Everyday Graces

by Katherine Murray

© 2009
peace
beauty

freedom

reVisions Plus, Inc. This short book of essays is a collection of pieces from Practical ~faith~
www.revisionsplus.com/practicalfaith.html (a blog on faith and life), the newsletter Openings I wrote during the
kmurray230@sbcglobal.net late 1990s, and other miscellaneous writings.
 Everyday Graces

Table of Contents
The First Day of First Grade .......................................................................................... 3
Born in a Barn............................................................................................................... 5
Decisions, Decisions ..................................................................................................... 7
Give Your Gift .............................................................................................................. 8
Filling the Gaps .......................................................................................................... 10
Not Knowing.............................................................................................................. 12
Morning on the Monon Trail....................................................................................... 14
An Immanuel Moment ............................................................................................... 16
Expectantly Yours ...................................................................................................... 18
The Beauty of a Face ................................................................................................... 20
Thank Goodness for Cap'n Crunch ............................................................................. 22
Cars and Colors.......................................................................................................... 23
Rubber Mats............................................................................................................... 26
The Suddenly Sacred .................................................................................................. 29
one

The First Day of First Grade

Just a few hours ago, I drove through the drizzly gray morning, taking my 6-year-old
son Cameron to his first day of first grade. He'd been up since 6:00 am, ready since 6:30,
with his school-supply-filled bookbag packed and positioned by the front door since
yesterday. During the three-minute drive, we talked about first days--about my first
days, about other first days. "Were you ever nervous?" he asked.

"Sure," I said. "I was always nervous the first day."

"Did you tell your parents you were nervous?" he wanted to know.

The weight of memory hit me. "No," I said. "I guess I didn't."

Pulling into the parking lot, we saw a colorful, smiling group--parents whose arms were
filled with bookbags, lunchboxes, and papers, somehow at the same time holding the
hands of their youngsters, guiding and cautioning, watching cars, gauging traffic,
navigating their children to the front door of the school building.

Cameron and I joined the flow, carrying his bookbag and lunchbox and papers. He
didn't want me to hold his hand. As we were swept in with the other parents and
children, I tried to fight the lemming-like feeling, that tightness that was growing in my
chest. Inside, we found his room; we found his desk. His name was written, in the
standard Denealian form we are supposed to practice every evening, on a tag on the
mauve metal side. He sat down in the chair. His knees were too tall for the desk. Too big
on the outside, I thought, but too small on the inside--too small to be facing entire days
in a classroom, too little to have to rein in all that jittery joy that makes him jump and
sing and twirl spontaneously in the checkout line, at the library, anywh ere at all. I kissed
him twice, quickly, on the top of the head, making the Mommy noises that come so
naturally. "You have a good day, okay? I'm just three minutes away, remember. Listen to
the teacher and don't be afraid to ask questions if you don't understand something.
Have a great time, okay? I'm proud of you, sweetie." He mumbled something from a
mouth made of marble that was an acknowledgement of what I said but meant, "Really,
Mom, that's enough. Go away and let me figure this out."

I stopped and waved twice on my way to the door; he waved quickly and looked away.
His eyes were big worried saucers. Outside in the parking lot I felt like I'd either
abandoned him or left an important part of myself behind. Or both.
I looked around at all the empty-armed parents leaving and thought "I'll bet we're all
feeling this and agreeing to hide it." Tough moments. Necessary, but tough. We feel our
children spinning out beyond the family atmosphere, where a safe kind of gravity held
them close. Suddenly they are out there in the world, beyond our immediate protection,
learning new things (that have nothing to do with us), thinking new thoughts (that we
aren't teaching them), and interacting with people we can't see or know very well.

For me, going to first grade the second time may have had more meaning for me than
the long trek to my own first grade classroom 30 years ago. It was one of those key
moments when things get sparklingly clear: I saw how briefly our children are really
"ours," how precious the time truly is, how important and incredibly sweet is the
moment of innocence that exists before the system begins its shaping and molding
process. My hope for my son is that he never loses his jittery joy and that even as he's
asked to practice "restaint" he finds a way to sing joyfully (even if inside), laugh
uproariously when he can, draw purple giraffes just because he likes the color, and
continue to live the world the way he feels it, painted in bright colors, sung to a happy
melody, hung with a piece of rainbow-colored yarn on a golden nail in the center of
God's bedroom wall.
two

Born in a Barn
Cameron left the door wide open after he came in from playing in the snow. "Were you
born in a barn?" I asked him, shaking my head and closing the door tightly.

It's one of those questions we pick up somewhere and use without thinking. Someone
probably said the same thing to us when we were children. It means "What are you
thinking?" or "That's unacceptable!" or "Where are your manners?"

