"the cost of freedom…"

"Find the cost
of freedom,
buried in the ground..."

I need to forewarn regular readers -- I don't know where this is going.  I only know that I have to write it while my heart is still broken wide open, and the words can find their way out on the crest of a tear.  That said...

I love to disappear most days, and have breakfast at a small cafe. I like to sit at a small table and read, journal, listen, and sometimes I am gifted with a conversation with a stranger -- or two. Today was one of those days. A lovely couple sat down at the table next to mine, and wished me a good morning. I noticed immediately that he was wearing a cap with a Vietnam Veteran's insignia on it.

While they waited for their breakfast, they asked if I was a local -- I never get tired of answering that question with a resounding "yes!" And then I learned that we'd all graduated from high school about the same time, and that they were both veterans.

We talked about "those times." The 60s and 70s, Vietnam, Nixon, the draft, sit-ins, Woodstock and such. I smiled at the serendipity of it all. Only the night before, I'd been on a magical musical journey that had started with new group, Darlingside's cover of Joni Mitchell's "Woodstock,"and meandered through the protest songs of Neil Young and Buffalo Springfield, before turning onto the shadowed path of Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young's "The Cost of Freedom."

What had started out as a sunny trip down memory lane, quickly turned dark.  It has stirred up very fallow ground. I lay awake, praying through the night for my own freedom from an overwhelming sense of sadness about those days. They'd left their mark on my heart. 

I knew that gratitude for good was my only hope of salvaging those songs and the youthful memories they resurrected in me.   I searched my "soul" for moments of nobility, grace, dignity, and honor from that time, that I could  be grateful for. And I found many. When I finally rested -- just before dawn -- I was resting upon the good I'd seen and experienced, rather than from the tragedies I'd been haunted by only hours earlier.

So, I was prepared when, what had started out as a simple conversation between strangers, turned into a deeply meaningful discussion about healing, and veterans, and war. My new friends shared with me that they'd recently driven across country and had stayed at a hotel near Kent State University. She said, with tears in her eyes, that she'd had those ominous, repetitive words "four dead in Ohio," from Neil Young's "Ohio" in her head, from the minute she saw the Kent State sign.

My heart seemed to melt into hers at the thought of these two precious veterans -- who had given their service to our country, during one of the most difficult times in the history of our nation -- facing that kind of inner conflict. Here we were, the Vietnam war protestor and the veterans -- and I prayed that we might find healing in one another's company 45 years later. And, I think we did.

We talked about the power of Love to bring people together. We talked about how his re-entry into American culture following his discharge was devastating, until he took time to return to nature. We talked about the importance of working with animals, plants, and the land, in returning a sense of humanity to those who had witnessed -- or been made to participate in -- inhumane acts of war.

And we talked about family. About the inner call to redemption. About a time that was fraught with confusion, with the hunger for connection, and with humanity's insatiable need for forgiveness, understanding, and redemption.

Our checks came, we paid, rose, and reached for one another to shake hands -- and to embrace. I couldn't help but feel somehow that we'd been given that hour in one another's company, as a gift of grace. The war protestor and the veteran. I was saddened by what it must have been like for her to lie on a hotel bed and hear, over and over again, the words to a song I'd sung loudly during the summer of 1970:

"four dead in Ohio,
four dead in Ohio...." 

My heart weeps for them. And for all of us. We were just children facing questions we were ill-prepared for. We were raised by "the greatest generation," on a wonderful diet of patriotism, dignity, and service. But we were not equipped for watching our brothers, boyfriends, and classmates drafted right out of high school. We were not ready for the pain of attending memorial services for our peers. We couldn't process knowing 18 year old widows. 

How does one go from watching after school cartoons to war footage on the evening news? From singing songs about wearing flowers in our hair, to laying flowers on the graves of boys we'd had crushes on? How did they go from throwing footballs to throwing grenades?  We were confused. We were frightened. We were angry.  We took it out on one another. I am sorry -- deeply sorry.

I only pray that we can be the generation that is not afraid to redeem ourselves by learning from the lessons of the past. That we can be known for bringing unity, compassion, and dignity to our own returning sons and daughters -- while still honoring the sensibilities of those who oppose global oppression, but without military engagement.

I can't help but think of Mary Baker Eddy's beautiful promise in Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures:

"One infinite God, good,
unifies men and nations;
constitutes the brotherhood of man;
ends wars; fulfils the Scripture,
“Love thy neighbor as thyself;”
annihilates pagan and Christian idolatry, 
— whatever is wrong in social, civil,
criminal, political, and religious codes;
equalizes the sexes; annuls the curse on man,
and leaves nothing that can sin, suffer,
be punished or destroyed."
 

We must have compassion for one another. Love doesn't have sides. Love doesn't pull us apart, but draws us together where we can work together, deepen our humanity, and find solutions.

offered with Love,

Kate

"not even that far…"

"stop,
in the name
of Love.."

I woke up that morning in great pain -- again. But also with The Supremes 1965 hit single "Stop, in the Name of Love," playing in an an endless loop.  Yes!  Perfect. That was exactly what I wanted.  No,  it was what I needed -- for it to just stop.

It had been going on for way too long and I was tired, discouraged, and ready to be free. I had children to care for, calls to take, a community to support. I wanted to be purposeful and free to serve.

As I lay there in the silence of pre-dawn, I asked God what I needed to understand. What shift in my thinking needed to take place? What Truth was already present and graspable? I stilled the chatter of human thinking, and just listened.

The first thought that came was:

"Thus far,
and no father..." 

I let that inspiration -- that angel message -- seep in slowly and find its ground. And because I was feeling very confident about this Michael-like spiritual assertiveness, I was a bit surprised when Gabriel gently whispered:

"not even that far." 

In Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, Mary Baker Eddy defines angels as:

"God's thoughts passing to man,
spiritual intuitions, pure and perfect;
the inspirations of goodness, purity and immortality,
counteracting all evil, sensuality, and mortality." 

And then she defines two different types of angels - Michael and Gabriel - thus:

"Michael's characteristic is spiritual strength.

Gabriel has the more quiet task of imparting a sense of the ever-presence of ministering Love.

These angels deliver us from the depths.

The Gabriel of His presence has no contests. To infinite ever-present Love, all is Love, and there is no error, no sin, sickness, nor death."
 

Michael had been helping me hold the line, but Gabriel pulled me back from the battle. I had been wanting the pain to stop and was ready to go to war.  But what I needed to understand, was that the pain had never started.

