firmly and gently.


offered with Love,

Kate

"i'm barely breathing…"

"I'm falling apart,
I'm barely breathing,
with a broken heart,
that's still beating..."

I can't hear Lifehouse's "Broken," without remembering.

It's been almost two decades now, but the moment is seared on my fingertips. The pattern of the damask on the love seat where I was sitting that day burned into my flesh. The light coming through the mullioned panes in the bay window. The fragrance of steam rising from the teacup poised at my lips.

This was the setting for my "crisis of faith."  You see, if there was one thing I'd been sure of -- my entire childhood -- it was that I would do anything for my family. I would allow myself to be shattered into a million pieces, if it would hold us all together. And I was convinced, that I had done, just that. I was sure that, because I had put my love for my family before everything else, I was heeding the voice of an overarching universal Love.  For in this place of loving them most,  I felt detached from the suffering, the sadness, the loneliness of it all.

But that day, almost 30 years after the suffering had subsided, I heard words I never imagined, "you know, I really never felt that I loved you as a child…"

How could that be. How could I have sacrificed everything for someone who could blithely admit that I'd never been loved -- much less, appreciated for all I'd gone through. I felt betrayed. Not by this person who was so oblivious to the fissure she'd set off in the fragile shell of my heart, but by God.

How could God have let me suffer so persistently, when the one I was devoted to helping, didn't even love me. It was more than I could bear. I felt as if I could actually feel the small cracks inside tear through my being. I wondered if I would survive the moment without going insane. Madness insinuated itself at every turn. The fight I'd waged against disassociation for most of my life, was taking me down for the count.  It seemed likely that this battle was on the verge of ending -- with me in a straightjacket.

For so many years, I'd survived by holding on to the promise that God loved me, and that even if I couldn't understand the reason for my circumstances, I could cling to the hope that the love that I had for my family was more than enough evidence of God's presence in my life, to keep me safe and sane.

The days that followed this careless moment of confession were surreal. I wandered through my days in a haze of "just keep it together, Kate. Don't let anyone know you are losing your mind. You have children, you have a career, you have responsibilities. You can do this, you did it as a girl, you can do it now." But I couldn't. As a girl, I'd had God. I'd held on to the promise of spiritual purpose. Without God, I had nothing.

As the madness descended, I disappeared. I hid in my work, I escaped into a closet where darkness was a friend and the voices that hissed, "you were never loved…" were somewhat drowned out by the sound of silence. I wept for the death of hope. I mourned the loss of my one truth -- I'd been loved, it had all been for a divine purpose.

One of our neighbors was a grief counselor, and although I didn't feel comfortable pouring out my whole miserable life story to her, I found myself wandering over for tea -- often. I needed to know that someone out there cared about those of us who felt bereft and completely lost in sadness.

I listened intently as she talked about the books she was reading, the exercises she used to help her clients heal, the messages that made a difference. But nothing was finding its way through the sharp cracks in my heart, and reaching the soft flesh of my pain.

Then one day, while sitting in my dark little closet under the eaves -- and yes, it really was a closet. I felt something begin to rustle in my heart. It was like the light I was hoping would reach in through the cracks from without, was pouring out through them from within. There was a warm feeling of love, a soft light, radiating outward. It burnished the edges of each fissure and caused them to glow like fire-touched shards of ancient pottery.

All the hope I had for being healed by a system, a person, a message of comfort was obscured by the power of this inner surety -- I had been loved by God. A clear knowing that I was, in those moments of crucifixion, the very love of God being shown to my family -- regardless of what they thought, saw, or felt about me.

The fissures in my heart became the windows of my soul. I was not hiding in the dark, waiting for the light of day to stave off the madness, I was the light. I was not the shattered shell.  I was the inner light -- the divine magna -- bursting forth from within.

My crisis of faith was over. I knew that nothing could ever -- again -- deprive me of who I was. I was not the object of love. I was not a child hoping, waiting, praying to be loved. I was the very love of Love. This had always been my purpose, my identity, my life -- all along.

I had not let go.  I had held on long enough. I had not lost my faith in God. I had found a new sense of who I was in relation to God. My love for God and my trust in His love for me, was never going to be a guarantee that I would feel loved by others.  Nor would it justify the sacrifices made. My love for God and his love for me was enough. It was, in fact, everything. It always had been, and now, it always would be.

Every time I read this statement from Mary Baker Eddy's Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, I smile. I had long thought that if God loved me, I would find a place where there were no disappointments or woes. But I have since discovered that this is exactly where my most profound spiritual discoveries actually have their beginnings:

"Our disappointments
and ceaseless woes,
turn us like tired children
to the arms of divine Love,
then we begin to learn life
in divine Science."
 

