Help When We Need It

My dad told me a story about something mysterious that happened when I was born in a hospital in Decatur, Illinois in the early 60s. My mom had been very sick and she went into labor six weeks early. When I arrived, no one expected me to live because my lungs were full of fluid and I was unable to breathe on my own. My dad was working in Chicago at the time and remembers the phone call he received from my grandmother: Instead of saying “You have a baby daughter,” she said, “You’d better make funeral arrangements.”

When my father arrived in Decatur the next morning, he didn’t know what he would find at the hospital. To his surprise, the nurse led him to the nursery window, where he could look in and see me in an incubator—tiny, red, but still alive. The nurse told him that she’d heard that a young intern had sat beside my bed all night long, squeezing a bulb aspirator that manually inflated my tiny lungs until they were strong and dry enough to begin taking over on their own. When morning arrived, the young intern disappeared without a word—and no one on the floor knew who he was, where he came from, or where he went.

I have noticed throughout my life that in every sad, scary, or tragic circumstance, there are always people—some might say, angels—who are there to help us in one form or another. A person has just the answer we need when we’re trying to figure out how to solve a big problem. Just when we give up trying to find directions to a place we’re trying to find, we discover the road we’ve been looking for. In a moment when we’re feeling hopeless and discouraged, a friend shows up with something that lifts our spirits. We get messages of hope in songs, in prayers, in smiles, in sunrises.

It reminds me of a story I heard a long time ago in which a father and daughter are sitting on the front porch when the little girl hears the sound of a siren not far away. She looks worried and says to her dad, “I hate to hear that sound—I know it means somebody is hurt somewhere.” Her dad thought for a moment and then hugged her tight. “It might mean they are hurting right this moment,” he said, “but it also means help is on the way.”

My hope for us today is that we remember that help is all around us in the moments we need it most, and that even when we’re hurt, sick, frightened, or confused help is on the way.

God's Prayers

This morning I was reading Carolyn Myss's book Why People Don't Heal and How They Can in preparation for a paper I'm writing on the role of religion in American medicine. She had just related a story a woman shared in one of her workshops: in the midst of a near-fatal traffic accident, the woman had an out-of-body experience in which she saw what was happening from a hundred feet above the accident. She could hear how people were reacting in the cars behind hers on the busy expressway--some were traumatized by what they saw, some were panicking about being late for appointments, and from one car about five cars back, she saw a beautiful swirl of light, coming up to the clouds and going back to her car. She realized the woman was praying for her. I loved that image and imagined someone in need suddenly receiving in a very real way beautiful swirls of light from everyone who comes to support them in prayer.

Just then, the sun broke through the clouds for the first time this morning and touched my shoulder and the back of my head. Feeling the warmth, I thought, "Oh, there goes God again, praying for us." What a wonderful idea! That our beloved Creator not only knows, loves, guides, protects, and walks with us through our days, but sends the kiss of prayer to our lives daily, moment by moment, in beautiful swirls of light and love we can experience in any moment we are willing.

Enjoy the swirls of light that come your way today!

God's Answering Machine

I just love this poem I read in the Writer's Almanac newsletter this morning and wanted to share it with you. I think of my own voice and my face over dinner each day, with my hungry kids waiting, forks poised, and my husband hoping I don't launch into anything other than the usual, "Please bless our family and our food, and thank you for this day" kind of prayer. In my heart, I would love for that moment to be about thanking God for all the good things that have happened that day...but everyone else seems to see it as a gateway to mealtime. Ah well. Perhaps one day they will have an experience like this author had:


Grace
by Linda Pastan, from The Last Uncle © W.W. Norton.

When the young professor folded
his hands at dinner and spoke to God
about my safe arrival
through the snow, thanking Him also
for the food we were about to eat,
it was in the tone of voice I use
to speak to friends when I call
and get their answering machines,
chatting about this and that
in a casual voice,
picturing them listening
but too busy to pick up the phone,
or out taking care of important
business somewhere else.
The next day, flying home
through a windy
and overwhelming sky, I knew
I envied his rapport with God
and hoped his prayers
would keep my plane aloft.

Rugged and Old

Occasionally I bump into people I know I could never have met without divine assistance. Not long ago, I had one of those blessed contacts. It was a chance meeting with a man my father's age. In the middle of our brief conversation, he suddenly said, "Would you like to hear how I came to know the Lord?"

He told me that 35 years ago, he'd been in a bar with his best friend on a Friday night. They were doing the usual--drinking, smoking, killing time. On this particular night, the bar manager decided to open up the stage for a kind of singing contest. It was before the days of Karaoke, but something similar. Although he'd never wanted to be up in front of a crowd before, he jumped to his feet. "Come with me," he said to his friend. The friend looked at him like he was crazy for a minute and then agreed. They made their way to the stage.

Together they turned the pages on the songbook, trying to find a song they both knew. There was only one they both recognized: "The Old Rugged Cross." The man looked at me incredulously and shook his head. "I have no idea how I knew that song," he said. "I'd never been to church in my life. I had never thought twice about God before that."

He and his friend began to sing the hymn. He laughed, remembering. "You should have seen that place clear out! I think they thought the roof was going to fall in."

But then his eyes filled with tears. "You know, after we finished singing, I went back to my seat. But God was already working with me. The words of that song were sinking in. After that, I started noticing God wherever I went. That's what started it all...and I'm so grateful to him."

Thank you, God, for your consistent, constant, abiding welcome; for the way in which you touch us and reach us; for the amazing and creative ways you hold us close. Thank you for loving us so much that you come and stay with us wherever we are--in a smokey bar, stuck in traffic, sitting in a cubicle, alone in the kitchen, or in the middle of a congregation on a Sunday morning. We thank you for the softening and transforming that's happening in our hearts even now. May we be a blessing to you and to each other this day. Amen.

New Steps

Last Friday I was walking across the Earlham campus, heading toward my car. All was quiet except for a cardinal singing in the top of an ancient tree; the snow stretched before me, a collection of interweaving and dividing paths, memories of others who had journeyed this way before me.

As I trudged toward my car, I suddenly noticed that I was very intentionally (but unconsciously) stepping into places that still offered fresh snow--I was making new footprints and not stepping into the steps of those who'd gone before. I was curious about the change in me. I remember, as a child, carefully stepping into existing footprints to avoid getting snow in my shoes, slipping on unnoticed ice, or experiencing that unpleasant sensation of stepping on ice covered snow for a bare moment and then falling through--crunch!--to the soft snow underneath.

But on this day, for whatever reason, I had mysteriously made a shift from path follower to trail maker. Looking back, my footsteps showed where I came from and how direct (and indirect!) the path had been.

May we each feel a renewed sense of readiness and confidence as we create our own footsteps--together with God--through the adventure of our day! :)

Bits of Glass

I saw on the Writer's Almanac newsletter I receive every morning that today is the birthday of Anton Chekov. The last quote of the article is attributed to him: "Chekhov said, "Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass."


I know of my work in chaplaincy how the circumstances in our lives can get broken when something upsetting, frightening, or tragic occurs. Telling someone "God loves you and is with you" doesn't help because it's far and distant--like the moon--even though I believe it is certainly true. But helping someone (and this goes for my own brokenness, too) notice where in their lives God is reflected in those broken pieces...where is God working in our lives today?...brings the realization that nothing--not illness, injury, loss, calamity, poverty, doubt, anger, or failure--can separate us from God's love. God's here right now. We just need to let ourselves look at the broken pieces and see the reflection.

First One Out There

This morning I was sitting at the table in the kitchen with a steaming mug of coffee cupped my hands, looking out at the bitterly cold morning. The sun was just beginning to light the sky. A lone duck swam across the lake. A few stars still glimmered in the west. And suddenly the song of a bird came, loud and clear, ringing out from one of the trees beside the house.

A bird? Singing? It's six degrees! I thought, as a feeling of warmth and remembering--and gratitude--swept through me. How odd and wonderful and brave of that little bird to find something to sing about when it's six degrees and the sun isn't even up yet. How amazing that God whispers in the ear of a dove to bring an olive branch back to Noah to give him a sign of land. How perfect that we can sometimes be signs of hope for each other long before our relationships are healed, our health improves, our burdens lighten. May we each be aware of the signs of hope we are for each other today and have our eyes and hearts open to receive the hope others bring to us.

Blessings on your day!

Transcendent God

The curator of a local museum, the Eiteljorg, was interviewed on our public radio station this morning, and she described a new Georgia O'Keefe exhibit opening tomorrow. She talked about O'Keefe's ability to find the infinite in the most earthy places. This reminds me of some of my favorite saints--St. Teresa of Avila, St. Francis of Assisi, St. John of the Cross. Something about finding God in the guts and reality of our lives really moves me. It's as though the closer we get to God the more we find Him--not as a distant Sunday abstraction--but right here, in the ice on the sidewalk and the new laugh lines around our eyes. God seems to call us deeper into an embrace with our own creatureliness, our humanity, and we are so surprised--and overjoyed!--to find Him there. Our journey isn't as far as we thought.