Just as in coming out of a dream, when I woke up to this fact I no longer had a battle to wage. God had never left me vulnerable to injury, disease, or fear. God's presence had been continuous.

I could see this truth so clearly when I realized that I had never stopped loving my daughters. And because I knew that I could never have created that love myself, it was the perfect indicator that a divine power was always at hand - and at work - in my heart. God presence had been perpetual and persistent. That was enough.

I was now awake to the ever-presence of God -- of Love. The pain dissipated in the same way that the terror we feel in a dream disappears when we awaken from the dream. Just as darkness cannot survive in the presence of light, pain couldn't exist - even for an instant - in the atmosphere of Love.

In Pulpit and Press, Mary Baker Eddy reminds us of Jesus' promise:

"The kingdom of God is within you.”
"Know, then, that you possess sovereign power
to think and act rightly, and that nothing
can dispossess you of this heritage
and trespass on Love." 

We are not the gatekeepers, Love is. We aren't in the business of kicking pain out of the temple, Love maintains an environment where pain cannot breathe, cannot gain purchase, cannot survive.

I did not need the pain to stop, I needed to understand that it never started. God had never left me. His ever-present ministering Love had no contests. He doesn't win the war, there is no war.

with all my love -- and with Love,

Kate

"Dust in the wind..."

"I close my eyes,
only for a moment,
and the moment's gone

All my dreams,
pass before my eyes,
a curiosity

Dust in the wind,
all they are is dust in the wind...."

The actual sound of, and the lyrics to, Kansas' "Dust in the Wind," always make me want to cry softly in my pillow for something I can't quite put my finger on.  But, it was the first song that tiptoed across my heart when, a few weeks ago, I found this statement, by Anne Frank, scribbled on a piece of notebook paper in an old journal:

"I have one outstanding trait in my character, which must strike anyone who knows me for any length of time, and that is my knowledge of myself.

I can watch myself and my actions, just like an outsider. The Anne of every day, I can face entirely without prejudice, without making excuses for her, and watch what's good and what's bad about her.

This 'self-consciousness' haunts me, and every time I open my mouth I know as soon as I've spoken whether 'that ought to have been different' or 'that was right as it was.'

There are so many things about myself that I condemn; I couldn't begin to name them all. I understand more and more how true Daddy's words were when he said: 'All children must look after their own upbringing.'

Parents can only give good advice or put them on the right paths, but the final forming of a person's character lies in their own hands."

Anne Frank

I haven't been able to let it go.  It sits on my desk as a reminder...a haunting reminder of the inconsequence of "age" in assessing a "child's" spiritual maturity, and self-awareness. 

In 1945, Holocaust victim Annelies Marie Frank, passed on at the age of fifteen, while interred as a prisoner in the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp.  She is best known as the author of "The Diary of a Young Girl," which records her family's experience, while in hiding (before their capture, separation, and imprisonment), during the Nazi occupation of Amsterdam.  The pathos, and power, of its heart-rending honesty  have been wept over by readers of all ages since its publication in 1947.  

It's impact on my girlhood was life-altering.  I began journaling.  I felt like I had a friend in Anne.  She was a girl like me.  She found herself in a situation that often left her feeling a bit discouraged, but she never stopped dreaming about love, finding life-purpose in the simple act of recording her thoughts, and living with a heart full of hope.

In relationship to Anne, I especially remember being twelve.  In so many ways, I felt helpless.  I didn't have many friends because we moved so often.  Sometimes I was overwhelmed by my family...they were wonderful, but there were so many of them.  Mom, dad, and five siblings all cozied (or crowded) up together in one little house, after another.  And once the twins came along..some years later, we would be a family of ten.

I remember one particular Saturday when, while wandering the stacks at the public library...unable to decide on the next book to disappear into...when I came across my old friend, Anne's slim volume, tucked between two fat novels.

I'd read "The Diary of a Young Girl" a number of times before, but that particular day it was like walking down the street of a foreign city, feeling terribly lonely, unable to speak the language, and then, quite serendipitously, running into an old friend.  Every plan you have had, up till that moment, for how you might spend the day, disappears like "Dust in the Wind," and you can't imagine doing anything but sitting across from her, and listening, and listening...just catching up.

I pulled the small, slim, clothbound book, from between the broad shoulders of her beefy shelfmates, and took it to a quiet corner filled with sunlight.  There, I fell into the hidden rooms,  the whispered dinners, the unspoken fears, the closeted spaces of the Frank family...their courage, their simple joys, the sweet affection, their terrifying ordeal...through their daughter's eyes, and her musings on love and hope.  As the sun moved from east to west that day,  my family complaints...our tiny house, the cacophony of sharing a small bedroom with three sisters, a tight budget, and no privacy...all seemed so silly, petty, selfish, the annoyances of a selfish child...not the concerns of a person of character, courage, self-knowledge, and grace.  Not the concerns of someone worthy of being Anne Frank's friend.  

I read it through, completely, from cover-to-cover, before I left the library that day.  Then I carried it to the librarian's desk and checked it out.  I needed to take Anne home with me.  She would think that my family privileged,  living like American royalty.  Open windows, fresh air, full tummies, baths.  So that I wouldn't forget what I had, I would also visit her home "in hiding" again, and again, before returning her diary to the library when it was due.  Later I would buy my own copy of her diary from the dusty shelves of a used bookstore.   I think my visits with Anne's family,  changed the kind of daughter, and sister, I became...at least for a while.  It's a "place" I think I need to return to more frequently.

Mary Baker Eddy says, in Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures:

"Thou art right, immortal Shakespeare, great poet of humanity:

Sweet are the uses of adversity;
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head.

Trials teach mortals not to lean on a material staff, -  a broken reed, which pierces the heart. We do not half remember this in the sunshine of joy and prosperity. Sorrow is salutary. Through great tribulation we enter the kingdom. Trials are proofs of God's care. Spiritual development germinates not from seed sown in the soil of material hopes, but when these decay, Love propagates anew the higher joys of Spirit, which have no taint of earth. Each successive stage of experience unfolds new views of divine goodness and love."

I believe this is true.  I pray that my friend, Anne...that funny, smart, creative, deeply kind, ridiculously hopeful friend, Anne...found beauty, new views of divine goodness and love wherever her journey has taken her.  That she is enjoying "the higher joys of Spirit, which have no taint of earth."

