"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

"...digging the dancing queen..."

"...I have a dream, a song to sing
To help me cope with anything
If you see the wonder - 
of a fairy tale
You can take the future - 
even if you fail
I believe in angels -
Something good in everything I see
I believe in angels
When I know the time is right for me
I'll cross the stream
I have a dream..."
-Abba "I Have a Dream"

Okay, I admit it...I have watched "Mamma Mia" more times than I can bring myself to type in numbers, but something about this movie makes me want to take all 54 years in this chapter of my eternity book and shred them into celebratory confetti.

I do have a dream...many of them.  But the fabulous thing is...the dreams I once had (at least the ones that didn't include "stuff") have all mostly come true in ways that are clearly Love-inspired and God-bestowed.  And new dreams are born in my heart each day.  Dreams of renewable energy, stronger alliances with our global neighbors and partners, integrity in government and business, and more grace...always more grace.   Dreams of seeing things in new ways,  refreshed friendships, freedom from past regrets, a false sense of achievement, or failure....anything that would keep me from dreaming new dreams with all my heart.

There is something about watching my favorite dramatic actress of all time, Meryl Streep, dancing and singing through the village streets of a Greek island, jumping on her bed, and getting "twitterpated" at the sight of a long-lost beau, that makes me want to join her in cavorting through olive groves with dozen of other liberated Greek housewives and grandmas.   I want to play air guitar on a pier and throw my friends into the harbor!!

I remember a Sunday School student once remarking, with exasperation that he was worried about his mother.  He was concerned that she had begun to lose her mind.  She was singing at the breakfast table, thinking about changing careers, and wearing her hair differently.  Didn't she know that she was a mother with grown children?  And wasn't he the kid, the one who was supposed to be exploring life and considering his options...not her? 

I remember suggesting to him, that if he wanted her to trust him as he tried new things, struck out on new paths, and discovered the world around him, he would have to trust her to do the same.  I tried to help him see that our hearts - the province where dreams reside and where God, Love, reigns supreme - never grow old.  The heart that dreams never ages. It never atrophies.  It never matures, loses its vitality, and becomes intractable. It never ceases to dream, to hope...to imagine the presence of goodness, the promise of Love, the fullness of Life.

In all my spiritual reading, scriptural research, and study, I have never found a single reference to "the adult of God."  It's always the "child of God," the "children of Israel."  Even Jesus, the most mature spiritual thinker I know of, referred to God as "Abba"...a term that is translated "daddy" or "papa."

We never become any more mature than we have always been...completely child-like, innocent, pure, willing, open, joyful, ready, eager.  This is our maturity, our fullness of being.  In her definition of "Children" from the glossary of Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, Mary Baker Eddy says, "...God's thoughts, not in embryo, but in maturity..."

We exist from all eternity in this state of maturity...fullness, completeness, wholeness...we are never less, or more than the All-in-allness of the divine being.  We live, and move, and have our being in the same state of child-like wonder, trust, and joy...forever and ever and ever....throughout time, space and eternity.

"I have a dream
A song to sing...."

Celebrate your dreams...sing in the streets, jump on your bed, throw a bundle of sticks, say "oh Yea!!!" (by the way, this is the part in the movie that my daughter made me watch in bed with her...over and over and over and over and over again)...and have the time of your life as a dancing queen with your girlfriends...or husband, or children, or neighbors...or a a few random Greek housewives on an island in the Aegean...

enjoy this clip...but if you want to see the real movie...with the scene of the granny with the stick...rent the movie...this clip is just a taste...

"oh yea!!!'
you can dance
you can jive
having the time of your life
see that girl
watch that scene
digging the dancing queen..."
- from "Dancing Queen"
(also by Abba)

in childlike wonder...believing in angels and fairytales...and in you...always with love,

Kate

"A Whole New World..."

"A whole new world
A new fantastic point of view
No one to tell us no
Or where to go
Or say we're only dreaming

A whole new world
A dazzling place I never knew
But when I'm way up here
It's crystal clear
That now I'm in a whole new world...
with You..."
from Disney's "Aladdin"

When all else fails...go back to Disney.  Or at least that's where my heart seems to go.  I was raised on Disney films...Mary Poppins taught me how to approach overwhelming tasks with "A Spoonful of Sugar", and Mama Jumbo gave me the song I would sing to myself as I fell asleep (after my mom was finished singing lullabies) with "Baby Mine".  So it shouldn't be surprising to anyone that New Year's Day would find me singing "A Whole New World" from Aladdin.

Our daughter received her loved "Jasmine" Barbie for that year's birthday, and within weeks of seeing Disney's Aladdin (for the first...of many times) we had all the songs memorized for singing in the car, and she and her best friend, Heather, had decided that they would be Arabian princesses that Halloween...and they were.  But not before Miss Mitzi, their tap teacher, had them tapping their hearts out on stage to "Prince Ali...fabulous he...Ali Ababwa..."  I can still see bolts of purple polyester chiffon studded with silver sequins and glitter whenever I hear that song.

So...it's only appropriate that it would be our daughter who would take me on the magic carpet ride that would reveal a "whole new world" to me, just when I needed it most.

I needed a new view of myself and how I fit in my world.  I had lost my way and nothing I did seemed to be able to pull me out of a tailspin of self-doubt, regret, and confusion about who I was beyond the boundaries of memory. 

I had arrived in South Africa with a broken toe, and a broken sense of myself.  I had become accustomed to silently apologizing for my very existence. Whenever anyone was genuinely kind, extending a helping hand or a moment of fellowship, I would find myself on the verge of tears .   An authentic smile made my knees buckle.  A thoughtful gesture made me want to throw my arms around the neck of the person responsible and weep alligator tears of appreciation for the mercy their kindness represented.  I could be kind to others, I could be compassionate and loving...but did I deserve it myself. Did I deserve the healing that I knew with all my heart (and had seen) as a spiritual fact, an inalienable right, in the lives of others?