Here's something about O'Keefe I found on the Eiteljorg's web site (art image is from Art.com)"In "Pelvis with Distance" (1943), [O'Keefe] painted the sky through the hole of a bleached pelvis bone that she had picked up in the northern New Mexico desert. O’Keeffe painted pelvis bones because she “was most interested in the holes in the bones—what I saw through them—particularly the blue from holding them up in the sun against the sky.”

“When I stand alone with the earth and sky, a feeling of something in me going off in every direction into the unknown of infinity means more to me than anything any organized religion gives me.” --Georgia O'Keefe

May we feel the stretching and spreading of our souls today, as we experience all that God delights to give us.

Well Said

I ran across this quote in a book this morning. It's actually the epitaph of Benjamin Franklin. It made me smile (and nod inside):

The Body of

B. Franklin,

Printer;

Like the Cover of an old Book,

Its Contents torn out,

And stript of its Lettering and Gilding,

Lies here, Food for Worms.

But the Work shall not be wholly lost:

For it will, as he believ'd, appear once more,

In a new & more perfect Edition,

Corrected and amended

By the Author.

Thank God the Author for his continual care and tender molding of us, his Works in Progress. :)

Praying for the Wounded Soul of the World

I read this amazing passage in Flora Slossen Wuellner's book, Prayer, Stress, & Our Inner Wounds and felt it was an appropriate thought to lift up in light of the tsunami tragedy and the continuing heartbreak in Iraq and the Middle East:

"I first began to think seriously about this form of prayer when I was asked to lead a retreat for a church that had recently lost its pastor under circumstances agonizingly traumatic for both pastor and people. As I sat with the group of lay leaders in the church parlor and we talked and prayed together, I became aware that I was not sitting with just a group of hurting bewildered individuals. It was as if the group there had a personality, a soul of its own, that was wounded. I shared my impression, and we began to pray for the wounded memory of the group, as if the group were one person."

What groups are you part of? Has there been a sadness, a frustration, a hurt in your home, in your office, at your church? Is there division and heartache, loss and grief? I love this idea that we can pray for the soul of our families, the spirit of our church, the healing of our nation, the Divine Light of our world . This is prayer on a big, transformative scale, and another way to touch and bless and honor the shared life God has given us.

Unfathomable

The huge wave of the tsunami continues to sweep over us...a horror of tragedy, unspeakable loss, indescribable pain and fear. I've been watching and praying, praying and watching. Remember how Jesus wept over Jerusalem? If we believe that God grieves with us (and I do), how must God's heart be breaking now over such unspeakable pain his children are experiencing? If God loves us with a depth we can't even imagine, how intense must this horror be for him? I pray God brings us all peace and healing and enables us to bring light even into this darkness. Especially I pray for those precious ones having survived this nightmare who now face the days ahead having lost everything--everything--except perhaps the One who, knowingly or unknowingly, grieves with them. God, give us your grace and comfort. And we will do our best to dry your tears.

An Exercise in Futility

Well, my lesson this morning was not as warm and wonderful as yesterday's. Today what I learned had more to do with a battle of wills that I had no choice but to lose. It was outside my control. I was met with an insurmountable obstacle. And his name is Edgar:

I knew that the medicine I was trying to give Edgar would help his breath and make him easier to cuddle on these long winter evenings. I knew that the result (because Edgar loves nothing more in the world than to sit on your lap and have his ears scratched) would be worth the temporary angst brought about by taking and swallowing the liquid medicine. But Edgar was having none of it. And I mean none of it. We struggled for several minutes. I tried a dozen different ways. Each time Edgar flipped up and around, doing everything he could to dodge the medicine, to escape my embrace, to avoid my hands. I finally let out a totally exasperated "Aaaarrrrgggg!!!!" and put him back down on the floor, where he stood looking at me innocently (was that a victorious gleam in his eye?) and wondering when I'd be giving him his breakfast.

I like to start out my mornings with peace, solitude, prayer, quiet. Good feelings. Quiet time with God. But here I stood, in the kitchen, with my heart thumping in my chest and my blood coursing through my veins. I was mad. I'd been bested by a 15-pound Bichon Frise with the worst dog breath I've ever experienced. We call his condition "death breath" and he really needs this medication--otherwise, someday, somebody is going to melt or turn to stone when he breathes on them!

I'd run up against a wall that just wasn't going to move. I'd hit the limit of my ability to control the situation. Suddenly I felt a kinship with the friend whose teenager is totally ignoring her rules about curfew. I felt a stab of understanding for the friend whose father is being transformed by Alzheimer's, who often acts in a way no one else can anticipate or control. I understood the frustration of friends know with bosses who won't listen, spouses who won't forgive, parents who can't forget, bodies that won't heal, ideas that won't go away, addictions that can't be conquered, jobs that can't be found, and homes where peace just doesn't come.

God, please give us the grace to accept the things we cannot change and show us the next step you want us to take. Enable us to relax into your arms in those moments when we hit the wall of someone else's will or circumstances that are beyond our control. Show us what we can do to bring light into our dark times. And give us the courage to follow where you lead. We usually don't know why things are as they are, but we know--and claim--that you love us and know us and are with us in our struggle, and in our peace. The moments that we can't control can offer us jewels of wisdom. Helps us accept those jewels, dear God, and watch for you to show us how these moments can be transformed in your love.

(And please, God, would you do something about Edgar's breath?)

Love to you all today! :) k

Small Things, Faithfully Done

This morning as I awoke I was still hearing the trailing end of a pleasant dream, in which a man's voice said, "Small things, faithfully done, make for a good life." I felt so peaceful when I awoke! Throughout the day, I began to notice small things I might have otherwise missed--getting breakfast for the boys, cuddling the dogs, feeding the cat, telling my husband I loved him, thinking good thoughts about the future, saying a quick prayer, feeling my heart respond to someone's sadness, caring so much and so deeply about so many things. Small things in our day, faithfully, faith-fully done, bring God into our hearts and through us, into our lives--and maybe that light will spill over into someone else's day.

So whether your tasks are big or small today, take heart! You're creating something good. :)

All of Who We Are

This morning wisdom is on my mind. Isn't it amazing to think that all our experiences--from our very earliest moments with our parents, to our most recent interaction with a stranger on the street--is teaching us what we need to know about life? As amazing and spiritual nerve endings, we receive and respond to every happening--internal and external--in our day. The amount of input and output is staggering. Think about it: each time you pet the dog, each time you look up from your work, each time you remember God, each time you forgive yourself, hope for something, feel a wave of sadness, laugh with a friend, you are contributing to the creation of life in this very day.

Wisdom comes pouring from us through all of who we are--through our gifts and our blind spots, from our painful past experiences as the moments that gave us the greatest joy. Miraculously, the wisdom born of the understanding that bubbles up from that still, small voice is available to us in every single moment and act of our lives. We only need to turn the volume of the world down a bit in order to hear it. Even--and maybe especially--in the midst of the rush of the holidays, the wisdom that radiates from all of who we are shines out of us like star atop a Christmas tree.

May you shine bright and proud, knowing that every moment of your life up to this very minute has prepared you to give all of who you are today. We are ready. We are grateful. Shine away! And watch God smile. :)

All Is Well

My dear friend Susan sent the following post to me from an Internet newsletter she receives called Inspiration Peak. It's wonderful! See whether it speaks to you, too:

"How would you feel if you had no fear?
Feel like that.

How would you behave toward other people
if you realized their powerlessness to hurt you?
Behave like that.

How would your react to so-called misfortune
if you saw its inability to bother you?
React like that.

How would you think toward yourself
if you knew you were really all right?
Think like that."

-- Vernon Howard

Holiday Peace

May your gathering this holiday--no matter where you are or who you're with--be filled with divine peace:

• P for experiencing the continual Presence of God
  
  
• E for the Everlasting Love God has for us
  
  
• A for a sense of Angelic Protection and Companionship
  
  
• C for the Care and Kindness we share with others
  
  
• E for a sense of Eternity, which we are living in this moment and all moments.

This holiday, we have much to be thankful for, but to my way of thinking, nothing beats this: We have a God who loves us, who seeks us, who desires our companionship and walks with us through every day, circumstance, trial, and blessing. May we open our hearts to receive a full understanding of this greatest gift and remember, in gratitude, to offer it freely to each other.

Blessings on your holiday!

The Better Angels of Our Nature

For some reason this phrase has been floating around in my head this morning. I looked it up and found that it is from Lincoln's first inaugural address. It seems uncannily timely now:

We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stre[t]ching from every battle-field, and patriot grave, to every living heart and hearthstone, all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.

May our "mystic chords" of unity be touched again--as surely they will be--and may we even today recognize and welcome those better angels who, as the Talmud says, bend over each blade of grass (and each of us), whispering "Grow! Grow! Grow!"

Peace

This day, above all days, is a day of peace. In the hours that stretch before you, God will walk with you and show you where your gifts are needed--a kindness here, a forgiving word there, a touch, a hope, a dream, a vision. Walk in peace today, Dear One, knowing that God takes each step with you, smiling each time your heart responds so naturally in love to those brought across your path.