It is this "taint of earth" that, like "dust in the wind" only lasts for a moment, and then, those moments...of fear, worry, doubt, plotting and planning...are gone.  But what remains has weight, substance...is good,  real, lasting, eternal, and pure.  Like Anne's thought they take root, they germinate in thoughts, they grow wild in us as deeds, and they bear rich, abundant, bountiful fruit...the fruit of lives lived humbly, joyfully, gracefully, simply in service to God, and to mankind.  

If an ordeal-free life is the goal, the measure, the outcome of a well-prayed spirirual existence, none of my heroes have succeeded.  Jesus Christ, Mary Baker Eddy, Julian of Norwich, Anne Frank, Ghandhi, Nelson Mandela, my mom,  my mentor, my best friend..none of them has passed through this human experience without a detour throught a fire, a prison, a war, a loss, a trial, persecution...or two.  But if the measure of a man, woman,...or child, is the self-knowledge, humility, love...and grace...with which he or she,  travels that journey, then my heroes...as well as each of you...are champions. Those fiery ordeals have only served to melt away the dross...the dust, the chaff, the tares...and reveal the substance...the gold...the true metal of who you are. 

Eddy, in her definition of "children," says that they are:

"not in embryo, but in maturity."

Rarely has this statement rung so true, as in the heart of Annelise Marie Frank.  I love her childlike wisdom.  I love the raw self-knowledge, humility, and love she shares with us in the passage above, that opens this post.  I just love her. 

always her friend...and yours,

Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

[lead photo credit:  St. George Island - Ryan Kingsbery 2010]

"oh ohh...mercy, mercy me..."

"...Oh, mercy mercy me
Oh, things ain't what they used to be
What about this overcrowded land?
How much more abuse from man can you stand?
My sweet Lord...
Oh, ohh mercy, mercy me..."
- Marvin Gaye

When my friend Carol posted this song on her FB page recently I listened to it with new ears.  Carol's commitment to Eco-spirituality/spiritual ecology is total, and it is nothing less than I would expect from her.  She is a deeply spiritual, highly evolved global citizen, a visionary who has taught me much about "living for all mankind."  She is the founder of Inspiration House, a recent graduate of Andover Newton Theological Seminary, and more than all else that recommends her,  I trust the integrity and goodness of her heart.  We've been friends, colleagues, and sisters for over 25 years and I love the way she thinks...just the way she thinks...takes my breath away. 

So when she posted Marvin Gaye's "Mercy Me," I took notice.  (I am also including this link to Robert Palmer's version of "Mercy me"...just because I love it.)

I found myself pondering the question, "What is the relationship between mercy and the environment?"

It didn't take me long to discover that I was wandering into pretty scary territory...the sometimes very messy environment of my own thinking.   I had to ask myself, "what makes the difference, in me, between a beautifully clear mental "day" and one that is polluted and gray?"  And further, "what role might "mercy" play in the shift from one to the other?" 

I can't speak for anyone else, but I can speak from my own experience, and mercy plays a huge role.  There is nothing more toxic to my inner peace than guilt, blame, resentment, and regret.  And there have been times when my inner landscape has alternated between a wasteland of self-hatred, and a cesspool of finger-pointing. 

Guilt and blame...holding on to our own, or another's mistakes, poor choices, or indiscretions too often fills the individual, and collective, human landfill with simmering hatred.  We bury these wasted, and wasteful, emotions under a thin layer of tolerance, and then leave them to quietly fester and seethe until they soak deep into our relationships, and pollute the once pure ground water of our lives.  And thus depriving us, our family, friends, and our global community of the refreshment and nourishment that can only be found in the sacred space of a pure and loving heart, we are self-poisoned by that garbage thinking.  Unclipped, or reclaimed - used to develop greater compassion and understanding in us - these buried emotions can choke the innocence we so cherish in one another...and ourselves.

Ahhh....but mercy.   Mercy, mercy me.

As a spiritual thinker and Bible student I couldn't consider this topic, and not be reminded of this scriptural demand from 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 don't think any of us would balk at the idea of loving mercy.  And most definitely when it is being shown to us in those instances when we have done something we regret.  But the real spiritual stretch comes when we see someone else experiencing mercy,  especially when we don't think they deserve it...or when they are being shown mercy in a situation where we, or someone we love, may have experienced much harsher consequences, punishments, or rejection...under the same conditions. 

But as hard as this is...to "love mercy," it is the very opportunity we are always seeking as spiritual pilgrims and thinkers.  It is in this moment of divine demand that we begin making a seismic shift from living a life that is humanly measured, meted out, and circumscribed, to one that is filled with a deep and abiding trust in the power and presence of God...of divine justice.  It is here that we allow ourselves to fall deeply into our Father's arms and rest with grace.  We surrender our right to be right.  And we permit ourselves to truly be the children of a divine Parent who is wholly trustworthy in caring for His/Her family.  In this moment we discover that we can truly be a child of God. Not an adult of God who needs to monitor the accuracy and fairness of His judgments.  But a child...innocent, trusting, and secure in our peace.

Or as Mary Baker Eddy shared from her own heart  in "Love Your Enemies," from Miscellaneous Writings 1883 - 1896:

"The only justice of which I feel at present capable, is mercy and charity toward every one, - just so far as one and all permit me to exercise these sentiments toward them, - taking special care to mind my own business." 

Whew!  I love the freedom that comes when we let our divine Parent be the arbiter of justice, the gift-giver of mercy...when we trust Him to know the needs of our brothers and sisters and mete out what is best for the whole human family.

Biology professor and friend, Michael Booth recently shared this quote from a pamphlet titled, "Daily Defense" on his Facebook page (does anyone get the feeling that I get a lot of inspiration from FB?) last weekend,

"Love is not sincere until every vestige of feeling
that somebody owes us something is surrendered."

This, for me, is a pretty powerful definition of "mercy"...and love.   This is the kind of love that restores the balance of our spiritual ecosystem and begins to change the way we look at how we care for eachother, and the resources we share...as a human race, and, as fellow beings cohabitating with all creation in a divinely bestowed universe filled with beauty and wonder. 

