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.