Grace-Filled Moments

Sunday night, around 1:30 AM, I was called in to the hospital to be with a family who was experiencing a sudden, shocking tragedy. I hurried to the emergency room, full of prayer and confidence that God was already there before me, uplifting, holding, comforting. I walked into the midst of a large gathering of people experiencing every emotion you could imagine--shock, anger, panic, fear, desperate heartache, hopelessness, confusion, bewilderment. But over the next three hours, I was able to see God work, bringing calm, understanding, comfort, and community. Their pain wasn't gone and won't be gone--maybe for months, or years, maybe never. This family, I knew, was changed forever by the loss of their beloved one. But God's grace was there--with each of us individually and together as a group--and as the moments moved quietly by, I saw hurting, scattered people come together and find a sense of peace in their sharing. Even in this darkest moment, they together found support and strength enough to face the day.

I can say without any doubt--because I have seen it over and over again--that Grace is always there, even (and especially) in the moments we are most broken. Knowing that, the words "Be not afraid" become more real, alive, and possible for me. What is there to fear, when we have the certainty that God is working now and in every moment, and that nothing--not shock, anger, panic, fear, desperate heartache, hopelessness, confusion, or bewilderment, not even death itself--can separate us from God's Love?

Hope

I have never in my life been so hopeful on the eve of a national election. And it doesn't have anything to do with who the eventual winner might be--it has everything to do with how awake, aware, and passionate our people are right now. No matter what our views on the issues or the leaders, we care. We are speaking. We are stepping out. We are thinking things through and weighing things out. We are leaning toward our television sets, watching debates in record numbers, registering to vote like never before.

In this election, kids with cell phones barely past voting age have a voice. They are welcomed and wanted--whether they have green hair and pierced eyebrows or button-down collars and Ivy League educations. This election, there is a unifying force--we care. If we were as cynical, disgusted, fed up, and hopeless as we sometimes say we are when it comes to our flawed political system, why would we lift our voices, pass along emails, drive to see candidates, watch the latest news reports, or take the time to vote?

Tonight, on this election eve, I want to jump up and down and say, "Our hope is alive, America!"--and it's right here where God put it, closer than our own heartbeats, in the vision we share of a better world.

Faithful to the Wistful Longing

Leave it up to God to remind me that my reminiscent longing to trail my fingers in the water and be thankful to Him is okay, too. I discussed this passage from Thomas Kelly's A Testament of Devotion yesterday with some friends and thought, "Oh my--that's just what I wrote about this morning!":

Some of you know this holy,recreating Center of eternal peace and joy and live in it day and night. Some of you may see it over the margin and wistfully long to slip into that amazing Center where the soul is at home with God. Be very faithful to that wistful longing. It is the Eternal Goodness calling you to return Home, to feed upon green pastures and walk beside still waters and live in the peace of the Shepherd's presence. It is the life beyond fevered strain.

I love it when something I discover in my day connects so purely with a thought or a leading I've just had. I'm beginning to think that Synchronicity is God's middle name. :)

Enjoy your day!

Add a Comment!

I'm excited--thanks to my daughter (who has now officially surpassed me in technical knowledge), I learned how to add comments to my site. So if you think of an idea or story you want to share--or you just want to say hello--you can click the Comment link at the bottom of each post and add your own message. You've been listening to me for a long time--now you can write and tell me about the wonderful and surprising places God shows up in your life!

Healing Grace

I awoke this morning with a sense of heaviness about the day. I have a lot to do. Obligations I've taken on. Time that needs to be spent on things that matter. Yet inside there's a pressure, a longing, a desire to luxuriate in this Saturday as though I were floating on the lake in a summer afternoon: kicking back, trailing my fingers in the warm water, feeling exuberantly thankful for the blue sky, the warm sun, for God.

But it's not summer anymore, and the fall winds are whipping the curtains against the windowsill and spiraling leaves around the yard. Sparrows glide effortlessly from one tree to the next, riding the wind currents deftly, not thrown by the blustery winds or worried--in this moment, anyway--about preparing for the winter.

What is it about using our gifts that enables us to let go of what we thought we wanted and instead find such joy and gratitude in what we have? Being who I am, doing what I do, and being thankful for it (that's the part I so often forget), dissolves that longing for the "time that was" and fills me with soul-deep gratitude that I can spend this busy morning in the presence of the "One that Is."

May you enjoy this Saturday--and the One you are spending it with!

Holding Life Up for Us To See

I was reading the daily entry from the book Listening To Your Life, and I found this wonderful thought from Frederick Beuchner today:

"The task of the preacher is to hold up life to us; by whatever gift he or she has of imagination, eloquence, simple candor, to create images of life through which we can somehow see into the wordless truth of our lives."

Isn't that powerful? I think it's not something only "preachers" can do but rather something we each can show each other in the mirror of our hearts...you find yourself in me and my experiences, and I find myself in you and yours. Doesn't that sound just like God to think of something so wonderful?

Night Falls

I'M NOTICING MORE TIME FOR QUIET in the fall, more time for twilight, more clouds, more leaves, more stillness. As I walk along the path, it's as though the whole world has been padded just so that my footfalls won't echo too loudly, so that I can hear and tenderly hold the thoughts that are coming together in my mind, so that I can cherish the vital, life-giving surge of gratitude in my heart. There are a million unseen things going on as fall prepares the world for winter. Likewise, there is a lot going on beneath my surface these days, as seeds are scattered and turned under the soil, leaves ride the wind and float to the ground, and my roots reach deep into the earth, ready to nestle for a long and peaceful rest in the arms of God. :)


The beautiful image shown above is a card from the Nature Gallery; Ron Mellott, Photographer.

Letting Go

If I can just let go of...

...who I think I am

...who I want you to perceive me to be

...how I'm supposed to act

...what I should think

...how I ought to see

...and how I think I should respond,

I'll be really here, really free, really ready to experience you and celebrate whatever our spirits want to share in this moment.

Heart or Head

This morning I was thinking about everything I have to do today and feeling a bit overwhelmed. I made a list of MUSTs and noticed a knot of anxiousness in my stomach. I let myself explore that tension a little bit, took a few deep breaths, and reminded myself I really wanted the things I do today to be about love, to flow from my heart and not just from my head.

When I do things from the heart, I am not acting out of fear of letting someone down, failing others' expectations of me, not measuring up, or any other ego-based punishment. I am acting simply because the openness of Love must give...flowing freely outward, expanding, lifting, playing, swirling.

I felt a huge internal shift when I asked myself what it would feel like to do those same things simply because they poured out of my heart, not because I was afraid of what would happen if I didn't get them done on time. I remembered Brother Lawrence, washing pots and pans for God. Wouldn't it be wonderful to be able to do everything in your day simply because you love God? It's worth trying, anyway. I'll let you know how it turns out. :)

Listening to God

This morning the entry in one of my daily devotionals, In God's Care, was about the voice of the ego. As I reflected, I recognized it--the voice of the ego is continually changing, either inflating or deflating us. One moment it tells us we're great, smart, and powerful; and the next it tells us we're insignificant, small, and weak. It expands us in pride or reduces us in shame. The changing of the message seems to have to do with the circumstances outside us--if something big happens that makes us feel stupid, the ego chastizes us; if something wonderful happens that makes us feel capable, the ego sings our praises. Neither of these happenings have to do with what or who we really are. That's what the voice of God within us tells us: "Beloved, Beloved, Beloved."

I believe that God's voice is constant and pure--not rushing, not shouting, not trying to make a point. God's voice gently, consistently reminds us of our deepest truth--we are loved and loving, purposeful and precious--just the way we are.

[Note: In God's Care is a small devotional book published for individuals and families recovering from addictions. I found In God's Care not long after I began to realize the effect growing up in an alcholic home had had on me. It was truly a Godsend at a difficult time of self-disdovery. ]
 

Getting There

A little while ago, I was sitting outside reading and watching the ducks take their naps under the tree, when a neighbor three doors down came running out on his deck, waving his arms in the air and yelling, "Rahhh!"

The geese who had been standing serenely along the edge of the pond on his property took a few steps toward the lake but appeared not to take him seriously. He stood at the top of the steps and fumed. I'd never seen him before and I stifled a laugh as I saw him move his arms and take a fast, angry drag off a cigarette. He looked like a cousin of Danny DeVito's, dressed in a white sleeveless shirt and blue shorts. He stomped around on his deck and said, "Rah!" a couple of times with less passion and then just stood there by the railing and glared.

I went back to reading my book, not wanting to embarrass him in case he looked over at me, and after a few minutes I looked up again. To my surprise, he had pulled a chair close to the railing and was sitting, leaning back, looking out over the pond. Soon he got up, went inside, and came back out with a book. He returned to his chair and seemed ready to enjoy the remainder of the morning. The geese still stood in the same spot, unperturbed, peaceful.

Although I'd first felt the man's outburst was silly, I began to wonder whether God had another motive going on behind the scenes. Perhaps our anger, our frustration, our outrage sometimes propels us into places where we find clarity, clearness, peace. Maybe we launch out onto our decks to rage against an injustice and find that the day is blessing us with light and cool breezes and beauty. In any case, perhaps even our moments of greatest intolerance have a purpose in bringing us closer to God's Grace. That, it seems to me, would be just like him.