The other night, I was talking with another dear friend, President and Founder of the Euphrates Institute, Janessa Gans, who has had a front row seat on one very toxic region of our global landscape...and her insights were arresting.  The anger, blame, hatred and violence that she has witnessed, and seen seethe and seep into the bones of its hills and valleys, cities and villages, was heart-wrenching.  It plays itself out in international headlines and personal heartache daily, and gets buried in unmarked graves as generation after generation seeks to avenge its ancestors.  None of this was new, but what she helped me see, was that each side felt justified in their hatred, each felt that they deserved to be angry, each felt betrayed and dumped upon...the emotional environment of the region was layered with mercy-less retribution, misunderstanding, and retaliation. The answer to the question of "who started what?" was based on what part...geostrata...of the historic landfill you probed.  It all depended on which layer of hurt and blame you uncovered at any given moment.  Everyone was right, and everyone felt wronged. 

This kind of toxic waste is playing itself out across borders, in families, along party lines, beyond reason, and under the cover of dysfunctional politeness...but festering below the surface with hurt and resentment...around the world every day.  I can't help but wonder, What kind of role might mercy play if we were to begin to exercise our right to "be merciful" to "love mercy" -  impartially and universally - even when we see it being shown to those we think deserve it least?   Even when we areperceived as "the ones" that deserve it least?  I wonder, what would our families look, and feel, like if we put the demand to "love mercy"  way ahead of making our loved ones prove how much they love us, require that they take our side, or answer to us for their mistakes.

It's just a question.  But its one that I am taking deep into the space of my own heart...this is the environment I must start with, everything else springs from this landscape...be it a landfill, or a meadow... With God, Love, at my magnum core, I pray that the heat of that molten fire will immolate the dross - the pollutants that seem to be buried in my thinking, and resurrect, redeem, and restore all that is good, useful and healing. 

Oh ohhh...mercy, mercy me....

Thanks Carol, Michael, and Janessa...you've kicked my heart into high gear...again!

with Love,
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"There's a hole in the world tonight..."

"There's a hole in the world tonight.
There's a Cloud of fear and sorrow.
There's a hole in the world tonight.
Don't let there be a hole in the world tomorrow.

They say that anger is just love disappointed.
They say that love is just a state of mind,
but all this fighting over who will be anointed.
Oh how can people be so blind
.
Oh they tell me there's a place over yonder,
cool water running through the burning sand,
until we we learn to love one
another we never reach the promise land.

There's a hole in the world tonight.
There's a Cloud of fear and sorrow.
There's a hole in the world tonight.
Don't let there be a hole in the world tomorrow."
-     Don Henley

Watching news clips about renewed fighting in the Gaza, listening to stories on NPR about rioting in Oakland over the shooting of a young father by BART (Bay Area public transit)officers on New Years Day or heated exchanges between Indian and Pakistani leaders about the terrorist attacks in Mumbai this winter drove me to my knees in prayer.

But this song is what came as an angel...a message of hope...and a call to action.   Don Henley wrote it with his fellow Eagles bandmates in the wake of September 11, 2001, but its message, from the first time I heard it, was hauntingly familiar.

I couldn't help but recall inflamed moments of anger that have led to words that were ugly and harsh.  But in remembering my own past angers, I could easily see that in almost every case my anger was just "love disappointed."  I was disappointed that someone I loved didn't love me back in the way that I hope they would, didn't understand my point of view, didn't seem to care about the things that mattered to me...didn't think I had the right to think or act in the way that I felt was right at the moment.

And the anger that we feel by committee, or community, seems to follow this track towards a fiery collision as well.  A community is disappointed that an appointed, or elected, leader or social agency doesn't really understand its needs.  A culture is disappointed that its neighbors aren't more understanding of its unique contribution to society or doesn't comply with a values system it feels is essential to humanity's success.  A religion is disappointed that others don't love the way they love, ascribe to a philosophy they feel is critical to salvation...or don't love the words or works of a leader in whose footsteps they strive to follow.

I remember one heated exchange I had with my younger sister when we were in high school.  She had an event that she wanted to attend, and I had a few hours before I needed to be at work.  She asked if I would wash the dishes after dinner (her chore) and she would dry (my chore) since her event was early and my departure for work was later.  I agreed, telling her that she really really really needed to be home before I had to leave for work. We both knew dad's rule that our kitchen chores be done before our evening commitments so that mom could take care of other family needs, like feeding infant twins, without negotiating the piles of dirty dishes, pots and pans created each meal by a family of ten.  She agreed.

But her activity went late and by the time she returned home I had dried the dishes myself and left for work.  I stewed and steamed all through my shift until I was ready to explode.  How could she be my sister and not love me enough to be home on time?  How could she do that to me when I had scrubbed all those greasy pans and potato-caked pots...instead of just drying already clean dishes...so that she could do what she wanted?  And on and on it went.  By the time I reached our darkened bedroom after work I had A LOT to say to her.  Thankfully my mom, on her way from the warmth of her bed to the kitchen to get bottles for one of the twins, intercepted me and could read the fury on my face.

I remember her inviting me to join her in the kitchen for a cup of tea and her invitation didn't leave any room for an obedient daughter who loved her mother to dismiss.  As we sat at the kitchen table my tale of anger and frustration spilled out like dark, sticky molasses all over the place.  How could she....and on and on.  When my sharp words finally started to sputter, mom stepped in.  I will never forget her saying, "Honey, you're not angry with your sister, your just disappointed that she didn't love you enough to keep her promise to you." 

She was right.

The next day she facilitated a conversation between my sister and I.  She learned how much I counted on her love for me as the reason I thought she would want to keep her promises to me,  and that I loved and trusted her enough to want her to have a nice evening out at the expense of my job security.  I learned that she had tried to get a ride home from a friend before the event was over, but couldn't find anyone willing to leave and didn't have a dime to make a phone call.  Our conflict was over and neither of us felt disappointed by the others actions.

I know this seems like a small instance in light of the enormity of nuclear proliferation, rioting, torture, or terrorism, but I am convinced that anger is just love disappointed.   The disappointment may go WAY back...but it's there and sometimes the rest of us are just acting out from a handed down disappointment where we have lost sight of what was at its root.

So...what can we do today?  I am learning that I can be so alert to anger, whenever and wherever it flares, and be ready to pour in the love that God has appointed me to live right where I am.  I can seek to understand what someone -- or some culture or religion or community -- loves and why.  I can strive to judge no one, but when judgment rears its ugly head -- in me or in someone else -- I can try to bring information, compassion, understanding to bear on the situation or issues in question.