My "crisis of faith" was not an interruption of my love for God, my faith in His omnipotent goodness, or my trust in his care. It was actually the beginning of a higher and deeper understanding of how invulnerable my relationship to Love, and my purpose as Love's reflection, is.

I remember, some years ago -- after having this experience -- hearing of Mother Teresa's crisis of faith.  I understood.  It is possible to love God supremely, to give your life to His service and the care of his children, and still be shattered by the suffering in the world - your own or that of others.  But it is this breaking open of the heart, that allows compassion to pour out with with greater understanding.

And I -- for one -- am grateful for every opportunity to draw closer to Him.

offered with Love and profound gratitude,
Kate

"i have this hope…"

"I have this hope,
in the depth of my soul,
in the flood or the fire
you're with me,
and you won't let go..."

When I have a deep hunger for spiritual understanding, and words alone feel one dimensional, I retreat to songs. There is something about the marriage of music and lyrics that gives life to my longing. Tenth Avenue North is one of my go-to bands. And recently it was their, "I Have This Hope," that met me right where I was, and walked me forward out of darkness.

I needed a reminder. The inner critic was persistent. It insisted that I was on the verge of letting everyone down. That even my best, just wasn't good enough. It was all up to me, and I was failing.

I had been reading for days. Turning to Scripture and the writings of Mary Baker Eddy for guidance in my search for a way out of the swift spiral I found myself drowning in. There were dozens of pointers, but nothing was penetrating the atrophy of human thinking, and reaching my heart.

That's when I turned to song. I pulled up a window on my browser and found the link to Youtube that I have bookmarked. I didn't know what I was searching for, just knew that I needed something. Tenth Avenue North, Casting Crowns, Sara Groves, and Chris Tomlin are all inspirational singer-songwriters who have never let me down. Their songs spring from a deep love for God and an honest understanding of the human experience. It was what I needed.

I love the word "hope," and so I typed in Tenth Avenue North and hope in the search field and their recording of "I Have This Hope," came up. I clicked on the window and sat back. It was just what I needed. A reminder that I was not letting anyone down, because it was not my job to hold anyone up. Even myself. That was God's job. I was dishonoring Him by thinking that he was not here, with me, and with them.

It brought me back to a fundamental spiritual promise that I'd lost sight of. One that fills Scripture and generously peppers the writings of Mary Baker Eddy and countless other spiritual thought-leaders. It answered the hope-cry in the depth of my soul:

"Lo, I am with you alway..." 

This was enough to begin to free me from fear, self-doubt, worry, loneliness, flood or fire, triumph or terror. How did I forget? How do we ever forget? Doesn't every worrisome claim boil down to this one lie about God -- that He is absent from our lives, or the lives of our loved ones, neighbors, and local, national or global leaders?

It didn't take long to say I was sorry to God. To remember that my love for Him was best expressed by my trust in His love. It was never about me or my abilities. It was always about God's nature and my trust in His unwavering care for His creation. My heart broke wide open with love for God's mercy.

As Tenth Avenue North sings,

"I don't want to live in fear
I want to trust that you are near..." 

I don't want to trust God as a means to an end, but as the very "end" itself. To be so completely at peace in an abiding trust that God is near -- in flood or in fire -- that the voices of doom and doubt cease to have any information for me.   Or as Paul writes in Hebrews:

"Now faith is the substance
of things hoped for,
the evidence of things
not seen..." 

Faith, translated from the original Aramaeic is "trust." This is the substance of my greatest hope: to trust God. This is the evidence I am seeking -- in myself -- moment-by-moment. A trust that isn't just tapping her foot impatiently and saying, "hey, I trust You, so where's the evidence?" But a trust that rests -- like a small child -- in the peace which passeth all understanding. A trust that is beyond the human need to understand how God's love will manifest itself. A childlike trust that yields to the love of its divine Parent.

It is enough. No, I don't know how some of the questions and concerns that I am facing will be answered. I don't have a plan, a strategy, or a solution that is giving me peace. Those may give momentary relief from worry, but they will never give me an enduring peace. And I want what is enduring, eternal. I find this only when I am resting in this truth that:

"The Lord is with me..." 

As I said, this trust is enough. It is all the evidence I need. I may not understand how everything will work out. But I do know that this trust is the substance of all my hopes -- for all of us. May you feel like a child who trusts that your Father-Mother God is always with you -- in tear or triumph. I have this hope.


offered with Love,

Kate