How Much More for Us

Yesterday in between all my projects and family responsibilities, I was privileged to watch the almost-birth of a rose. I noticed early in the morning that the bud was beginning to open; I got my digital camera and captured images every half hour to see how quickly--or slowly--the transformation would occur. In the first two hours, the growth was amazing--the bud completely spread its lowest petals and I thought the whole flower was just going to burst open any minute. But about 10:30, the progress seemed to stall. I faithfully continued taking pictures for the next several hours, but nothing was happening. A wave of impatience--and discouragement--swept over me. What was the rose waiting for?

By midafternoon, I realized that the rose was done for the day. It had come so far, and then--nothing. I knew the rose would open eventually, but I was surprised that the growth wasn't steady and consistent. I had thought a rose would open a certain amount per hour, at a certain rate, in a certain way. But as I thought about it, I realized my own growth isn't consistent and steady--it happens in leaps and baby steps, it zigzags back and forth across dimensions, it loops back and skips and stumbles and finally drags itself forward another step, and then another, and then another. Growth in my life is often messy. Could it be that uneven growth--including cycles of effort and rest--is part of the natural cycle of creation? Even our own?

I resolved to let the rose be ("Maybe a watched rose never blooms," I thought), and I put away my camera. I had made my peace with the fact that the rose would bloom in its own time--and not according to my schedule.



This morning, bright and early, I went out to check the rose, expecting it to be in the same condition. Instead, I found an adult rose, huge and gorgeous and proud--full open, as though it had been there for days. I did a double-take, at first thinking it might not be the same rose. But it was.

I joyfully grabbed my camera and took a picture, thinking, "If God can do such amazing things with the blossom of a single rose, how much more can he do for us?"

May we each feel the transformation God is working in us today--seen or unseen--in the stubborn, unswerving hope that we are even now blossoming into a magnificent likeness of divine love.

A Meditation for Divine Presence

I read the following liturgy in kueuit, the newsletter from Alaska Children’s Services (http://www.acs.ak.org/), a residential center for children since 1890. The spiritual life director and the kids did this liturgy together and as I read it, standing in my quiet kitchen in Indiana, days and miles away, I could almost hear the sound of children's voices ringing in the air around me. The meditation brought me such peace and joy--I wanted to share it with you:

When we look into the horizon and try to picture where we want to go
God is beside us on the path
We are not alone, and though it sometimes feels that way
God is beside us on the path
When we have dreams and nightmares about where we’ll end up
God is beside us on the path
When we’ve been given so much advice that we wind up even more confused
God is beside us on the path
When we want the right school or the right home
God is beside us on the path
When we think we have what we want
God is beside us on the path
When we have to remember our sometimes ugly past
God is beside us on the path
God will walk with us
God is beside us on the path
God will carry us when we are tired
God is beside us on the path
We are servants of God
God is beside us on the path
God will never put us someplace we cannot handle
God is beside us on the path
God would never have us make decisions alone
God is beside us on the path
All things are possible
God is beside us on the path.

May we each feel God's presence in a very real, very near, very comforting way--and may we share our voices of hope with each other.

Infinite blessings! :) k

One Thing

From the movie City Slickers:

Curly: Do you know what the secret to life is? Holds up his index finger. This. One thing. Just one thing. You stick to that and everything else don't mean nuthin.

Mitch: That's great, but what's the one thing?

Curly: That's what you gotta figure out.

Thank you, God, for being One and bringing us all together as One in you. :)

Now

Conditions required to make a flower. A bulb. Sun. Rain. More sun. Time. Air. More sun. Lots of time. Someone who appreciates it (otherwise it might be mowed down to make room for another shopping mall). More sun.

Conditions required to appreciate a flower. This moment, Now. A breath. A blink. An observer. An open heart, preferrably with hands for carrying a digital camera.

Thank you, God, for beauty, and for the eyes and heart to see it.

A Simple Thought

This morning a simple, joyful thought occurred to me as I was doing my morning reading, and I wanted to share it with you. If God created us to be his companions, to share his love and creation and to enable us to "love God and enjoy him forever," are we not fulfilling our very purpose for creation when we remember him and walk through our day, sharing our hopes, fears, dreams, wants, and gratitude with him?

It's so easy to get caught up in all the ways we feel we're not measuring up, the things we don't do right, the ways life disappoints or frustrates us. But this morning it occurred to me that simply by walking with him, we are fulfilling our purpose here on earth. Amazing. Simple. Beautiful.

Thank you, God!

The real battle

Yesterday when my son Christopher came down to breakfast, he was too queasy to eat. He had several solos in the big spring band concert last night and the anxiety was making him sick to his stomach. This morning, I sat in the rain and watched my son Cameron's baseball team take the field for the first time this year. I watched as each boy struggled with nervousness, embarrassment, risking failure in the hope of winning and maybe even having fun.

The battle, it seemed to me, was won or lost before each boy walked to the plate. His body language, his stride, the set of his cap and jaw, the expression on his face, all told whether doubt or faith was winning the battle within him. Was his fear of failure greater than his belief in himself? By the time the ball came flying over the plate, the boy's swing was just a continuation of the theme--winning or losing--that was already playing inside him.

I have noticed this phenomenon at instrumental competitions as well. Young men and women who have played performance pieces flawlessly at home stand outside contest rooms struggling with self-doubt and fear. They know they can play the piece they've practiced hundreds of times. That's not the question. But will they be able to do it now and here and in front of this judge?

The real battle, I think, is not about our abilities or about the way the world will receive and recognize us. It has something to do with where we start--what we believe in, who we listen to, where we place our trust. My supervisor at the hospital would say, "It's about knowing who we are and Whose we are." I do believe that if God leads me to a situation, He'll lead me through it. But that doesn't mean I wouldn't still struggle at the plate, skip breakfast because of butterflies, or pray like crazy when I'm on my way to respond to an emergency call. It just means that I hope I remember at some point in the experience that the battle is inside, not out, and that God has already won it.

A New Way to Worship

In the midst of my crazy coming-and-goings, life at the hospital and at home, baseball practice, school work, dogs, and more, I've stumbled across a new way to worship. It occurred to me in my early-morning quiet time this weekend how rarely I say five little words: It's good to be here.

I began looking around, at the ducks, at the dogs, at the white crab apple flower petals on the kitchen floor that blew in through back door, and I thought It's good to be here.

It is good to be here, on this day, in this life, with these many blessings and problems and people and possibilities. That worshipful phrase reminds me that when I'm fixing my mind on the destination--getting Cameron to baseball practice, finishing the next chapter, running to the store--I'm missing the moment I'm living. And you know what? It's good to be here.

:)

Dawn Prelude

...and in the morning comes joy. This morning as I prepared to go to the hospital, I heard a bird begin to sing right outside my window. It was--and is--still dark. The sun is still tucked in bed below the horizon and I can see stars still shining in the night sky. And yet...this bird feels the coming sunrise and he sings about it, reminding me of hope and light and the coming of spring.

It occurs to me that we sing that same song for each other in a hundred different ways each day. May you hear all the songbirds sent into your life today, and may you be the one to sing a beautiful song of hope for someone in your life who desperately needs it.

Shalom, :)
Katherine

Something to Say

It’s an interesting thing about writing—there is always something to say, but am I willing and able to say it? My time at the hospital, in Clinical Pastoral Education, is proving to be more learning than I’d bargained for. It is alternately amazing and completely overwhelming. It is helping me know how to minister to people in new ways and showing me the ways in which I’ve never learned to minister to myself or allow myself to be ministered to.

And I don’t mean minister in the sense that a preacher-type person stands in the pulpit of my brain and tells me what I’m doing wrong or where I need to clean up my act; I mean ministry in staying with someone (maybe myself) while she cries; embracing someone (maybe me) who doesn’t have the answer she needs in order to feel safe; looking honestly into the face of grief (maybe my own) without turning away or losing hope. I’ve come to understand that ministry is a job that requires a bottomless resource of honesty and courage, and it demands a willingness to go into the dark, clinging to the hope that the promises are true—that we somehow bring light with us when we remember God.

I haven’t been posting to the blog because I wanted to be able to write about things that uplift and affirm us. I want these posts to be encouraging and invigorating for us as we experience God in the details of our days. But my experience at the hospital is teaching me about suffering and about not having the answers for others when they are in almost unbearable pain. Underneath it all, I know what I believe: I believe God is in there somewhere; I believe God is faithful and true and tenderly involved with each moment of our lives. But even believing this, I have no good answers for a woman who loses a child or a husband whose wife is dying. Reassurances don’t help the man who would rather die than have another bypass or console the woman who still carries the scars of her husband’s abuse.

I guess what I want to tell you is that I believe we can go into the dark places—in ourselves, with others—knowing that God is faithful in our pain and uncertainty. In every aspect of our humanness, God completes us with his perfection. But I can’t tell you this is a joyful and praise-filled experience for me. I’m not skipping down the hallways of the hospital after I end my time with patients. More often, I need to go sit in the chapel or the office, or walk through a sunlight-filled hallway to ask God to lift the waves of suffering I feel pouring from my heart.