Mary Baker Eddy gives me a great place to start in Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures when she says:

"One infinite God, good, unifies men and nations; constitutes the brotherhood of man; ends wars; fulfils the Scripture, "Love thy neighbor as thyself;" annihilates pagan and Christian idolatry, - whatever is wrong in social, civil, criminal, political, and religious codes; equalizes the sexes; annuls the curse on man, and leaves nothing that can sin, suffer, be punished or destroyed."

Imagine where we'd be if we trusted that good was the name and nature of everyone's God,  and that this God of goodness was infinite.    What if we didn't question one another but trusted that each was appointed to his place and posture of spiritual fidelity, cultural worship, and social mores by one infinite God who was good? What if we loved them for their willingness to just be true to their God whose name is Love...or good...or Allah...or Jehovah?

Perhaps then we wouldn't be fighting over the promised land...because every land, nation, culture, tribe would have promise, and would keep its promises because it feels loved...even if its just by you and me.

So what do we do about this world that seems so full of holes?  I want to fill them all with love. Thank goodness God has another way of looking at it...they are just the spaces He has hollowed (or hallowed) out for receiving our seeds of kindness, compassion, patience, meekness, grace, and love.  Time for planting...the fields are prepared, the seeds are in your hand...

with Love,
Kate

"War is over...if you want it"

"...And so this is Christmas
War is over
And what have we done
If you want it
Another year over
War is over
And a new one just begun
If you want it
And so this is Christmas
War is over
For black and for white
If you want it
For yellow and red ones
War is over
Let's stop all the fight
If you want it
A very merry Christmas
War is over
And a happy New year
If you want it
Let's hope it's a good one
War is over
Without any fear
Now..."
- John Lennon & Yoko Ono

December, 1971...I was standing at the counter of the Spinning Wheel Diner watching snow gently falling outside the large plate glass windows beyond the red vinyl booths and small juke boxes at the end of each table.  The counter was empty, the coffee was fresh and I was lost in thought.  John Lennon's "Happy Christmas...War is Over" was playing for the umpteenth time on the speakers from each jukebox, as a pale blue convertible VW bug slid into one of the parking spaces closest to the stairs leading to the front entry. 

The sleigh bells hanging from the front door handle jangled, announcing the arrival of a new customer and I straightened my pink polyester apron neatly over my crisp white uniform and readied a smile.  It would be good to have someone to wait on during the storm.  He walked through the door and I would have noticed his limp even without the richly burnished, hand-carved cane at his side.  He wore an olive green army jacket, worn blue jeans, a black turtleneck sweater.  His limp made the sound of his heavy boots on the black and white linoleum floor sound like steel brushes on a snare drum.  But is was the sadness in his eyes that I noticed first. 

He looked like a broken G.I. Joe doll...handsome, cold, and somehow disjointed and out of place in his own skin.  He took a seat on one of the red vinyl and chrome stools at the far end of the counter and when I asked him if I could bring him a cup of coffee he nodded without saying more than a perfunctory "thank you, yes." 

He seemed lost in his own thoughts and I left him staring into the quilted chrome behind the counter and went about my busy work of filling salt and pepper shakers at each booth while the storm picked up its intensity outside. 

After his eighth cup of coffee and a piece of cherry pie, I asked him if he lived nearby, or was he just passing through.  The diner was on a busy highway and we had a lot of travelers at that time of year who stopped in for coffee to stay awake during long drives.  He told me that he had just been discharged from the army after a stay at Walter Reed army hospital following a severe injury that had gotten him airlifted out of a Vietnamese jungle in the middle of the night.  It had left him "shaken and crippled...maimed for life."  He explained that he had grown up and gone to high school in the area, but that while he was in Viet Nam his parents had moved to Florida.  He didn't know anyone in Florida, so he came "home" to the last place he knew before the war.  But all of his friends had moved on and he wasn't sure where he belonged.

We talked until well after my shift ended at midnight and then he offered to drive me home.  I explained that my dad would be coming to pick me up as soon as I called him, but, "thank you anyway."  He got up from the stool and made his way slowly out to the now completely snow-encrusted little car, backing out of the parking space before inching his way onto the highway.  I watched until his taillights disappeared in the heavily falling snow and wondered what he had seen during those months-turned-into-years in Viet Nam that had made his eyes seem ancient and sad.

I would learn over the next few weeks all about the horrors of war as his visits to the diner became nightly, and his visits to our already crowded home coincided with my nights off.  My mother plied him with questions and meatloaf and my dad grew to enjoy his quiet company...or at least I think he did...he never kicked him out, and smiled when he played Fur Elise and Clair de Lune on our old piano by the front door...that said alot.

One Sunday afternoon he asked if I would like to drive into "the City" and see the Christmas decorations and windows on Park Avenue.  Since I had voluntarily missed my school's Christmas dance that weekend so that my younger sister could go and wear the one and only dressy dress we owned between us, my parents said that I could if we took the train instead of driving and he agreed.  Walking through Times Square, Central Park, and down Fifth Avenue was magical until we came across a billboard that said, "War is over...if you want it - Happy Christmas from John & Yoko."  My friend gripped my arm and we stood perfectly still in the middle of the sidewalk.  An electric surge of hope pulsed through us both.  And for a moment I thought I saw the sadness and pain leave his eyes. 



This is the moment I relive each time I hear this song.  My friend and I remained close until one day he decided...quite out of the blue and without discussion or emotional justification...that I should marry him, move to the Maine woods, build a cabin, carve wooden animals and make toys in order to escape the material trappings of American capitalism.  I was still young, eager to make a difference through the promise of politics and "one man, one vote," had an education to pursue and dreams to fulfill. 

He would marry someone else a few months later and move to Maine. 

I wonder how he feels 27 years later about Christmas, war, politics and America. I wonder what he thinks of each time he hears this song.  

I still think about a boy with ancient, sad eyes and a burnished cane who came out of the snow one winter's evening and changed the way I looked at the world...and the way I listened to a song.

"And so this is Christmas
And what have you done..."

This year...I think we've done something...and we may just see the promised "War is over...if you want it" fulfilled...I think we've made it clear that we "want it....now".

with hope for "peace on earth, goodwill to men,"
Kate

"Let peace begin with me..."

"Let there be peace on earth,
and let it begin with me.
Let there be peace on Earth,
the peace that was meant to be.

With God as our Father,
brothers all are we,
Let me walk with my brother,
in perfect harmony.