But something I read this morning led me to think differently about the idea of being
born in a barn. We are often blessed and even led by people who *don't* do the right
thing, at least in our eyes. The very people we shake our heads about--those people we
think are wrong or missing the point or outside the mainstream--they have their part in
God's work, just like we do. They (or we) may carry great messages to the world;
contribute a small thought that makes a difference; or shower love upon a child who
desperately needs it. They (or we) may live with the accolades or criticisms of others.
They (or we) may look different, sound different, act different, feel different than the rest
of the "normal" people in the world.

God has a history of surprising us with the people he chooses to do His work. Moses
was an introvert, but God chose and equipped him--in spite of his great insecurities--to
lead His people out of captivity. David was a shepherd with a slingshot and a big
spirit...and very human flaws. Jeremiah was an eccentric; John ate locusts and honey;
Paul was a deadly persecutor turned into a church founder, and the apostles were plain
fishermen--working-class, rough-handed men with hearts softened by the spirit of truth.
And, oh yes--Jesus was born in a barn.

My hope for us this Christmas is that we remember that God uses all of us together --
businessmen and tax collectors, stay-at-home moms and politicians, pastors and
criminals, tattooed teens and toddlers, to do His work in the world. The next time we're
tempted to belittle someone in our thoughts, words, or actions, I hope we can remember
that Christ himself was born in a barn and didn't live up to the expectations of the
Messiah the people were expecting. They had waited and prayed for a mighty king, a
king who would crush the oppressive rule of the day and set them free. What they
received instead was a quiet gift of hope that was born inside their own spirits--a gift
that would transform them and make it possible for them to give, receive, and model the
presence of God in their (and our) lives.

That doesn't mean we should leave our doors standing open, chew with our mouths
open, or let dust bunnies grow in our homes until they are the size of haybales. What it
does mean is that God uses ordinary, extraordinary, eccentric, and even unpleasant
people to accomplish His work in the world, and, born in a barn or not, we have the
opportunity to recognize and welcome His spirit in everyone we meet.
three

Decisions, Decisions
My son Christopher wants the N64 game Perfect Dark. Knowing it is rated M(ature),
which means "not for 12-year-olds" at our house, he recently launched into a campaign
with the goal of persuading me to back down on the rating rule. He wrote to a software
review site, asking whether the game would be appropriate for him; he brought me the
reply, which said "If you're mature enough to be writing to us, you're mature enough to
play the game." Their opinion, I said. He came up with compromises and possible
solutions. He presented all this to me one humid Indiana afternoon with all the zeal,
focus, and persistence of an TV evangelist. I was impressed by his developing debating
skills, but ultimately I stood firm on my original decision: Just say No to M games.

Sometimes it's hard being the Unreasonable Mom, the one saying "No" to what's very
possibly a harmless choice. I sometimes ask myself, late at night, after the sounds of
Nintendo 64 have quieted and the boys are asleep, Why do I do this? But there's a solid
answer, every time: To trust my gut. To hold the standard. To be consistent. Even
though it's sometimes a battle to hold with poise to the ideals we set for our familes,
right now I think my 12-year-old needs me to be someone he can test and push against,
someone who won't give in on matters that are important to me, an adult who means
what she says and follows through. That may not matter much, day to day, over little
things like games and toys and homework, but down the road 10 or 20 years, I hope
to find that loving consistency worked.

Several years ago one of the major orange juice companies ran a commercial that really
stuck with me. The scene showed a family hurrying through their morning routine.
Mom opens the refrigerator and pours a glass of juice for each child; then for Dad; then
for herself. For a brief moment, everyone stops and drinks. Peace. Togetherness. Then, like a
switch has been flipped, the schedule kicks in and everybody hurries out the door. As
the door closes after the last child, the narrator's voice says, "We won't know the
outcome of some of our decisions for another 20 years. Orange juice is one good thing
you can do today."

My hope for us all as we travel this occasionally rough and lonely path (with our kids
sometimes pelting us with mudballs from behind the trees) is that we'll invite both our
hearts and our minds to give their input to our decisions; that we'll trust ourselves and
our natural parenting abilities when it comes time to make the hard choices; and that
we'll be able to communicate those choices to our kids with the loving, clear, solid
resolve we'll need.

That's at least one good thing we can do for our kids today--whether they drank their
orange juice this morning or not.
four

Give Your Gift

"Rumpah-pum-PUMMMM!" Remember the chorus of the Little Drummer Boy? It was a

favorite Christmas carol of mine at six-years-old. I hurried through all the verses so I
could get to my favorite part, the chorus: "Rumpah-pum-PUMMMM!"

Johnny Whitaker, the boy from Family Affair, played the littlest angel in the Hallmark
made-for-TV special, about a boy who brings the Christ child a box of his favorite
things.