And you know what? He does. Maybe that’s the whole point.

Images of Us

This week I've been thinking a lot about images...not the kind we see, but the kind behind our eyes, that for better or worse creates the canvas on which we see. Our images of God--father, mother, nature, friend, life, all-knowing-one, judge, Big Smile in the Sky. Our images of ourselves--children, adults, good, bad, hurting, productive, loving, learning, open, hiding, or revealed. What image do we hold of ourselves, and how does it connect with our image of God? If I feel like a silly child, will God be a critical parent? If I feel like a productive adult, is God an encouraging friend? I think I can start either by becoming aware of the image I'm holding of myself or by asking who or what God is to me today. It amazes me that the two are so entwined. God is always, surprisingly, consistently, closer than I think. :) k

Whispers of Grace

Droplets of ice again the window * The cooing of a baby in the back of the santuary * A moment when the tears fall and nobody looks away * Kindness in snapshots, a woman copying an article to encourage a friend * Another woman, letting her know her kindness was noticed...

Sometimes I feel like I'm just walking around out in the world, doing what I do, when God walks up, puts his arm around my shoulders, and looks with me for a long moment at all the love that moves from one to another so naturally. Shared smiles and tears, encouragement, embraces--we touch each other in so many ways, often without realizing it. But God, leaning on my shoulder, reminds me to notice. Look and see all the love around you. What I've created here--it's good. Don't you think?

The created world, with all its outer struggles and hurts and challenges, is packed full of love, bursting out in a million ways. Yes, I do think it's good. Yes. :)

God in Our Losing

Yesterday on my rounds at the hospital I talked with half a dozen patients about the upcoming Colts game. The whole city was excited--even a nun at the hospital held a pep rally in the entrance last Friday before she headed east for the AFC championship. Patients who were struggling with various kinds of cancers, who waver understandably between fear and faith, all seemed single-minded in their belief about the Colts' victory: Our team would win. They were going to the Superbowl.

As I watched the game unfold yesterday and saw the Colts being dominated by the Patriots, I experienced a sinking feeling. So many people had hopes for that game. People were praying, desiring, looking forward with anticipatory hope. What now, as we see our team playing poorly? Where is God in our losing? Didn't he hear our prayers? Didn't he care to answer them?

It struck me that that's a theological question, one we wrestle with throughout our lives in big and small ways. When we feel blessed and strong, it's easy to feel that God is with us. But what about the times when our health fails, the car breaks, we experience a personal or professional failure, or our hopes are dashed? What about when things happen in our communities, in our nation, that bring people pain instead of peace? Where is God then?

I know the answer lies somewhere in the knowing that God is with us always--no matter what outcomes present themselves. But it struck me yesterday, feeling my own disappointment and worrying about the patients I care so much about, that I need to spend some time with that question--for others, and for myself.

The Difference

Thank you to all of you who sent words of encouragement in response to my last post! I appreciate being able to struggle out loud here--and your loving words lifted me up and comforted me.

This week I have begun my new work and it feels good. God's grace is sufficient for me. I know that I have much to learn and that the coming months will take me time and time again outside the world I'm most familiar with--a world of sunlight and dogs and children and the sound of Mario games playing in the background. It's also taking me beyond a world of words--the world in which I've made my living for 20 years--and putting me, face-to-face and heart-to-heart, in touch with people. The second half of my career is moving me out from behind the computer screen and giving me the gift of presence. I know myself well enough to know it's something I yearn for and also something that will stretch me more than I can imagine right now. It's a big step. It's a big risk. And it requires a big belief: If God leads us to it, He'll lead us through it.

The most important thing I learned last week came in an AHA! moment. It's this: The difference between pain, which all of us have to greater and lesser degrees throughout our lives, and suffering, which is intense pain with little hope of good in the future, is that suffering is pain in isolation. We may not be able to do much about another's pain except go through it with them, but in so doing, we each have the power, through compassionate care, to cure another's suffering. By simply being with them and listening, we keep their pain from becoming suffering. Isn't that a powerful thought?

The Starting Point

I have been thinking and feeling a lot, and writing only a little this week. I am near the end of the orientation week at a city hospital, where I am entering the Clinical Pastoral Education program and will be serving as a chaplain intern for the next four months. My heart and spirit led me to this point--now my brain is absorbing all the procedures and protocols; my fingers are taking notes; my eyes are reading manuals. I've been sitting in meeting after meeting, trying to absorb the most important parts of this awesome responsibility. I think of families in pain; in panic; in grief; in fear. Will I know what to do, what to say, how to be? What does the hospital expect of me? What do the doctors and nurses want? How will I ever, ever measure up to all the expectations and remember all the important things when I'm on call tomorrow night with a seasoned chaplain, responding to emergencies?

Driving home, brain-weary and struggling with huge waves of self-doubt, I prayed and prayed a wordless prayer. Will I know what to do? How will I know? How, God, how? I absently directed the car in the late rush-hour traffic. I passed under a bridge. Something inside me gently spoke. Just love the people, the voice said. Start there.

A huge sense of relief washed through me. That I can do. That I already do. In the presence of pain, something tender inside me reaches. The protocols and procedures--the paperwork and the directives--those things may take some time to learn. I may not get that right, right off the bat. I may lose a form or forget the phrasing I've been taught. But I can surely love God's people and be present while He loves them Himself. That's where I'll start.

Our Way to God

Once upon a time, a long time ago, I grew up in an alcoholic home. It took years for us, the family, to sort through and understand what that meant, and each of us, in our own way, still carries the legacy, challenges, hurts, and gifts of our unique and sometimes chaotic family life. But as is true of all difficult things in life, I moved through that time with tools and learnings and sensitivities I might not have had otherwise. And one flower of understanding I carry with me today still blossoms because of the strong roots it has in my childhood: the Serenity Prayer and the beautiful accepting philosophy of Alcoholics Anonymous.

When I was 13, my mother wanted me to go to Alateen and participate in the groups, but I was both shy and independent and preferred to go it alone. At the time, I didn't really think the alcoholism affected me much because the alcoholic in my life was my stepfather and not my biological father. I didn't learn until 20 years later that patterns are patterns and that what I grew up with I would expect from the world. And so it was.

But I think knowing the 12 step philosophies at an early age gave me a blueprint for life, an understanding of the way people can stand up and take responsibility for themselves and their situation, while developing a real, vital partnership with God. I still live by the Serenity Prayer. I still read, every morning, a little devotional book called In God's Care, which is published by the Hazelden Foundation. Today's devotion was so touching to me that I wanted to share it with you in its entirety:

Each of us sees and experiences God in a way somehow unique to us. No two people see things exactly alike. That's why our program has no dogma. Each of us is encouraged to follow a spiritual path that seems to have been created for us. And we need not worry if we're on the right one, because every path leads to God. Would God let us lose our way? Of course not. We will know if a course correction is needed, and God will lead us to it.

Each of us understands God in a way no one else does. There's a place in God's love for each of us. And out of that place we bring light to other people, just as our own special people have brought their light to us.

It's amazing to me that something that was so hard to live with then has such power and grace to comfort me now. Only God could ensure there's always a candle burning in the dark for us somewhere. No matter what our circumstances, good will come of it. We have God's promise.

Our Way to God

Once upon a time, a long time ago, I grew up in an alcoholic home. It took years for us, the family, to sort through and understand what that meant, and each of us, in our own way, still carries the legacy, challenges, hurts, and gifts of our unique and sometimes chaotic family life. But as is true of all difficult things in life, I moved through that time with tools and learnings and sensitivities I might not have had otherwise. And one flower of understanding I carry with me today still blossoms because of the strong roots it has in my childhood: the Serenity Prayer and the beautiful accepting philosophy of Alcoholics Anonymous.

When I was 13, my mother wanted me to go to Alateen and participate in the groups, but I was both shy and independent and preferred to go it alone. At the time, I didn't really think the alcoholism affected me much because the alcoholic in my life was my stepfather and not my biological father. I didn't learn until 20 years later that patterns are patterns and that what I grew up with I would expect from the world. And so it was.

But I think knowing the 12 step philosophies at an early age gave me a blueprint for life, an understanding of the way people can stand up and take responsibility for themselves and their situation, while developing a real, vital partnership with God. I still live by the Serenity Prayer. I still read, every morning, a little devotional book called In God's Care, which is published by the Hazelden Foundation. Today's devotion was so touching to me that I wanted to share it with you in its entirety:

Each of us sees and experiences God in a way somehow unique to us. No two people see things exactly alike. That's why our program has no dogma. Each of us is encouraged to follow a spiritual path that seems to have been created for us. And we need not worry if we're on the right one, because every path leads to God. Would God let us lose our way? Of course not. We will know if a course correction is needed, and God will lead us to it.

Each of us understands God in a way no one else does. There's a place in God's love for each of us. And out of that place we bring light to other people, just as our own special people have brought their light to us.

It's amazing to me that something that was so hard to live with then has such power and grace to comfort me now. Only God could ensure there's always a candle burning in the dark for us somewhere. No matter what our circumstances, good will come of it. We have God's promise.