Let peace begin with me,
let this be the moment now.
With every step I take,
let this be my solemn vow,

To take each moment
and live each moment
in peace, eternally.
Let there be Peace on Earth,
and let it begin with me."
-     Jackson/Miller

In 1972 our graduating class of high school seniors sang this song as we took our place on the bleachers beneath the same lights our boys had "beat Central" for the State championship earlier that fall. 

We were graduating from a small regional high school surrounded by dairy farms, large summer estates, and the small pastoral villages that fed our student population with its "best and brightest."  

We were Woodstock wannabes.  We wore the requisite pumps and hose, but went bra-less under our white sundresses, and had a pair of tattered jeans and a halter top in the backseat of our get-away car for wearing to graduation parties after dinner with our parents and "honored guests."

We wore hope for the future on our faces and tried to keep our fear of the unknown hid well beneath a deep layer of optimism and folk music.   We were a generation of activism and protest.  We had watched our brothers, cousins, and friends be drafted into fighting a war we didn't believe in and die for a cause we were confused about.  And soon, as we knew all too well, some of us would no longer be protected from this system (of drafting young men once they graduated from high school) by our childhood and youth. Soon, someone's boyfriend or best friend would volunteer, or be asked, to take an oath, don a uniform and travel to a place with jungles and monsoons to fight an enemy we weren't sure we hated.  It was our last moment of childhood…and we knew it.

I remember walking up the steps of the platform where we would sit…waiting for the principal to make his remarks, the valedictorian to give her speech, and our names to be called in alphabetical order…and wondering how we could stop the madness of a war that took fresh-scrubbed boys from farms and small towns and turned them into fighting machines…or worse yet, the unthinkable…fallen heroes sent home to weeping mothers and girlfriends, fathers and teammates.

It was one of those moments burned into my memory like the initials my sister and I carved into an old beech tree…not faded by time, but remarkable for it's clarity "after all those years."

For the first time that I can remember, I actually listened to myself think what I was thinking…and then I listened to the words that were coming out of my mouth while I was thinking those thoughts…and the "coincidence" was staggering.  I was terrorized by the thought that my friends and I were being launched into a world at war, a world where we felt hopeful, but somehow--in the deep recesses of our fears--powerless to make a difference, and yet the answer was falling from my lips with such clarity.

"Let it begin with me…"  

I was very angry with a family member that night.  I was hurt by what I felt was negligent disinterest.  I had vowed earlier in the day that if this person actually showed up at graduation, I wouldn't even acknowledge their presence beyond the polite, "hello, thank you for coming."  I had actually practiced being elegantly aloof.  I would be above it…on the surface…but I would continue to seethe deep inside.  I had the right…right? 

Walking up to my place on stage that evening I suddenly realized that I didn't have the right to harbor a war within my heart….even one that seemed so reasonable and justified.  I did have the right to let peace begin with me. 

Sitting down in my place and looking out at my family taking up two whole rows near the front, I felt all that anger and hurt wash away.  They were there.  They had come to celebrate a milestone in my life.  My parents were proud and my seven siblings were fresh-faced and dressed for a party. My grandmother, aunts, uncles, cousins and one great-aunt were smiling up, each with their own memory of me as a child skipping through their hearts as they waited for my name to be called.

I decided to actually think about what I was seeing.  They were in the one of the closest rows to the stage.  This meant that my family, who were customarily late for most appointments, events, etc., had arrived en masse early enough to get premier seating.  My parents had driven 60 miles, from where they had moved earlier in my senior year, with a car full of seven children from age one to sixteen, and had kept them neat and clean, on a very warm June afternoon with no air-conditioning.   My grandmother had driven with my great aunt almost as far, but very slowly, to be there.  And my aunts, uncles, and cousins had carved out this evening from very busy schedules to gather on a football field, sit on hard metal chairs, listen to a guy they didn't know talk about a bunch of kids they would never see again, only to watch me walk a dozen yards, shake the principal's hand, accept my diploma and return to my seat.

Where was the war I was so hell-bent on continuing to fight only hours before?  Where was the disinterest I was willing to sacrifice my own grace for?  Where was the hurt I felt so justified in wearing like a badge of honor?  It was not "out there" in the smiling faces of my family and friends.  It only had a life if I gave it one…in my own heart.  I suddenly realized that by perpetuating that war within, I would be the one missing out on my own "party."  I was the one who, although I might get to parade around in my practiced aloofness, would miss out on all the warmth, affection, and joy that had brought my family to my graduation in the first place. 

When the ceremony was over, and my friends and I had turned our tassels to the other side of our mortarboards before throwing them high into the air, my family crowded near the steps of the stage to congratulate me with tears (Mom's),  hugs, kisses and my uncle's bearlike grip around my shoulders.  

Instead of the cool "hello, thank you for coming" that I had practiced, they got the real me.  I cried in my mom's arms, I jumped up and down waving my diploma with my sister and cousins. I was the oldest, so the first to graduate from high school in our generation. I picked up my little sister and carried her around as I introduced my family to the teachers, administrators and friends who had made my years of high school so wonderful.

As we headed off for a surprise graduation party at my aunt and uncle's house--something I would have been mortified to discover had been planned all along if I had been aloof and distant as planned--all the warring in my heart had ceased and there was a great peace in me as I squeezed into my place in the way-backseat of our 9-passenger station wagon with my sisters.  It was a great night. I would join my friends at a graduation party later, but this was family time and I was ready to celebrate my first post-childhood lesson in being a real peace-activist in their warm embrace.

This would be one of the most important lessons I ever learned…one that I am still working for mastery in…but grateful for each "refresher course" along the way.  

As I watch a new generation of young men and women march off to a questionable war, I can vote, I can protest, and I can write my congresswoman and senator. But I am still convinced that the most effective way to make a difference is to go to battle with any wars that may be raging within my own heart…with peace…."peace that floweth as a river, from the eternal source alone…" (hymn 276 - C. Wesley)

With peace,
Kate

"Let the River run..."

"Let the river run,
Let all the dreamers
Wake the nation.
Come, the New Jerusalem..."
- Carly Simon

Okay, I admit it…I love Facebook.  But not for the all the reasons you may be thinking…well, maybe some of them, too.  But in addition to the social networking--staying in touch with friends from camp and from my work at the college--there is "a something more" about this site that makes me feel like I am back in the 60s and we are rallying a movement.

