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.