2003 Gratitude

Thank you, God, for 2003. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Look Around

I heard somebody say once, "Want to see what your thoughts look like? Look around!" This morning as I was having my quiet reading and writing time in the breakfast room, the dogs happily ran in and out through the open door. It was dark and drizzly--the ice on the pond out back melted away days ago and the 60 degree weather (in December in Indiana? Amazing) left in its wake a spring-like scent and the mud to match.

I took a long look at the thoughts I see manifesting in my life right now. Life is good. I am learning. God is close. I am opening more and more each day to receiving more beauty, care, fullness, love, abundance in my life. And those aren't just words. Over the last several years, God has thawed and set free many numb and frozen places in me--my childhood fears about worth and existence; my stoic insistence on hard work; my tendency to put myself last and make myself invisible, denying my own needs and choosing to focus instead of the needs of those around me. God has gracefully opened those mistaken ideas and touched them with life; not making me wrong but showing me where I'd limited my view of myself, the world, and the Divine working in it.

As Don, my new CPE director, said, "Just like there is a God of Abraham and Isaac, Jacob and Joseph, there is a God of Katherine, you know." Today I can say I feel that. And even when I don't feel it, I know it to be true. The God of All loves each of us with an all-encompassing, all-freeing love that we can only barely grasp. The Divine will for us is beauty, care, tenderness, fullness, life, love in abundance--not when we've done enough good in the world or we've netted all the bugs out of our personalities; not when we've solved all our problems and begun making better choices; not even when we resolve to treat people better and can say that we're (pretty much) living up to the Ten Commandments. Right now, as we are, flaws and wrinkles and all, God loves us with a never-ending, never-dulling, unconditional, transformational, life-giving LOVE. It's your God, the God of Abraham, entering your world. Just look around.

2004: A Year of Curiosity

Today after our Quaker meeting a friend gave me a beautiful book, called Grace Unfolding: Psychotherapy in the Spirit of the Tao-te ching, and I've spent wonderful moments this afternoon dipping my toes into its ideas and watching the ripples they create in the well of my mind and heart. Early on the authors remind us to be comfortable not knowing things. When we name something we put it in a certain cast--we think we have an answer and the mystery ends. Our openness--and therefore our learning--stops.

It was a good reminder for me, because I want to let my curiosity lead me into the New Year. I want to be surprised by Love, enfolded by Grace, tickled by Joy, and lifted through darkness. I want to get to know parts of myself I've previously ignored and expand muscles in my heart not often used. I want God to illumine my brain in such a way that Spirit can lead it directly. But most of all, in this New Year, I want to be freshly awed and amazed and affirmed and encouraged by the simple, wonderful ways God reaches to touch us each day, in every ordinary circumstance, from every gleaming or dusty rock and every smile, weary or wide. I know how the Universe hugged me yesterday, but tomorrow it may be entirely new and different. What will it be? An adventure, a journey, a mystery. How will I receive it? Hopefully, with grateful curiosity and the excitement of a child.

Happy New Year, everyone! :) k

Holiday Leftovers

Good morning! I hope you all had a wonderful holiday. We had lots of laughter and food and merriment. The kids all came home and brought friends and loved ones. Our house was full of people munching cookies, drinking coffee, and playing Trivial Pursuit.

But yesterday morning I woke up grumpy. A feeling of emptiness, a discomfort, an irritation seemed to cling to my shoulders and my mood. My husband worried about things...the ceiling in the garage, the bills, the office. It occurred to me that we each had different ways of handling the restless feeling of "now what?" that comes after something wonderful you'd anticipated is over.

At one point I looked at him from the midst of my funk and thought, "But even so, Christmas came." On this after-day when our emotions and tiredness surface, when we feel the natural letdown of separation that is the flip side of togetherness, I was comforted in remembering that the wise men are still coming...the kings are en route, the angels still sing and the baby sleeps quietly in the manger. Mary and Joseph are settling down from the sudden and less-than-perfect delivery of the infant; a place has been made; goodness is here, continuing, reaching, growing, maturing.

I heard once that whenever we're too Hungry, Anxious, Lonely, or Tired (which spell the word HALT), we run the risk of feeling overwhelmed by emotion and under-equipped to face the day. I'm sure Mary and Joseph rested the day after the ordeal of Jesus' birth. The focus of life became sparklingly clear. I need that reminder--and permission--to let my very human letdown surface even as my spirit whispers "Thank you" to a God who paints our hearts and houses in love and laugter, like bells announcing the arrival of Christmas Day.

The Thread of Understanding

This morning I wrote in my journal about the thread of understanding that connects each of us when we reach that point of shared meaning with another. We toss the word "understanding" around easily, as in "I understand what you mean," or "I can understand how that could happen." But I think the reality of truly understanding someone--in their heart, spirit, and life circumstance--is actually more profound that we realize.

Understanding is the act of standing under an idea, a burden, a joy, a hope, with someone else. It is a sacred thing. A Course in Miracles says, "Seek to understand someone and you cannot help but love him." If you've ever been misunderstood, you know how important understanding really is. It is the feeling of being joined, of not being alone, of being seen as you are and accepted by another. People who understand us help us simply by knowing what we are dealing with. That knowing doesn't necessarily solve our problems--find us a job, resolve our family conflicts, fix the hole in the roof, make our sickness go away--but it does truly lighten our load by sharing the burden we were carrying alone before we were understood. Maybe an answer will come from that sharing; maybe only the joining will happen. Either way, healing comes.

This Christmas I hope we experience God's understanding in a new way. The celebrated birth of the Christ is about a personal savior, a prophet, teacher, brother, and friend who brings the very real thread of understanding right into our daily lives. It's a direct lifeline to God; a way to understand the Divine and know we stand together--all of us--to experience and share the richness this gift of life brings. Enjoy your understandings today, and know that they are gifts to and from One who loves you. :)

One more note: In preparing for the new year, I've made some revisions on my other weblogs and added a new one. On Joyful Family Life, I'm going to post articles and free e-books related to finding balance, wholeness, and joy as individuals and families. I envision it as embracing all of what I write about faith and technology--the blossom of goodness flowers in our daily lives, right? Please stop by and visit that weblog if you feel so led. :)

The Good News

On Friday my sons and I went shopping. They are both still at ages where they find more gifts they'd like to have for themselves than ones they'd like to get for others. We went from store to store, browsing a lot and buying a little, but we laughed and traded stories and enjoyed each others' company. At our favorite bookstore, I walked up and down the aisles, seeing what was new, marveling at all the inspiration, hard work, and vision reflected in the thousands of books represented there. It was a bit overwhelming. So many people, working with such heart to produce these books. How will they ever get read? How will they all find homes? How will all that work be honored and received?

I found an open table in the bookstore's coffeeshop, purchased a soy chai (my favorite late afternoon indulgence), and sat down to wait on my sons. At the table next to me , a 60-something fellow sat, staring off into space. He looked a bit like a retired college professor, in his corduroy jacket and khaki slacks. His long overcoat was tossed over the other chair. Before him was a box of cards and a three-inch stack of worn 3x5 cards. I assumed that he was addressing Christmas cards and then noticed that the image on the front of the card was not related to the holiday but instead was a large painted image of ships at sea. Instead of writing, he sat and stared, thinking deeply, reliving something memorable, or searching for an answer, a name, or a message just beyond the edge of his consciousness.

Suddenly I felt sad for him, sitting in a coffeeshop, addressing cards, alone. Do people appreciate him? Does he have someone to have a cup of coffee with in the mornings? Does he feel defeated or victorious about his life? I looked deeper, beyond the emotion, to the place where God tenderly touches each of us in the depths of our souls. We are all victorious because our lives are the stories of Divine Love, I remembered. Suddenly the bookstore, my card-writing friend, and all of us in that place became the gleaming thoughts of God--good ideas, intentions, loves, and stories that were born to be shared. We are creation itself. We create our days, our lives, our homes, our world, along with and in response to the immeasurable and continuous gift of an all-loving Creator. I wanted to tell this man and all the authors of all the books and the music in that store that I was glad they were here, I appreciated their creations, and that in my heart, I gladly received the many gifts they offered--through their work or simply by their presence.

I think it's a message we all need to hear, again and again: Our presence matters, our contributions are known, our love reaches around the world and back again. We help complete the continuously unfolding story of God. It couldn't be told in the same way without us.

Merry Christmas to each of you, and thank you for the many daily gifts of love you bring into the world. I'm glad you're here.

Shalom, :) Katherine

Flying, not Fighting

Yesterday was the 100th anniversary of the Wright brothers' famous first flight. I found it interesting that with all the hooplah organized for the anniversary--which included building a to-scale replica of the brothers' first plane--we weren't able, with our modern minds and tools, to repeat their success. The replica started across the field and nose-dived into a puddle. Commentators remarked, "Well, this just underscores what an achievement this was when the Wright brothers did it a century ago."