I was praying each day for freedom from self-doubt, but I sensed I wasn't making real progress.  I was stuck in stage two of the three stage process towards "absolute cure" in Christian Science that Mary Baker Eddy lays out in her article "The Way" from Miscellaneous Writings: "self-knowledge, humility, and love."   And I knew it. I had somewhat mastered self-knowledge in this case, and that self-knowledge had driven me to my knees in humility...but I hadn't gotten up...I was still down there weeping each time someone was kind...to me a sinner.  I'd get clear glimpses of freedom, rise to take a few steps only to run into a carnival fun-house full of distorting mirrors in every direction which sent my gaze echoing too far back and forth between memory and regret to keep from getting dizzy and stumbling...and before I knew it, I was back on my knees again.

But arriving in South Africa with a broken toe stopped me in my tracks. Sitting in the African sun one morning...in a place where no one but my daughter knew anything about me, my past, my achievements, my dreams, my mistakes, my choices...and it came to me clearly that if my feelings of self-doubt and punishment were well-deserved because I had truly offended God, it would have to be true wherever I went.  God's laws were universal and impartial.  If I deserved to be doubted...by myself or anyone...then it would be true all the way around the world.  God would cause me, and others, to doubt my right to be good, to be an effective healer, to be worthy of kindness, friendship, genuine joy...right there.    But if that punitive doubt and unworthiness were not His, God's ongoing means of correcting my heart and my life...and were therefore unwarranted, then I could be free of them immediately.

As I opened my heart and my life to God, I prayed with such hope.  And I stayed on that deck looking out at the broad and endless waters of the Indian ocean stretching all the way to where the sky and sea became one most of the next two days.  I prayed for a spiritual sense of self-knowledge, humility, and most importantly...love. I longed for a knowledge of myself that was consistent with what God knew about me, for humility that was based in a surrender to His greatness...not just self-doubt, regret, and failure, and to live a life of love not just because it was the "right" thing to do, but because it was my right to live consistent with the love He had put in my heart.   At one point I rose to refresh the cup of roiboos tea I had been nursing and while in the kitchen ran into the housekeeper who was laboring under a mountain of dishes, pots and pans.  As one of five sisters, and the oldest of eight...in a family of ten...I had often found myself on any given evening laboring under a mountain of dishes.  But if mom or one of my sisters or brothers stood at the sink with me and we talked and laughed and they helped me with rinsing or drying, it went faster and we had fun.  So it was natural for me to pick up a dish towel and start drying while I got to know her, and learned some fascinating things about the Xhosa culture.  We didn't talk about me, my life, my work...I was not really interested in me and I was the one driving the questions...we talked about her. 

When the dishes were done I hung the dishtowel on the rack, refreshed my now cool tea with more hot water and returned to the deck for another hour or two of thinking, praying, reading, knitting, and absorbing the view. 

But within a few moments she came out to where I was sitting on the deck and said that she thought I "must know Jesus," and if she came to work a bit earlier the next day, could we talk about Jesus.  From that morning on I had an sweet moment-by-moment spiritual practice halfway around the world in a town I had never been to, with people who didn't know anything about what books I studied or what church I attended.  They barely spoke my language...or I theirs...and knew nothing of my past.  To them I was as good as my last good deed...my last kindness. And I knew that if I was unkind or dismissive that would be my "history" with them.

I learned that God is truly, and only, the GREAT I AM.  That He alone defines us by the love He puts in our hearts and the desires we have to act on that love...moment by moment...in practical ways that make a difference in the lives of other - and in our own lives. I don't know when my toes ceased to be broken...I can only remember not favoring it one bit during the hikes and long walks on endless beaches that filled our days.

I had to go halfway around the world to learn that we are not defined by our own or another's mistakes, choices, memories or opinions about us...we are defined by our last good deed.  And in this way we have the opportunity to be free of imprisoning self-doubt, regret, painful memories, or sorrow over wrong-doing...we have the opportunity to be made new every moment of every day with every good deed done, every kind seed sown. 

Or as Paul promises in Romans:

"There is therefore now no condemnation
to them which are in Christ Jesus..."

Enjoy being a whole new you every moment you that extend yourself in an act of simple kindness, live generously, care for another, feed the hungry, heal the heart...there is a "Whole New World" waiting every day.

A Whole New World
"I can show you the world
Shining, shimmering, splendid
Tell me, princess, now when did
You last let your heart decide?

I can open your eyes
Take you wonder by wonder
Over, sideways and under
On a magic carpet ride

A whole new world
A new fantastic point of view
No one to tell us no
Or where to go
Or say we're only dreaming

A whole new world
A dazzling place I never knew
But when I'm way up here
It's crystal clear
That now I'm in a whole new world with you
Now I'm in a whole new world with you

Unbelievable sights
Indescribable feeling
Soaring, tumbling, freewheeling
Through an endless diamond sky

A whole new world
Don't you dare close your eyes
A hundred thousand things to see
Hold your breath - it gets better
I'm like a shooting star
I've come so far
I can't go back to where I used to be

A whole new world
Every turn a surprise
With new horizons to pursue
Every moment red-letter
I'll chase them anywhere
There's time to spare
Let me share this whole new world with you

A whole new world
That's where we'll be
A thrilling chase
A wondrous place
For you and me"
A whole new world...for you and me,
Kate

"Trouble me..."

"Trouble me, disturb me
with all your cares and your worries.
Trouble me on the days when you feel spent.
Why let your shoulders bend underneath this burden
when my back is sturdy and strong?
Trouble me..."
- Natalie Merchant

I'll post the rest of the lyrics to 10,000 Maniac's "Trouble Me" below with the Youtube video, but when my dear friend Nancy sent it along this morning with a note: "...it's why we do what we do...eh?" all plans for writing today's post with another song as the springboard, were springboarded right out the window.  This was the song.

Yes, this is why we do what we do isn't it my sweet friend?  Nancy is a Christian Science nurse, in fact she is the nurse I wrote about a couple of years ago in  "Nursing...and the law of kindness". 