Take my friend Joe…he's just out of college and has such a deep and abiding commitment to social reform that he has started a green initiative "group" on Facebook.  This young man and his ideas have great potential for becoming an environmental movement of global proportion. He's found a forum for his activism that is limitless in reach.

Or consider Warren and Megan, long known for their skirmishes with the politically apathetic. They campaigned tirelessly in 2004 for Dennis Kucinich. Today they find a new meeting place to connect with those who share their "voice of reason" (and to introduce their ideas to those who may not) on this remarkably facile online social network.

On Facebook I can hear the roar of grass roots lobbying every time I log in.  I can almost feel the wet paint on my fingers as virtual placards and signs for one candidate, movement, cause, or another is painted, and posted, each day.

Part of the fun for me is to visit the pages of those causes or groups that either interest me or confuse me…and I can wander through the virtual halls of their leaders and acolytes weighing in on issues, or just quietly listening to their debates.  This is the place I go when I want to hear the cry of the people or take the pulse of the world today.  This is where I get my prayer agenda each morning.  If something is percolating in global consciousness it is may just surface here first.  If there is going to be a Woodstock today it isn't going to find its roots in a cornfield in upstate New York…no, I think it will rise from the fertile valley of Facebook where seeds of social responsibility and global ethics are sown each day.

Yesterday I was feeling a bit overwhelmed by the live coverage of General Petraeus and Ambassador Crocker's visit to the Senate.  The level of political maneuvering was toxic.  The live coverage (even on NPR, a network which usually leaves me feeling informed) left me instead feeling a bit schmarmy.  I didn't know whether to trust that the questions being asked by Senators, who are also 2008 presidential hopefuls, were part of a political strategy or came from a genuine desire to bring transparency about the war to their constituency and inform them in making wise decisions.

Normally I would have just hoped that The Christian Science Monitor would help me find some perspective the next day…while I continued to pray that my hard-won sense of hope hadn't been crushed.  But instead I decided to go to Facebook and "listen" to the hearts of young activists who were thoughtful and cogent in expressing their perspectives, concerns and, yes, wise "next steps" for us as voters, global citizens...and spiritual thinkers. And, I could do it at 2 in the morning when all the coffehouses and student unions were closed for the night. Here I could find a community of political night-owls still ready for discourse and action.

Mary Baker Eddy once said that, "This age is reaching out towards the perfect Principle of things; is pushing towards perfection in art, invention, and manufacture.  Why, then, should religion be stereotyped, and we not obtain a more perfect and practical Christianity?  It will never do to be behind the times in things most essential, which proceed from the standard of right that regulates human destiny.  Human skill but foreshadows what is next to appear as its divine origin."

Facebook is one invention that I was very grateful for last night.  I love the fact that spiritual, political, global, environmental, and social activists are finding a larger forum for their rallying cry.  I am grateful that as a once-upon-a-time (heck, still) bra-burning, draft-resisting, war-protesting hippie, I can weigh in, listen up, drop in, sit in, attend a love-in, or march with these extraordinary young thinkers on a global scale every night...and not get arrested. 

To be able to watch the numbers climb as groups, set up to champion candidates, swell with supporters is invigorating.  I don't feel the loneliness I often felt in the early 70s when returning to campaign headquarters (after getting door after door slammed in my face), I found the office dark and the mimeograph machine quiet.  Student campaigners today can discover, with a click, that the rank and file of supporters has risen by the hundreds between classes.  With that kind of encouragement there is so much reason to stay the course. The calvary isn't just on its way…it has arrived!!!   I can almost hear Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, Joan Baez and Bob Dylan singing in the background.   Well, actually they are...on my iTunes...isn't this a great time to be on this planet!

So, here's to Facebook, an "invention" that, for me, foreshadows the grandeur of Mind…the all-inclusiveness of Spirit.  This is a forum that knows no hierarchy and silences only that which is mean-spirited...or unkind. 

If you haven't visited this online peace movement that knows no political color, either red or blue (and I am convinced that both want peace no matter how different their approach to reaching that goal may be), ask your child or grandchild to show you.  Ask them to give you a guided tour of this virtual Washington monument pool filled with flower children….and policy-wonks, and lobbyists...and me.  And if you are a Facebook regular, feel free to "friend" me.  I'd love to get to know you…and your ideas.

"We the great and small
Stand on a star
And blaze a trail of desire
Through the dark'ning dawn.

Oh, my heart is aching.
We're coming to the edge,
Running on the water,
Coming through the fog,
Your sons and daughters.

It's asking for the taking.
Trembling, shaking.
Oh, my heart is aching.

We're coming to the edge,
Running on the water,
Coming through the fog,
Your sons and daughters.

Let the river run,
Let all the dreamers
Wake the nation.
Come, the New Jerusalem."

See you there,
Kate

"Let them in..."

"Let them in, Peter
They are very tired
Give them couches where the angels sleep
And light those fires…"
-John Gorka

Each week's episode of ABC's This Week with George Stephanopoulos concludes with an "In Memoriam" segment devoted to a roll call of American service men and women who have died in Iraq since March 2003.  The count as of this morning is 3,431.  I cannot refrain from shedding the tears of deep gratitude for their selflessness...and for the sadness I feel at the loss represented by the list of names, ranks, ages and hometowns of these brave young men and women that scroll across the screen and etch themselves into the landscape of my heart. 

I lived through the Viet Nam war.  I knew the names and faces of too many boys who never came home.  I could recall the sound of their laughter each time a photo from my high school yearbook appeared in our local newspaper's obituary section.  In one case I remembered, all too tangibly, how one of these dear brave boy's hands shook nervously and were "way too soft for a boy who worked on a farm" as he held mine during a high school dance in the late spring of our sophomore year.   Seeing his photograph...crooked boyish grin, cornhusk cowlick, and wide green eyes full of  young hope...was more than I could take that summer afternoon 35 years ago.

I feel the same leaden weight of sadness each week when I hear the first haunting, yet somehow sacred, strains of the now too familiar music that underscores the latest installment of another "In Memoriam" segment. For the family and friends of those who have received news that a loved one has been killed in service to his/her country (any country), my prayer remains, "May you feel the deep confidence and measureless peace that comes from a knowlege of God's eternal,  ever-presesnt, enduring and all-embracing, love for, and as,  each of His children."