Other people had apparently been working on the possibility of flight back when the Wright brothers did it. The difference between others' attempts and theirs, however, was cooperation. Everyone else was trying to create solid, metal structures that would would slice through the wind without being affected by it. But the Wright brothers, who had previously designed and created bicycles, knew something the others didn't know: flimsy can be effective. Their plane, which was shaky and tentative on the ground, was controllable in the air. It responded to the gusts and flows of the wind and worked with them, not against them.

As I listened to this story yesterday, I found myself wondering which force I am cooperating with. I hope, moment by moment, that it is the transforming Love of God. Does it matter that I am sometimes a shaky and inconsistent contraption? Or is the most important thing that I am willing to trust the wind of Spirit and let my wings be buoyed by that which I do not fully understand and could not ever (and would not want to) control? Leadings and learnings help me navigate, but at best I am a swirling mix of temporal and eternal; never getting it completely right, never absolutely sure I know the direction, but always choosing to fly with the wondrous wind of God instead of fighting--in vain isolation--against it.

The Other Side of Things

One of my professors isn't very open to the way I look at things. After the close of the semester (or so I thought), I received one of my papers back in the mail. His notes and questions were all over it. He asked things that were difficult for me to answer; he wanted more "proof" in the form of quotes from theologians and backup data. I looked at his handwriting and shook my head.

This man is very cerebral, very intellectual. I tend to learn and write from my heart, having given up trying to "think my way to God" a long time ago. Now he's asking me to climb back up in my brain and communicate on his level. As I think about it, I realize that I'm not very open to the way he looks at things.

We've all heard that "the faults we see in others are our own and the resentments we hold against others are the same we hold against ourselves" (I just read this in my devotions in In God's Care this morning, in fact). But do we really believe it? I can see that my resistance to my professor's way of approaching God mirrors what I think is his resistance to mine. Is this really a through-the-looking-glass world? I think it is; more than we know. I'm going to go back to that paper with a willing heart and as open a mind as I can muster, praying all the while that God will show me how to bridge that gap between our understandings in a way that we can connect and ultimately learn from each other. I can't imagine how I'll be able to get from here to there, but I think being willing is a good first step.

A Tiny Breath before the Day

This morning all is quiet and the sun has not yet fully transformed us from night to day. We're in that in-between time, just before busy-ness and not all the way out of the reach of sleep. The boys are at school, a bit draggy and tired after a busy celebration weekend. My visiting nephew sleeps upstairs, resting after his first semester at college and glad to be in a place where snow falls and weather changes. The dogs lie beside me here, the now-big puppy George (who weighs in at 109 pounds) crunches a bone beside my chair; Edgar is calmly stretched out on the back of the chair in the corner of my office, keeping faithful watch out the window for any visitors, school buses, or ducks.

I am aware of a new week, a new day, new deadlines, new opportunities. I have just finished my first semester in seminary and have a bit of a breather, school-wise, until the next semester begins. I am researching a new book I begin writing this week, a book about telling the stories of our lives in pictures, words, color, emotion. God continues to draw all the beauties in my life closer in a gesture remarkably like pulling the satin chord on a jeweled purse--my work, my schooling, my family, my friends, my inner life all seem to be coming together in the center of God's hand. I can't fully understand or explain it, but after 40 years of watching for it and believing it would happen, I know somewhere very deep that God is very intentionally creating a beautiful mosaic from the kalidoscope of my life. I ask only for the eyes to see it, the heart to understand, and the continued willingness to trust the goodness of the Artist and the sacredness of His timing.

But just now, before the sun comes up, before the animals leap into their day, before I turn my focus to the first project on my to-do list, I wait in the early morning quiet, just to feel my deep, deep gratitude to a faithful, constant, and abiding God who brings miraculous beauty each and every day. It is a prayer. It is life lived. I am thankful.

Watch for the many blessings in your day today! They are there. God is good! :)

Let's Not Work too Hard

Let's not work too hard this Christmas. Let's let some of the little details go. Let's not worry about the perfect loop on the bow or the height of the candles before the guests arrive. Let's linger at the dinner table after the meal is done and we're all pushed back in our chairs, full of dinner and stories and the good feeling of being together. The dishes can wait.

Let's turn the last-minute, frantic rush to the store into a late-night adventure where we can laugh and talk and relax with each other, taking all the time we need.

God comes, moment by moment. The snow falls and the lights gleam and we see that the smiles on the faces of those we love are jewels worth preserving. God is good. Life is packed with blessing. More than ever before, let's hold an intention in our hearts this year to fully accept all the wondrous gifts God has already given and continually gives. I suspect that might be our greatest gift back to him, the babe, who is born anew in our hearts and lives each day. Merry blessed Christmas!

Yes, God

This morning I awoke a bit burdened. Cameron has the flu and we had a long night. About 3:00 am I started feeling queasy myself and found it hard to go back to sleep. When morning really came, I padded around the house in my fuzzy slippers, feeding the dogs, unloading the dishwasher, making coffee, but my mind was full of vague worries. Worries about my oldest daughter and son-in-law as they try to find a new car. Worry about my mother coming over for Thanksgiving tomorrow (should she come if Cameron is sick?). Worry about financial things, projects and school and what's-comingness.

I went upstairs to make the beds and open curtains. The early morning sunlight made it through the cloud cover and splashed on the wall in the hallway. I noticed. I started down the stairs, hearing in the back of my brain a word attached to each footstep, "Yes, God. Yes, God. Yes, God." When I heard myself praying this, I stopped. What was I saying Yes to? The answer was quick. Everything. Everything God has for me this day. Every blessing, every challenge, every blind spot, every worry, everything. I'm saying Yes to everything in front of me in the future, secure or not. Yes, God. Yes.

Our Choices Matter

Day before yesterday, I went into a drug store close to my house in the middle of the day. The store was almost completely empty--just a guy behind the counter and the pharmacist in the back. A young boy, maybe 10 or 11, came in wearing a bike helmet. He walked up and down the aisles. I thought, "Oh, I remember when I used to ride my bike up to the store and get candy...it made me feel big." Then I began to walk past an aisle and I saw him pick up a back of candy and stuff it into his coat. I stopped for a moment and took another step. He seemed to sense me behind him and walked quickly around the corner of the aisle. I thoughtfully, prayerfully wondered what to do. I heard the paper of the candy bag crinkle and thought maybe he'd put it back. I continued to stay open in my spirit for a leading about what to do, but paid for my purchase and left the store.

As I got in my car I saw the boy walk out the door, stiff-legged as though he didn't want the candy to fall out of his coat. I pulled my car over to the curb, rolled down my window, and motioned for him to come closer. There were only the two of us in the parking lot. I looked directly in his eyes and said kindly, "You know there's another way to get what you want, don't you?"

"What?" he asked, blinking hard.

"You know that there's a better way to get what you want, right?" I repeated.

"Yes," he said.

I put my hand on my heart. "You'll feel better about yourself," I said. "Don't steal things."

He nodded and said, "Okay." I nodded and drove off.

I felt that something very sacred had happened there, although I wasn't sure what. I think in some way the boy had been touched by God saying, "I see you. What you do matters." Perhaps my witnessing his choice--and my suggestion of a better way--will help him think more carefully about his future choices. He had the voice of an angel and the sweetest face. I wondered what family circumstances had left him so bored or so unnoticed that he was resorting to stealing for fun. But I took comfort in the fact that the same God who brought us together at that point in time is with him--and me, and you--right now. We are brought together when we need it as witnesses and helpmates to each other. Sometimes our witness says, "I understand you; I love you; you're not alone." Other times it says, "I see what you're doing to yourself, and I want to tell you there's a better way." Either way, God reaches through us, using our words, our presence, and our witness, to be the hands and voice of Christ to those who forget that their choices really do matter.

Laugh

Somehow yesterday afternoon everything seemed too big for me. My participation in my online courses felt so earnest; I later wondered whether I'd shared too much, gone too far, thought out loud just a little too long. I wanted to pull back, be quiet, rest. My work felt demanding and difficult, with too many projects, all due on Friday, and schoolwork to fit in there somewhere. I churned around inside, feeling that vague "something's-not-right" feeling, like a big boot was going to drop from the sky and squish me at any moment. Everything had become so important somehow. And overwhelming. And scary.

But these ebbs are always followed by flow, thank goodness. And last night, I cuddled on the couch next to my youngest son, with my oldest son sitting not far away, and we took a rare hour and a half to watch a funny movie: The In-Laws, with Michael Douglas and Albert Brooks. It may have been that the movie was really that funny, or it may have been that I just plain needed to laugh, but the kids and I sat in the family room hooting and howling and laughing and stamping out feet. We raised quite a ruckuss. I remembered the smile muscles in my face. Laughing felt like transformation. I "heart"ily recommend it. :)

Quiet Peace

I feel very quiet inside just now. When I let our dog out this morning, I went out and stood on the deck and just looked up at the stars for a long moment. Orion's belt. Other constellations I should know but don't. A great peace stole over me, a holy moment. I just wanted to stand there, looking up.

I took the boys to school and came back to the house, noticing the spreading of a glorious pink and orange sunrise. The high clouds were touched with pink on their tops. They were the first to receive the light of the new day. I just wanted to stand there, in the driveway, looking up.