I am always surprised when someone apologizes after calling for help...especially on Christmas Day -- or in the middle of the night.  Helping others is what Christmas day...and every day...is all about for those of us who have devoted our full-time to serving as spiritual healers and caregivers. I can't think of anything I'd rather do than get a call from someone who needs to feel fellowship in God's love.  It is such a privilege and joy to be invited to pray with them...bearing witness to God's presence in their lives as living, breathing, palpating Love...any moment of any day.  Just ask my husband and children.  And I somehow feel that each of my fellow practitioner, nurse, and military chaplain colleagues must feel the same way.  This is why we do what we do.

As Mary Baker Eddy says in her article, "Love" from Miscellaneous Writings 1883 - 1896:

"Love is not something put upon a shelf, to be taken down on rare occasions with sugar-tongs and laid on a rose-leaf.  I make strong demands on love, call for active witnesses to prove it, and noble sacrifices and grand achievements as its results.  Unless these appear, I cast aside the word as a sham and counterfeit, having no ring of the true metal.  Love cannot be a mere abstraction, or goodness without activity and power. 

As a human quality, the glorious significance of affection is more than words:  it is the tender unselfish deed done in secret; the silent, ceaseless prayer; the self-forgetful heart that overflows the veiled form stealing on an errand of mercy, out of a side door; the little feet tripping along the sidewalk; the gentle hand opening the door that turns toward want and woe, sickness and sorrow, and thus lighting the dark places of the earth."

This healing work of love is not heavy labor, it is a gift, a never-ending, perpetually inspiring, always smile-producing gift. It "happifies existence." It keeps Christmas in our hearts each and every day. It is the "unto us a child is born" that moves within us. It is the real "rapture" and it never ceases to take my breath away.

Through the years I have had the privilege of working with many nurses, chaplains, and practitioners whose care and affection for humanity is just as tireless and true, joy-filled and selfless as this article suggests...and I have been deeply blessed by their example of charity and compassion.   Nancy is one of them. 

Here is a link to the song Nancy sent along with her note... please enjoy "Trouble Me" by Natalie Merchant.

Trouble Me
lyrics by Natalie Merchant

Trouble me, disturb me
with all your cares and you worries.
Trouble me on the days when you feel spent.
Why let your shoulders bend underneath this burden
when my back is sturdy and strong?
Trouble me.

Speak to me, dont mislead me,
the calm I feel means a storm is swelling;
Theres no telling where it starts or how it ends.
Speak to me, why are you building this thick brick wall
to defend me when your silence is my greatest fear?
Why let your shoulders bend underneath this burden
when my back is sturdy and strong?

Speak to me.
Let me have a look inside these eyes
while Im learning.
Please dont hide them just because of tears.
Let me send you off to sleep with a there, there,
now stop your turning and tossing.
Let me know where the hurt is and how to heal.

Spare me? dont spare me anything troubling.
Trouble me, disturb me with all your cares and you worries.
Speak to me and let our words build a shelter from the storm.
Lastly, let me know what I can mend.
Theres more, honestly, than my sweet friend, you can see.
Trust is what Im offering if you trouble me.

Thank you to everyone who has ever let me sit with you in the middle of the night, on Christmas day, or any moment of any day of any year...you have blessed my life with your call. And dear Nancy, thank you for this reminder of "why we do what we do...all my love,
Kate

"Mary, did you know..."

"...Mary, did you know
That your baby boy will one day walk on water?
Mary, did you know
That your baby boy will save our sons and daughters?
Mary, did you know
That your baby boy has come to make you new?
This child that you've delivered
Will soon deliver you..."
-Greene/Lowry

I have thought about this verse from "Mary, Did You Know?" (enjoy this Kathy Matthea version...my favorite) a good deal over the past few weeks.  Both in light of my visit to South Africa where I spent just more than two weeks with my daughter,  and most recently after reading Laura's fascinating and thought-provoking post last week, "Book Review: Do you Know Who Your Children Are?"   I am convinced that our children...who we think are put into our lives as helpless wee ones for us to care for...are really what will save us from ourselves.

As I sat with my daughter on the beach each day...or lay next to her at night before we fell asleep...it became so obvious that this daughter had been critical in giving birth to the best parts of the woman I have become.  My love for her has demanded more honesty, integrity, courage, and true love...than any other person, place, activity, purpose, or thing in my entire life.  

This child that I thought I would play a critical role in "raising"...has raised my expectations of myself.  She has made me want to live in accord with higher standards of womanhood than I could ever even have imagined before she came along.  She, and her sisters,  are the reason I have persisted in my quest for a better understanding of grace.  They are the impetus behind my struggle for a better sense of moral courage rather than a blanket acceptance of cultural paradigms that, in some ways, are as beloved...and defended... as hallowed sacraments.

My baby girl...who I love with every fiber of my being...came not just so that I would have someone to love and care for - and that she would have someone to love and care for her - but to make me new.  She came to make me want to be new and fresh and wise and innocent and good...especially good...every day since her birth.  She came to deliver me from any self-indulgent complacency with my own idiosyncrasies and peculiar way of doing things.  She came to arrest my devolution into self-righteousness and pride.  She came to remind me that I want to be better because I want to give her a better example of loving authentically and living with integrity. 

My baby girl has walked on the unstable water of my mortal insecurities, frailties, and the wishy-washiness of opinions and demanded that I know my God and stand on Truth with absolute trust in His nature as Love...because I want it for her. 

Whenever I have sought a true centering, an unwavering conviction that there is a God, it is my love for my daughters that I rest upon.  This love is so overpowering that I have no response but to yield to its demand on me to be my most God-like.  It has owned me from the day I knew that to "mother" was what I wanted more than anything else in the universe.  This love has borne me, carried me into places I would never have gone unbidden from the moment I knew I was being asked to parent my first child.  This love has strengthened my resolve when I felt like collapsing, released my rigid grasp when terror kept me holding on to something other than God, and caused me to surrender everything in fidelity to its call.  This love is the one thing I am absolutely certain I had nothing to do with creating...and can do nothing to destroy.  It is the thing that leaves me praying every moment of every day:

"Behold, the handmaid of the Lord,
be it unto me according to Thy will."