There's a Gap commercial on television right now, part of the mod, aloof group of
dancers and singers; it fades to simple letters on a white background: Give Your Gift.

Following the horrific tragedies of this fall, we saw a nation dig deeply into its pockets
and passions. Gifts were given. A great outpouring of sharing in the wake of
incomprehensible loss.

Give your gift.

I struggled, like many others, with my own personal response to both the horror and the
need. What would I give? Blood? Money? Time?

Give your gift.

I've asked myself through my life what gifts I had to give. I love to write—and it's
something I like to share.

Gift your gift.

Does it have to be a gift no one else can give? No—what possibly could the Christ child
need of you that hasn't already been given Him?

Does it need to be clever, or useful, or beautiful, or exciting? No, it only has to be yours.
Something of you, given willingly, whole-heartedly, out of love.

We confuse gifts, I think, with goods—sweaters and car stereos, baskets and tennis
bracelets—but what we really want is the smile, the light in the eyes, the happiness
brought to one we love by something we thought they'd want. What we're really doing,
when we shop for a person and find just the right thing for them, is give the gift of our
time, the gift of our thoughtfulness, the gift of sharing our abundance, the gift of loving
them enough to want to bring them some small happiness.

If I were to give my gift to the Christ child, it would be a small journal of drawings and
poems and stories—stories about the loves in my life; the color of the cardinals that live
in the trees by my house; the happy sounds of my son singing in the bathtub; the smiles
of friends; the wagging tails of friendly dogs; the warmth of blankets on a cold, rainy
night; the special moments of peace at the beginning and ending of the day, time He has
given me, that I lovingly give back.

The only thing I have to give that is only mine to give, the only thing that Christ could
possible want that He couldn't get elsewhere, is my life.

Give your gift. And remember, "That which you do for the least of these, you do for me."
five

Filling the Gaps

Third grade is one of the toughest grades in elementary school, or so some experts say.
Judging from the experiences of my kids, I'd have to agree. Multiplication tables, cursive
writing, book reports—it's a whole year full of higher expectations. In fact, it's a year
that follows us longer than we realize. That's the year that showed up as the culprit
when my daughter was tested for her struggles in high school math.

"Was there a lot going on when Kelly was in 3rd grade?" the test administrator asked me
the day we looked over the results.

I blinked. Third grade? How many years ago was that?

He showed me the chart. "Third grade is really important for many of the important
math skills we use later. Most of the things Kelly has trouble now with trace back to
skills she would have learned in third grade."

Well, now that you mention it, yes, third grade was a difficult year for our family. A
separation and a reunion. Two moves, two schools, and finally, a divorce. I'd say that, at
8 years old, math facts weren't first on Kelly's mind that year.

As a mom who chronically tries to do everything right, I battled back the guilt cloud that
hung over my head. Circumstances from seven years before were impacting Kelly's life
today. And this was only one relatively small thing—a math problem. What other hurts
had that year left? What other pieces were missing that we didn't know to look for? I did
what I needed to do to keep us from getting stuck in the moment: I swallowed and took
a deep breath; I made arrangements for remedial work so Kelly could finally fill the
gaps that were causing her so much trouble.

But I left that place thinking about those mysterious gaps—the gaps we don't know we
have until something or someone shines a light on them. Some gaps may be practical,
such as not knowing how to balance a checkbook; being confounded by when to use
bleach (in what temperature water, and on which clothes); the impossible hardship of
stopped a leaky faucet or hanging up Christmas lights. Other gaps may be emotional,
like not knowing how to make ourselves safe when we're afraid; being unable to reach
out to others when we feel alone; or understanding how to stop pushing ourselves so
hard and wrap ourselves in our own blanket of kindness when we need it most.

Usually after the fact, I can be thankful for those moments when life gives me a piece of
the puzzle I didn't know I'd missed. Sometimes, before I can feel grateful, I have to
struggle with that "Doh!" feeling that comes along with "I should have known..." There's
a certain amount of embarrassment involved with learning something you didn't know
you didn't know. Thank goodness there's always a next step, a way to find what we
need. Life seems to help us with this. We're still stinging and chagrined when we see a
household-management class or a caulking-and-painting workshop advertised in the
paper. Or suddenly a book or a sermon, a song or a friend, shines a loving light on the
next thing we need to learn.

The older I get, and the more mothering I do, I am coming to terms with the fact that my
own unique-and-mottled path through life has left gaps in my learning that I'll probably
spend my whole lifetime discovering—and maybe when I least expect or want them. But
I'm discovering something wonderful, too: The places where I don't have gaps sometimes
nicely fit what others around me need. And friends who have traveled this way before
me often help me fill in my missing pieces faster and easier—and more joyfully—than I
could do it alone. The only cost is that I had to take off my "perfect person" cloak and be
willing to be seen as the still-learning person that I am.