There's something very quiet and tender and awestruck going on inside of me today. I have a list of tasks to accomplish, a book to edit, a school paper to write. And yet, the sky is the color of a robin's egg and the now-gold light has painted everything in bright, fresh colors. How can I make myself climb back into my mind when my heart is so obviously awake? New learnings, new gifts, new wonders. I think I'll go back outside, in the cool morning air, and look up.

Enjoy your day! :)

Inner Beauty

The natural world surely has lots of lessons for me right now. As I was driving yesterday, I just felt swept up in the beauty of the fall colors. It seems to be an unusually beautiful fall here in Indiana, but then I may say that every year. My breath is just taken away by the vibrant oranges, the gold and yellow, the shocking red, mixed in with the continual carpet of green, touched with brown. I don't have to push my imagination much to see God with a palette the size of Texas, lovingly painting fall colors from one end of the country to the other.

But yesterday I had a new thought. I let my mind play with cycles--cycles of newness, of growth, of maturity, of fading, of passing into something new. I thought of our lives, born as perfect infants, growing and gaining physical and emotional control, learning and changing and building, reaching a sense of mastery in our work/lives/selves/relationships, the eventual fading of our strength as we watch others begin to bloom around us, and finally a passing into a realm that is new to us, leaving this season for another to grow into.

I wondered about the colors and how they intersect with us in our lives. In the beginning of springtime, when leaves are born, they arrive as buds and spread into leaves. Some trees flower; some trees cover themselves in leaves--most are some shade of green at the beginning. There is diversity among the young leaves, but it's minimal compared to what happens late in the cycle. Then those young beautiful leaves and flowers do something miraculous by drawing on some inherent natural ability none of us knew about--they change before our eyes into red, orange, yellow, gold--who knew they had such beauty in them all along? And although a single bright fall tree can raise our eyebrows and lift our spirits, a whole forest of them--along a highway, across a hill, behind a school--tells us something of Divine mastery, the perfect sacredness of timing, and cycles, and hope. A whole generation of trees turns beautiful in its aging, showing inner gifts in unique and amazing ways. Don't we do the same thing? As we grow and mature, aren't we also more able to show our own innate, natural gifts in a way that is free of the social pressures to be just like everybody else? And doesn't it make us, as a generation, that much more beautiful when others still coming along see us growing into our own abilities and sharing naturally what we've been given?

What color are you today? I'm feeling a bit orange. And grateful, too. :) k

Natural Growth

I don't think my next-door neighbor understands the way grasses grow. Along the edge of his house, he's got the most beautiful ornate grasses--long, lush, deep green, swaying in the breezes coming off the lake. But twice now, just as the the grasses display their graceful tasselled heads, tinged with a hint of purple, he hacks them off into a uniform, page-boy cut. Instead of standing long and achingly graceful in the breeze, they are blunt and linear, topped off to align with the handrail on his deck.

Yesterday I saw a few of these grass heads in my yard and I wanted to go pick them up and tape them, somehow, back onto the stalks from which they were severed. I know how silly that would be. But I wished for a way to be able to tell him how beautiful they were in their natural state--that yes, they are a bit messy and uncontrollable, and no, they don't perfectly match up with the height of the deck or the angle of the landscaping. But perhaps that's the point. Natural movement. Easy beauty. Simple grace.

I've very aware that the lesson for me here is to leave someone else's version of beauty and rightness alone. It's his yard; he can do what he wants with the plants in it. Surely we all have that right.

And yet something inside me aches for the plants that never get to show the world how brilliant and perfect and awesome they'd be if they were allowed to grow to their own wonderous potential without anyone else interrupting and controlling their growth. Maybe that touches me so much because I want it so badly for each of us, too.

May your day be filled with a loving acceptance and honoring of the beauty you bring to the world, your way.

Much love, Katherine

Fully Rounded Moments

Today I've been working on a proposal for a book on scrapbooking. I've spent the whole day immersed in beautiful images, wonderful colors, textures, photos, buttons, letter blocks, ribbons. I ventured out to the scrapbooking store (we actually have a whole store full of scrapbooking supplies here in my midwestern town) and was shocked to see no less than 20 different people--mostly women--shopping in the late morning, buying scrapbooking supplies. The ladies behind the counter were wonderful and smiling. They know a secret to life I've only begun to discover. Time. Time to do things, just because. Time to save a ribbon from a package, pull it out of a drawer, straighten it, put on a bead, and hot glue it to a scrapbook page. Time to cut a hundred little shapes out of their favorite patterned paper. Time to plan a page, a fully rounded page, that captures a husband's return from the war, complete with scraps of his letters from overseas, the postage stamp from France, a sepia-toned photograph with those colorized cheeks, and much, much more. Time to think, to dream, to feel the emotion they felt when the moments first occurred. Time to relive the great gifts of love and challenge and joy those items mean to them.

It's something I want to learn to do--savor the moments, the fully rounded moments in which I'm aware that life is happening at its fullest, right now, in me and around me. The time we can take to fully experience the color, sound, taste, feel, and touch of this moment is up to us--in spite of what I say or think, nobody sets my priorities but me. No one else is keeping me from slowing down and letting time expand into a greater meaning. Maybe it's just a question of focus, of making more room. I'll give it a try and keep you posted. In the meantime, keep those scrapbooks handy. :)

Clarity

Little shining silvery moments make everything sparkle for a moment. A laugh at the dinner table. A quick but fully-meant hug on the way out the door. A child who misses you. An unseen fall cyclone, lifting a dozen leaves and swirling them magically, happily through the air. A breaktaking curve down through a tree-lined valley--red, orange, gold, and brown. God is here, inside, and there, everywhere. Sometimes the beauty is just too much and I wish so much that I could take it all in, capture it, remember it, keep it. But I know it's not mine to have and hold; just to accept for now, to pile up, to jump into, to embrace, to love. When it goes, it goes. But there's more God where that came from. :)

Witness

I am thinking this morning about the importance of knowing people for whom the promise is working--people who make daily choices to live by faith and see it working in their lives. People who face frightening times and tell stories about a God who took every step with them, never leaving their side. People who can nod and smile when we tell them our struggles, who can assure us they've been there, too, and that God was faithful.

Perhaps more than anything else, this witness is what we miss when we haven't yet found a community of faith where we feel welcome and at home. We need not only to hear the words of the sermon and accept the challenge of the readings; we need to see God's love working, uplifting, embracing, transforming the lives of those around us. It's God's witness, reaching out to us through one or maybe dozens of people who have gone before, that makes the difference for us now, today. And one day soon, we will be the storytellers pointing God out to the ones coming after us on this path.

Transformation

Last night, after running errands all over town, a quick dinner, the carving of pumpkins, bathtime, and bed for the little one, I settled down in a quiet house and turned on the television. I had intended to finish a chapter I need to read for class--but instead I found myself watching Style Court. Style Court! I laughed at myself as I watched the "plaintiff" and "defendant" present their cases, I listened to the "judge" issue a verdict about the attire of the defendant, and saw him send her off for a complete makeover. I was aware that I was wasting my time in a big way, time that I should have been spending on homework. And yet...as I watched, and endured the second story in the show, I realized that what I was waiting on was transformation. I was eager to see how the defendant turned out, with her new corporate-casual clothes and more sophisticated haircut. I wanted to see her smile and know she was happy with the attention and the results. I wanted to see the "plaintiff" satisfied and smiling at the change. I waited, despite all my other obligations, to see what the result would be.

I think as people, we love transformation. We wait for it, we know it's coming, we know God's up to something--in us, in our lives, in those we love. We know we are in the midst of a great makeover, from likeness to likeness, from struggle to peace, from fear to love. Transformation is our hope and promise. A look in the mirror shows us how much we've changed--and not only in physical ways--as we grow and learn. A look up or within reminds us that we still have a way to go. But we can trust our Stylist, and we can know that the change will ultimately bring out our natural, sacred beauty.

No-Stress Moments

Yesterday as I was on my way to Cameron's school to supervise the after-school activities of fifth and sixth graders, I was thinking about how much I love to be in certain places at certain times. I love being in schools, hospitals, churches--at least in part because the priorities are so much clearer there. Unlike in business, where the "bottom line" is always a ghostly shadow hovering around all goals and expectations, in helping professions, the focus is on the individual: slowing down and helping a child learn, becoming sensitive to and helping alleviate another's pain, taking tender care to be present with the spirit of another.

As I thought about this, a new thought occurred to me. I wanted to take that idea deeper. What was it about having those clear priorities that was so freeing to me? The answer--the struggle for right and wrong goes out the window. The illusory division between being "good" or "bad" disappears. The striving to achieve dissolves and acceptance floods in. There is only the person, the child, the spirit, God. There is joining and there is peace. And the empty categories we strive for in the dollar-driven world-- "smart", "strategic," "business-savvy," "successful" --fade as we learn to be tenderly present and available to another.

I realized then that as I was driving through the October-colored countryside, seeing the sunlight filtering through orange and red leaves, I was living a "no-stress moment." Right then. I just wasn't noticing it. What stands between us and the peace of God in this moment? Maybe only echoes of expectations that don't really matter when we choose to turn our minds and hearts to God.