Dear Father-Mother God...thank you for these daughters, Your unspeakable gifts,
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

Dance....I hope you dance...

"...I hope you still feel small
When you stand by the ocean
Whenever one door closes,
I hope one more opens
Promise me you'll give faith
a fighting chance

And when you get the choice
to sit it out or dance
I hope you dance..."
-     Lee Ann Wommack

My friend, Brooke, posted this Youtube video on her facebook profile with the message: "This is what I want to do with my life now!"



After watching it I can understand why. 

I got a little taste of the spirit of this video during my trip to South Africa over the last few weeks.  Being thousands of miles from anything familiar...except my daughters face...it was easy to see that there are some things that all people have in common.  We all want the same things...we want to feel like we have a reason for dancing...at a beloved child's happy wedding, the success of a friend's new business, our own heart's racing with  the joy and passion of true love, the smile on a neighbor's face when we show up with cookies on Christmas Eve...the triumph of good over evil, honesty over dishonesty, grace over arrogance, and love over hate.

The last leg of my travel took me into, and through, a long night on a crowded (not an empty seat to be found) jet...or should I say a bus on wings!  By the time we reached Washington/Dulles International airport in D.C. we were tired from trying to sleep in narrow seats, an hour late, all rushing to get through customs, collect checked baggage, re-clear it through ATS, and jump on shuttles that would taxi us to new gates for connecting flights.  Forty-five frantic minutes after our plane touched down I was standing at the gate for my flight to St. Louis only to discover that it would be delayed another four and a half hours. 

I decided to wait with as much grace and joy as I could muster after 36 hours without sleep and vowed to actually celebrate Christmas in Terminal A.  Once I made my pact to do it, and do it with love, I looked around and saw that it wasn't such a bad place to be stuck for the morning.  The shops along the terminal were festooned with pine boughs, glittering strings of tiny white lights, and red velvet bows.  The scent of baked muffins, scones, and bagels from the coffeehop/bakery next to my gate was lovely, and people were smiling.  I decided to smile too.

I wandered the terminal collecting a hot chocolate from the recently naturalized US citizen with three small children who lived 15 miles from the airport and only made minimum wage, but loved making travelers feel welcome in "the capital of our United States of America", and a bagel from the young woman whose ID holder held her official badge on one side and a picture of her at her high school graduation in cap and gown holding her 13 month old daughter who was getting a singing teddy bear for Christmas.  I then settled into a seat at the gate with my knitting and my breakfast to commune with the stranded strangers, and spread my traveling office out on the seat next to me.

Within minutes I saw a familiar face.  It was the jolly man from the first row in economy on my long transatlantic flight, who had greeted me with a smile each time I exited the business class loo (I was such a rebel...I think he felt we were in cahoots in defying the "this loo is for first class passengers only" message from the cabin crew) and made me feel like we were part of a "community" way back there in the cheaper seats.

He, his mom, and sister were now waiting for their connecting flight at the gate next to mine and we easily struck up a conversation.  They lived in Capetown and had traveled to the states for the holidays to visit a son/brother in Atlanta.  Before long we were sharing andecdotes and laughter.  At one point the sister...who now felt like an old friend...said, "I don't know how other women balance work and motherhood..."  A trailing sentence that left me with a sense of sisterhood after only 30 minutes of conversation and 10,000 miles of shared misery on an Airbus 349. 

I suddenly realized that we were not from different cultures or places, we were from the same place.  The place that all mothers share as a homeland...the place where we want to be good mothers and yet also give our children an example of living lives of contribution and vision, purpose and passion.  We were sisters of the same Mother who had vested us with a desire to "do it right"...whatever "right" was....

This realization was like waking to a larger sense of family.  It was reminiscent of an experience I had as a child when looking up at the windows of an apartment building late one night while driving through a random Midwest city on a family vacation I caught a glimpse of a couple talking in their kitchen.  For the first time I realized that the universe did not revolve around me.  These people did not even know I existed and yet they had full lives with cares and interests I didn't even know about.  It was paradigm shifting for me then...and it was paradigm re-aligning for me last week.

As I go about my days preparing for the holidays...I pray that I can remember that people everywhere are looking for an opportunity to dance.  I hope my smile, some small kindness shown or good deed done can give them reason to kick up their heels and celebrate the life we share as children of the same joy-inspiring homeland.

Thanks Brooke...for reminding me of how I want to live my life, II Samuel says it best..."And David danced before the Lord with all his might"....I'm with David on this one!
Kate

"I surrender, I surrender..."

"...Constantly my mind and my heart is racing
All by myself trying to solve all these problems I'm facing
Looking to man trying to find hope
But man will never know the depth of my struggles
I was depending on myself
To give myself a hand
But when depending on myself
Fell time again
And that's why I'm standing here alone
With no one else
Lord, I realised that I can't fight these battles by myself

I surrender
I surrender
I surrender to you Lord
I surrender
I surrender
I surrender to you Lord
I surrender
I surrender
I surrender to you Lord
Coming out with both hands up
I surrender..."
-     R. Kelly  "I Surrender"

I was looking at the topical index on this blog and discovered that the subject of "surrender" is the one I have written the most about in the last few years.  It made me smile.  33 pieces that focus, in some way, on the subject of surrender.  The second was "adoption"....hmmm.  Not surprising...they go together.  They are so inherently linked that I can no longer imagine one, without the other.  Mary Baker Eddy says, in her article, "The New Birth":

"...The new birth is not the work of a moment.
It begins with moments,
and goes on with years;
moments of surrender to God,
of childlike trust and joyful adoption of good;
moments of self-abnegation, self-consecration,
heaven-born hope, and spiritual love."

As an adoptive mom I had to learn to surrender...surrender my romantic models of what it meant to be a mother, surrender control of the process, and over and over again...surrender my children to...well, not being "my children"...but children I share with everyone that loves them and cherishes their identity, worth, and promise....everyone that "mothers" them. 