As I think about Memorial Day 2007, I am reminded of the song, "Let Them In" written by John Gorka.  This song was later recorded by David Wilcox on his 1991 Home Again CD.  On his website Wilcox indicates that "Let Them In" was inspired by "a poem found in a hospital in the Philippines during World War II. The nurse that found the poem kept it all these years until the recent war (Desert Storm) brought out all the memorabilia. Luckily her daughter sent a copy to John."

I will let this song speak for my heart today:

"Let them in, Peter
They are very tired
Give them couches where the angels sleep
And light those fires

Let them wake whole again
To brand new dawns
Fired by the sun
Not wartime's bloody guns

May their peace be deep
God knows how young they were
To have to die

So give them things they like
Let them make some noise
Give dance hall bands not golden harps
To these our boys

And let them love, Peter
For they've had no time
They should have trees and bird songs
And hills to climb

The taste of summer in a ripened pear
And girls sweet as meadow wind
With flowing hair

And tell them how they are missed
But say not to fear
It's gonna be alright
With us down here

Let them in, Peter
Let them in, Peter
Let them in, Peter."

In Memoriam…and in Love,

Kate

"...all over this land..."

"...If I had a hammer
I'd hammer in the morning
I'd hammer in the evening
All over this land
I'd hammer out danger
I'd hammer out a warning
I'd hammer out love between my brothers and my sisters
All over this land..."
- Hays/Seeger

Do you ever watch the news…CNN, MSNBC, or my favorite BBCNews on Public Television, and feel overwhelmed by the barrage of mind-reeling images and heart-wrenching information that comes out of that black box…flat screen or now, almost antique tube-style?   Have you ever wished that the NY Times you have delivered to your doorstep on Sunday mornings, pieced together from random pages scattered through the coffeehouse after church, or read online after midnight, would come wrapped in a "the contents of this package may be hazardous to your peace " disclaimer?

This past month, NPR, CNN, BBC, and NYT have had me on my knees in prayer.  My favorite news source, The Christian Science Monitor, has been like a good friend standing over me in the bathroom holding my hair, whispering messages of comfort, hope and encouragement when my stomach is unsettled…but still, I am a venerate news hound and I want to hear more perspectives...however disquieting.  Thankfully, I am also a passionate metaphysician and when I can stay clearly focused on seeing that every image, every piece of news coming at me is just an opportunity to "hammer" out each dull cold lump of information into an exercise in using my spiritual ocular muscles more effectively in seeing God in all things…I feel, not overwhelmed, but empowered.

Finding God expressing Himself as compassion in the tenderness of a soldier who is caring for an Iraqi child, finding Him as Mind when I hear about a senator who has been inspired to sponsor a wise bill, finding Her as Soul when I see beauty in the face of a mother who has expressed mercy at the sentencing of her child's murderer…these are small ways that I can ring my own bell of freedom.  In those moments, I am no longer the victim of my world, but sitting at the feet of its Master, letting his calm eyes hold my gaze and His strong hand on my shoulder tell me He is there…I need not be afraid. 
As most of my readers know there is always a song behind any mental image I hang onto and find useful as I navigate this spiritual journey.  My news feasting experiences are no different.  As a veteran of the anti-war 60s and the bra-burning 70s, my songs of protest are usually folk songs.  Joni Mitchell, The Weavers, Bob Dylan, Jackson Browne, and Pete Seeger fill my sign-carrying, chain-myself-to-the-front-columns-of-the-Pentagon heart.

"...If I had a bell
I'd ring it in the morning
I'd ring it in the evening
All over this land
I'd ring out danger
I'd ring out a warning
I'd ring out love between my brothers and my sisters
All over this land..."

As part of our Sunday routine, Jeff and I start our morning with a two hour walk in the park, which includes a detour for church and then back onto the pathways through our neighborhood's large university campus, down to "The Loop."  This is our city's happening stretch of coffeehouses, performing arts venues, restaurants, galleries, cool shops and your "throw one in for good" tattoo parlor (it's where I got mine!), and arts cinema.  We make our way through the neighborhood on a pathway that literally pours us out onto "The Loop" like small children coming down a slide into a university playground…music, costumes, discourse…a paradise for old hippies…like us.

Our favorite Sunday morning coffeehouse (as opposed to our favorite afternoon and evening coffeehouse a block from our home) is Meshuggah.  It's eclectic, political, quirky, and they make a great cup of hot chocolate.  But most importantly, they offer a first glance through the Sunday New York Times…if you can gather its crumpled and coffee stained body parts and put it back into some sense of order.  Rather, to use a metaphor inspired by my friend Maria, like picking up pieces of straw from the picked apart scarecrow in "The Wizard of Oz" and poking it into the right places so that he can stand up and find his voice. 

As I retrieved a bit from one table with my "Hi, are you finished with the front page..." the man who handed it to me said, "I hope you haven't eaten this morning…it's a tough day for news and it might upset your stomach."  And I replied with a smile, "Oh, I'm going to pray my way through this one, I'm sure there's something there to remind me that God is present in the world today!"

As I returned to our table my folkie roots took hold and the first strains of Lee Hays and Peter Seeger's "If I Had a Hammer" started popping through the dark soil of my news day.  I felt empowered by what I could bring to the table…I could hammer out, from the steely images of apathy and hopelessness, some instance of compassion strengthened by a harsh experience on the Gaza Strip revealing the tempered steel of humanity's potential.  I was going to hear soft the "bell of justice" in the way a judge ruled fairly even when the world would have applauded a harsher response.  I would sing a song that warned of the danger of losing our "true north"…kindness, trust, respect for free moral agency…by singing about the love between my brothers and my sisters…rather than celebrating the kind of gossip-mongering, judgmental cannibalism I could have become disheartened by on the society and opinion pages.

"...If I had a song
I'd sing it in the morning
I'd sing it in the evening
All over this land
I'd sing out danger
I'd sing out a warning
I'd sing out love between my brothers and my sisters
All over this land..."

So, for this folkie, I have a hammer, a bell and a song…but most importantly, I have what each of these instruments of change represent to me…I have a prayer….so does our world.

"...Well I've got a hammer
And I've got a bell
And I've got a song to sing
All over this land
It's the hammer of justice
It's the bell of freedom
It's the song about love between my brothers and my sisters
All over this land."

This Sunday--when you read the paper or watch "Meet the Press"--sing, pray, ring, and hammer…"about the love between your brothers and your sisters…all over this land."

I'll be listening,
Kate