Surrender and adoption characterize every little (and big) corner of my life.  My family, my work, my home, my calling, my prayers, my friendships, my place in the world...everything. 

And yet, as often as I have written about surrender, I have never told the story about how I learned one of my first big lessons in surrendering control, yielding my "right" to have a hand in things that are not mine to direct, and letting go of my plans for what being "right" needed to look, feel, and sound like...even if it's just in my own "head."

I hope you'll bear with me, but it starts with the first time I had a full body massage.  I had completed work with a new client, and in the envelope with her payment, was a note in which she extended a generous invitation.  She asked that I please accept the gift of her professional services...an aromatherapy massage.

At first blush (and I really mean blush) I hesistated for a number of cultural reasons...but only briefly.  She had become a loved member of my community circle through our work together and was offering a gift from her heart and her life...I could only accept her gift in the way it was intended...and I did.   But then my real hesitation started to scream...I didn't want to undress and be touched by anyone...much less a new friend I had begun a professional relationship with!  But over and over again I couldn't help but remembered the sincerity of her offer and her use of the word "gift."  And so I put my extreme modesty aside and called to set up an appointment for as far out on the calendar as I could without making my avoidance issues obvious.  But each day, that appointment drew closer and closer, until her name was staring up from the pages of my calendar and I couldn't cancel it gracefully.

I arrived at her studio...then housed in a lovely old vicotrian mansion near my home...one cold, gray late November afternoon. I was a shivering, teeth-chattering nervous wreck.  I was about to get naked with a peer.  This was a very new experience for me.  I was not at ease with my body.  I was not comfortable with having my body seen, much less touched.  We were friends, but this was a bit more than I was ready to do for a friendship.  I almost had myself talked out of the massage and into a quick cup of hot chocolate...my treat of course...at our neighborhood coffeehouse, when she came into the waiting room and greeted me with a steaming mug of herbal tea, the perfume of lavender and eucalyptus oil trailing her every soft step. 

I found myself at ease in the glow of her gentle eyes and shy smile.  I could see that this was a stretch for her too.  I was not a "client" that had come to her for therapeutic services, I was a new friend she had courageously offered her gifts to.

Once in her small, but warmly lit and softly scented studio she showed me where I could hang my clothes and invited me to make myself comfortable on the massage table between crisp white sheets and warmed quilts. 

When she returned to the room I was again tense and nervous.  I had never been comfortable with being touched and this was going a bit far.  But I decided if I was going to do this...and there was no graceful way to back out at that point...I would be a very good massagee...I would anticipate when she needed resistance, cooperation, I would be chatty...like I was with my hairdresser...entertaining and curious about her life, her children, her dreams.  I would be the best client she ever had. 

Once she began, however I wasn't a bit comfortable.  I was feeling like a failure.  I wasn't getting it right and I knew it even though she never said a thing.  I would push back against the pressure of her hands on my shoulders, I would hold in my stomach when she had me turn on my back, I lifted my head when she attempted to softly roll my neck from side to side...and I talked and talked and talked. 

Finally, I said, "I am so sorry that I'm not a good client.  I just don't have much experience at this and I don't know what to do to help you."

She softly said, "nothing...you need to do nothing.  Just surrender to my hands.  I think this will be the hardest thing you have ever done, no? But, I can only do my job if you aren't trying to do my job too.  Shall we start over?" she asked.  I started to cry.  Silent tears ran down my temples and pooled in my ears.  She never mentioned them, just dried them with a soft towel and helped me learn how to surrender.

I learned that I could completely let the weight of my head fall in her hands and trust her to not twist it off my neck.  I learned that when you agree to let someone care for you, you must not try to take control or attempt to anticipate their next move so that you can work with them in providing what you assume will be helpful...resistance or cooperation.  I learned that it is important to just let...let your self...your self-determinism...go, and allow your life, your plans, your body be moved into place by Someone else.

It was one of the most instructive two hours of my spiritual life.  It was like a practicum in surrender...a lab on yielding.  I am still returning to that afternoon on a massage table...underneath cool sheets and a warm quilt...when I need to remember the posture of letting go, surrendering to God's care, Her plan, Her strategy for aligning the body of my life, my work, my family, my world, with Her intent.

Often when I am lying on the floor of my "office" praying, I am mentally and spiritually re-enacting that time when silencing the need to hear the sound of conversation to assure me that I am doing my part in a relationship, yielding my desire to be "helping" the real Doer, and surrendering to Her touch, Her moving of my heart...the body of my affections...and adopting the direction of Her intent...the greatest good...for me, and mine, and all, made all the difference.

I have included a link to R. Kelly's "I Surrender" it is so powerful.  I hope you will take the time to listen to it, perhaps even while you are reading this piece...

with love...and in surrender,
Kate

"Write my story..."

"So now I pray
That You would write my story
That night and day
My heart would burn for You..."
-     Air Five

One day, a few years ago I visited a dear friend in his office. He is a best selling author and I was both inspired, and fascinated, by what I discovered. Inspired as a spiritual thinker, and fascinated as a writer.

At the time, he was deeply engaged in the writing of his latest book and spread across one wall was a chart laying out every character's movements through the course of the book's timeline.  Even those characters who would only show up for one scene, the ending, or just a small skirmish in the middle of the book, had a full lifeline.  He knew where each character was... whether their name appeared on the page during that moment or not. He was invested in their character development, their life's course...what they were doing, eating, seeing...who they were loving or arguing with...regardless of their placement in the story, throughout the entire life of the story.

He was the author, and the characters in his book were fully developed, fully resourced, fully cared for by him no matter where, when, or how often they appeared in the breadth of the book's storyline,  or how "important" they appeared to be...to the reader.

Many years ago I heard a lecture by a very distinguished spiritual teacher from Australia.  During the course of his talk, he briefly referred to God as "the great Author" in our life stories.  I don't remember him elaborating on the point beyond saying that the characters in God's stories can't step off the page He has put them on, and strike out on their own.  They can't screw up (I'm sure those weren't his words), they can't decide to be something different than what the Author intended, they can't take on battles or initiate plotlines that are not in the Author's story.   I loved this way of thinking about my own life.  I was locked in God's version of my story...not my own.

Standing in my friend's office that day I could see how invested the Author is...in each of His characters.  None of His characters gets put on the shelf while other characters have exciting chapters, not one of His characters is left to languish in Chapter 3 while the hero is successfully brandishing a light saber "against the wiles of the devil" in Chapter 8.  There are no throw-away characters in our Author's divine story.   Each of us is fully developed, fully known,  and fully written in on His story wall. 

He doesn't wait for us to prove we are worth writing into the story...the fact that we are in the story at all, proves we are already known, and loved, by this Author.  He doesn't ask us to weigh in on our own potential success as a character, He doesn't wait until we leap off the page to write a really good scene for us.  He, and He alone is the "author and finisher" of our story.

When I am reading a good book, I don't wonder if the character in the story who is waiting at the bus stop has bus fare.  If he is at the bus stop, I am sure that the author has written the ability to pay the bus fare into the character's identity. If the character lives in a Manhattan loft and summers (don't you love it when seasons become verbs...my friend Kelly and I can't wait until we can authentically use "summer" and "winter" as verbs...in the first person...in our conversations...but I digress) in the Hamptons, I don't wonder if she can play her mortgage, furnish the loft, or find transportation to a tennis weekend in South Hampton...it's part and parcel to the Author's intent for the character, and he gets to write the story any way He likes.

Our Author is a good Guy.  He only writes good stories with good, well-sourced and clearly intended characters....us.

My brother was visiting yesterday and while he was here we took the time to hang a hand-painted sign on the archway into our kitchen that says..."Home is where the story begins".

Since I dwell in Him...in God...He is my "home".  Since my story dwells in the heart and the mind of The Author, I am safe and secure, sound and well-intentioned.  Every character written into this story with me is developed and sustained...word by word, line by line, chapter by chapter...by an Author who weaves a tale that is always...and only...good.  We live and move and have our being in His intent, in His Mind...we can't escape the goodness of this story...we can't climb off the page and jump into another book.  We are securely held on these pages by this Author....and He knows us.  Whether our role in a particular chapter seems (to us...or others) critical, minor, or altogether silent...He has us in Mind and never lets us go.  We live on His story wall and it's a good place to be. And in my story, He is always the Hero.

Write my story dear Father...I trust your intent for me.

Always your daughter...
Kate

"our meek and bold Defender..."

"for God is all, and Christ the way;
our meek and bold Defender,
has cleft the night and lo, the day
bursts forth in might splendor..."
L.C.Nourse

I had always wanted to be an attorney. A civil liberties attorney to be specific. I wanted to argue cases in defense of human rights and social justice.  I wanted to stand with those who were facing intimidation and persecution -- before a judge, and a jury of their peers.

Don't get me wrong, teaching school, book and media publishing, practicing spiritual healing, and volunteering in my community, were all wonderful chapters in my life story, but someday - sigh.  Yes, someday I would graduate from law school, take the bar exam, and hang my shingle. I couldn't imagine anything more fulfilling than defending the innocent, and defeating injustice.

Of course, there was no question -- I would continue practicing spiritual healing part-time -- weekends and evenings. Hadn't I always held more than one job?   This chapter would be no different.

Everything seemed poised for finally entertaining this dream a few decades ago. I was between secondary careers. I thought I finally had it all figured out.  I would shift my practice of spiritual healing to a more part-time schedule.  A schedule that would blend with the demands of law school.

Having passed the LSATs, I found a law school within a reasonable commute of our home.  I filled out the application, and was accepted.  All I needed to do was send in the enrollment deposit - which would hold my place while I sought financial aid, loans, scholarships, grants, etc.  I was ready to do whatever it took. But that's right where God jumped in and stopped me in my tracks.

It was a clear, crisp winter day. I had spent the morning studying Scripture, praying for clear direction, and listening for inspiration. It seemed as if the way was clear for taking the next step. I pulled my checkbook from the desk drawer, wrote the modest deposit check to the University for what - at the time - seemed to be so much more than we could afford.  I popped it in the pre-addressed envelope, and pulled on my jacket before heading down the stairs.  I almost out the door and on my way to the post office. It was just a baby step, but I was ready to take it.

As I headed down the long flight of stairs - from our loft to the street level entrance of our building - an inner voice suggested, "Why don't you look up the word "Comforter" in Strong's Bible Concordance before you leave?"

In my Bible study that morning there had been a citation that included a reference to the promised "Comforter." As I'd read it, it had occured to me that I had never really gotten a solid sense of the word's meaning in the original language - as it related to the context of Jesus' message.

At the time, I had been too busy thinking about law school, and whether we could afford for me to write that deposit check. Much too busy in my listening for direction, to stop and grab the concordance off the shelf. I'd do it later. And here it was, later. But now I needed to get to the post office, or I might never - again - have the confidence to even begin thinking that I deserved to live out this dream.

As I continued down the stairs, and placed my hand on the doorknob, it was as if someone had wired that doorknob with an electrical current. As I grabbed it, the voice came again. And this time, it was so forceful that it seemed almost audible, "Go look up the word Comforter!" Well, I may be headstrong, but I am not disobedient.

I sprinted up the stairs.  Now in a hurry to do what I was being strongly urged to do -- since I still needed to get to the post office before the end of the day so that the deposit would reach the University before the deadline. So, I pulled the heavy volume off the shelf, quickly finding the related Hebrew, Greek, and Aramaic definitions of the word "Comforter."

As my eyes fell on the last definition, I almost gasped. It read, "counsel for the defense". I sat back, heavily, in my chair, and folded my hands in my lap. A stillness descended over my shoulders like a soft mantle of clarity and peace.

"This is the kind of Law I really want to practice," I thought. "This is the Law I believe in and love. I can work in this Law office forever."

I could see that God, divine Love was the only Law. And that the Christ was the Comforter, -- the "counsel for the defense." I could be working for this law office from that day forward. From then on, my spiritual practice was no longer modeled after a healthcare provider/clinic, but a law firm -- no longer therapeutic, but constitutional.

It was easy to set aside my dream-practice with the American Civil Liberties Union. For me, this was the ultimate practice of defending human rights. This would be like clerking for the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. And yes, I knew there would be moments when I would be the receptionist, then the stenographer, the bookkeeper, the public relations liaison, the office janitor, the law clerk - with her head buried in the law library. But I also knew that the Christ would always be the head of the firm -- the one and only Chief Counsel.

As I looked at the books lying open on my desk that day -- the Bible and Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures by Mary Baker Eddy -- I realized that I had a complete law library sitting right in front of me. The Bible gave me a complete and comprehensive resume of precedent setting cases to cite in the court of Spirit. And Science and Health told me how to write a brief -- a treatment, in defense of man's inalienable spiritual right to freedom from sin, sickness and death.

Years earlier, I had taken two weeks of class-instruction with an experienced and wise "law professor," a teacher of Christian Science. This "law school," had fully prepared me for hanging my shingle. I would work for the one, and only, original Public Defender.

I never sent that check to the University. And I have never regretted it. I committed my life to an unwavering career in spiritual law, from that day forward.

In the ensuing decades, I have enjoyed a rich and satisfying career in this practice of spiritual Law. Each client who has crossed the threshold of this office has had the benefit of being lovingly cared for by our Chief Counsel - divine Truth and Love. As the receptionist I hope that I have received each client warmly and with grace. As His paralegal, I have taken careful notes that I could go over with Him, in prayerful consultation in His chambers. As His law clerk, I have never found the Bible wanting, as I searched for a precendent-setting cases to cite to when defending our client's divine rights in the courtroom of Spirit. As His billing clerk -- well, I am still learning much -- as this is the job that I have struggled with most.

I love this office. I have a great boss who cares for His clients' spiritual liberties with a Father-like devotion to justice, and a Mother-like perseverence in defense of Her children's divine rights. I serve a Chief Justice who never leaves anyone languishing in prison because of an unjust sentence. And even when a harsh sentence might seems reasonable, He lovingly reminds us all that justice is always "the handmaid of mercy."

So, it's back to work.


with Love,


Kate Robertson, CS - Esq.
Kate

"Show me the river that leads to my home..."

"...Show me the river that leads to my home
back to the one that I love
show me the wind that constantly blows
and I will fly away, fly away home..."
- EastMountainSouth "Show Me the River"*

For the most part, when I have wandered off course it has always been in a way that, to a casual onlooker, might go unnoticed.  And although to someone glancing in my direction it may seem as if I am still sitting in my normal place...in the chair by the window...I'm sometimes quite alone and far away  My wanderings sometimes take me so far away from "home" that I am left shivering inside like an abandoned pioneer child on the windswept edges of a barren winter prairie...grasses beige with cold and the sky steely and lowering with a gathering storm in the East.

This "space" of desolation was where I found myself bedded down one night a few years back.  Long after my family was fast asleep under heavy quilts...dreaming with heads upon soft downy pillows, I was tossing and turning on the hard frozen ground of a Kansas prairie...or so it felt.   I finally realized that I'd mentally left my warm bed, when I found I was shivering, arms wrapped around me, as if I were grasping a threadbare shawl about my shoulders in order to stay warm.  It was this very clutching of "my tatters close about me" that wakened me from the aimless mental wandering and stopped me in my tracks, and allowed the words from East Mountain South's "Show Me the River" to penetrate through a deep-seated cold, bringing the much-needed inspiration that would begin to wing me "homeward".

I love rivers.  I love the spiritual metaphors they evoke, the visual inspiration I find while sitting on their banks, the realization that a congregation of individual drops of water when flowing in a single direction can carve canyons out of mountains and buoy a fleet of schooners down the Nile, the Amazon, or the St. Lawrence.  But mostly, I love Mary Baker Eddy's definition of "River" in Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures: 

" Channel of thought. When smooth and unobstructed,
it typifies the course of Truth; but muddy, foaming,
and dashing, it is a type of error."

It was this definition, following EastMountainSouth's wake-up call to me while I lay cold and shivering on that barren stretch of mental prairie, that pointed me in the direction that would lead "home".   I could imagine lowering myself into the calm waters of a warm river, a channel of thoughts...smooth and unobstructed. When rocks or debris crossed my path, the river would either flow around them...dismissing them as inconsequential...or calmly and persistently dissolve the hardness of those suggestions with an unrelenting spiritual confidence.  Any rigidity in my thinking, any suggestion that I should be afraid, doubt the "supremacy of Spirit" or ever think that my life...or the life of anyone...was out of His control, was washed away in the affluence of God's abiding Love.

Having reached new mental shores I could rise up out of the river's arms, be dried by the warm sunshine of Soul's ever-reminding evidence of beauty, love, and peace surrounding me and calling to me from every direction...the gentleness of my daughter's touch, the precise placement of the stars hanging above me in the cloudless winter sky, the constancy of Life proven in every leaf that falls and bud that bursts from the rich Spring soil...then allow myself to be lifted and carried by the winds of Spirit towards the familiar landscapes of peace, faith, and grace-filled moments of trust in His care.

"Wind" is my other favorite spiritual "element." a term that Eddy, in part, defines as:

"That which indicates the might of omnipotence
and the movements of God's spiritual government,
encompassing all things."

I like thinking of myself (and others) as God-blown, God-carried, God-choreographed, God-sent, God-breathed...as a blessing upon the earth.   Not one of my movements is self-determined or "born of a woman"...even myself...but borne on the wings of God's divine breath.

As I let myself be carried from the cold barren landscape of fear and doubt by a river of trust and faith, around the inconsequential obstacles of confusion and the boulders of self-doubt,  dissolving the bleak suggestions of "remember when" and "what if"....I could feel the constancy of His deep, low song, "I am All, I am here"...singing me all the way home.

Finding my way onto the shores of His kingdom within...I could finally rest in His arms...I was home.

If you find yourself far from home in the middle of a dark night of doubt, or even in the glaring light of a busy day, lower yourself into the river of God's presence, surrender to the constant flow of His peace-filled thoughts, be carried towards new landscapes of opportunity for blessing others, then rising and rising on the winds of His breath... let yourself be God-blown towards home.

with Love,
Kate

*this is the only video I could find with the soundtrack of this song...if you don't like superman, I'm sorry...please feel free to just listen to the music.

"Little darling, it's been a long, cold, lonely winter..."

"Little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter
Little darling, it feels like years since it's been here
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
and I say it's all right

Little darling, the smiles returning to the faces
Little darling, it seems like years since it's been here
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
and I say it's all right

Sun, sun, sun, here it comes..."
George Harrison "Here Come the Sun" *

I was a 14 year old junior high school student when the very cool and beautiful coed sister of my friend and neighbor Sam (not his real name) Nelson returned home for Spring break her freshman year of college having been bitten by the bug of political activism.  We loved her.  She was not only cool and beautiful, but smart and passionate...and Bobby Kennedy's candidacy was her reason for existing that Spring.  She was going to campaign during her break and we, her young admirers, were going to be her army of canvassers.   We loved it...I really loved it.  I loved thinking that I could make a difference in the world.  I felt a new sense of purpose in knowing that when I knocked on the front doors of identical homes in the seemingly endless string of cul-de-sacs in our subdivision, I was part of something bigger than myself.

I studied every piece of campaign literature that my role model had brought home from college with her. I started reading newspapers and magazines at the public library and talking to my parents about the choices they would  make through the power of their vote later that Fall. I began caring about something larger than my own small world of dance rehearsals, yearbook editorial meetings, clothes, and pop music.  My tastes expanded with my sense of the world, and I felt like a bird set free.  I was no longer just a suburban kid, I was a global activist for peace and social responsibility. I began listening to folk artists like Joan Baez, Bob Dylan, Pete Seeger, and The Weavers whose protest songs were to become the soundtrack for a generation of awakening global citizens.   Each conversation with a neighborhood voter helped me find my voice and my courage. 

Sam's sister returned to college leaving behind her a wake of passion and hope as wide and as long as the road we have all traveled in the last 40 years.

I continued to campaign and canvass for Bobby that Spring with a group of kids from our neighborhood who, I believe, realized that we wanted what she had.  We wanted passion, purpose, and to be inspired by a vision...one of peace, brotherhood, and care for others.  Later that summer Bobby Kennedy was assassinated in Los Angeles, demonstrators at the Democratic National Convention were beaten on the streets of Chicago and my political activism got put in a shoebox with the Bobby Kennedy campaign button and a thank you note Sam's sister had sent me from college...after I sent her a barrage of fan mail...following her Spring Break visit.   But my devotion to social responsibility and human rights advocacy never waned.  I've campaigned for causes and candidates I believe in, written newspaper editorials, gotten angrier than I want to remember, and prayed vigorously that love would govern and guide world leaders, community organizers, voters, the governed...and most especially my own thoughts, words, and activism.

Tuesday night as I watched more than 200,000 people gather on the lawn of Chicago's Grant Park and in celebration around the world, I felt like that 14 year old girl again.  I have been deeply touched by so many recent memories: our eleven year-old daughters canvassing in a suburban neighborhood for the candidate they had chosen to support even though they couldn't vote, the dignity of poised public servants in the face of vicious attacks on character, my husband's voice on the phone with his mother explaining policy and untangling rhetoric.   I was moved beyond measure by the image of Jesse Jackson weeping, unabashedly, in Grant Park with men, women and children from all genders, races, ages, backgrounds and neighborhoods. 

In his tears I could see the unstoppable outpouring of invincible courage, unyielding vision, irrepressible compassion, and fathomless, audacious hope lived, and died for, by human rights pioneers like Rosa Parks, Mahatma Ghandi, Martin Luther King, Nelson Mandela, Abraham Lincoln...and yes, Bobby Kennedy and his brothers...each drop, one of a million, trillion tears flowing like a salty balm of healing and redemption over all the earth and through the streets of Chicago.  Countless tears gathering into a raging, rushing river of compassion that would carve out a space from the rock-ribbed hardness of selfishness and apathy where our hopes could gather, pool, and provide "living waters for the thirsty".

The span of forty years seems so truncated and comprensible today...like the columns of a spreadsheet collapsed so that you can see both the first and last column on the computer screen at the same time.  For the 14 year old girl in me...and the 54 year old wife, mother, woman and human rights activist...it all makes sense somehow.

I am still weeping....
Kate
*For those of you who love George Harrison and "Here Comes the Sun" as much as I do, here is another version performed by George with Paul Simon.

"Love has one race, one realm, one power..."

"Now is the time approaching,
By prophets long foretold,
When all shall dwell together,
One Shepherd and one fold.
Now Jew and Gentile, meeting
From many a distant shore,
Around one altar kneeling,
One common Lord adore.

Let all that now divides us
Remove and pass away,
Like shadows of the morning
Before the blaze of day.
Let all that now unites us
More sweet and lasting prove,
A closer bond of union,
In a blest land of love."
- J.W. Elliott

The following second stanza from "The New Century" found in Mary Baker Eddy's small volume of published poetry, Poems, is singing through my heart today.  I will let it speak in "eloquent silence" to each of you:

"...Tis writ on earth, on leaf and flower:
Love hath one race, one realm, one power.
Dear God! how great, how good Thou art
To heal humanity's sore heart;
To probe the wound, then pour the balm —
A life perfected, strong and calm.
The dark domain of pain and sin
Surrenders — Love doth enter in,
And peace is won, and lost is vice:
Right reigns, and blood was not its price."

-Mary Baker Eddy

Kate