But really, I think I did that long ago. In third grade, if I remember right.
six

Not Knowing
I think one of the hardest things in this life is not knowing what comes next. What will
the summer bring? Feast or famine? Abundance or lack? Health or illness? A happy
home or family struggles? Not knowing the answers makes our decisions tougher. If we
knew what the outcome of our choices would be, deciding which road to take in any
given situation would be much, much easier.

So, trying to guarantee our safety, health, happiness, and hope, we squint into the
future. We lean anxiously toward God’s blessings, standing with as much strength as we
can on His promises, doing our best to keep our faltering gaze on the goals He’s set
before us—if we can see them through the mist. And sometimes that mist is so deep and
so thick that it blots out the rays of light that might lead us to the next step. Those are the
times when there’s nothing left to do but sit on a rock and wait for God to bring a little
clarity.

I sometimes wish that God would tell us, as He told Jesus, what we are here to do, what
we can expect from our service, what hardships we will endure, who we will find as
friends, and who will try to drag us off in other directions. I’d like to know, I think, how
long I’ll be here, what my particular challenges will be, how I can overcome them, and
what my witness on this earth will ultimately look like.

I wish that for a moment, anyway. And then I come to my senses.

Certainty is a comforting thing, and wanting to know how to move through and avoid
unhappy circumstances seems reasonable enough. But if God gives us a script, what
happens to the trust we build as we travel along this path with Him? If He tells me what
to expect from the next 10, 20, or 30 years of my life, doesn’t that encourage me to pull
back from His hand my moment-by-moment trust and walk on in my own sense of
confidence, in the security of knowing? What God promises is His presence, always,
forever, in everything. He promises to be with us, to guide us and teach us and keep us.
He promises to give us the words for our witness. He promises to care for our lives and
the lives of those we love. But He does this moment by moment--one checkbook
overdraft, one cavity, one temper tantrum, one doctor’s appointment, one rosebud, one
healing, one smile at a time.

I’m not so sure that Jesus knew everything that was to befall him, when he had dinner
with his friends in the Upper Room, when he knelt in the dew-soaked grass of
Gethsemane, when he struggled with his desire to stay alive, to fix things his own way,
to remain with his friends and continue healing, blessing, and teaching. What if he didn’t
know the future and had to rely, like us, on the leadings of his spirit and on his
understanding and love of God and man to know how to meet the circumstances in his
life? Even without divine foresight, he would have noticed the look in Judas’ eye—he
would have known, the way we know when our children aren’t being truthful with us,
that something was amiss. Whether he looked out from the eyes of God or the eyes of
man, he could not possibly have missed the fact that he was in danger and plots were
being made against him. And when he saw Judas and the soldiers coming toward him
in the garden, he would have known—as we each would know, in that moment—that
all he could do was relax into the only real security there is: Our lives are part of Love
itself and together we share a light that cannot be put out, even by death.

I find it easier to identify with a Jesus who didn’t know what was coming, who sensed the
danger, longed for peace, loved his friends, and wanted to live, than I can an all-
knowing Christ who had the benefit of seeing how everything would work out. He
struggled, hurt, and wrestled like the rest of us. He had times of powerlessness, like the
rest of us. I don’t think it’s too far-fetched to wonder whether he had blind spots like the
rest of us. The point is that he trusted anyway. And, through the gift of God’s grace, he
found enough trust to release the grip of ownership on his own life with the words,
“Not my will, but Thine.”

My hope for us all this Easter is that we come to a new understanding of what it means
to trust in the midst of not knowing. I hope our lives will blossom with more trust in
God, in each other, and in the under-it-all goodness of life. By opening up to trust in this
moment—and now this moment, and now this one—we learn to see and sense the subtle,
tender workings of God in our lives. And once we’ve recognized who our Companion
is, we can begin to rely on His company, which ultimately teaches us—whether we can
see the future or not—that all is well.
seven

Morning on the Monon Trail

I awoke at 5:51 this morning with the Monon on my mind. It wasn't that I was full of
energy and eager to get out in the world to share my vibrance; rather I awoke feeling
weak and a bit too small to face the day. Yesterday had been one challenge after another
with my kids, my work, my life. Today I wasn't sure I was up to the task.

So, as I wondered what I could do to help strengthen myself, an image came to mind:
Orange, early-morning sun spreading slowly across smooth asphalt, stretching before
me in a long, clear lane. From past rollerblading excursions, I remembered what
the breeze felt like on my shoulders; how empowered I was when my strides were
smooth and no rocks shocked their glide. I got up, got dressed, wrote a note to the kids,
and grabbed my keys--and almost without thinking I was there, looking at that
long open lane, the early morning Monon when I'm alone with my thoughts, my hopes,
and my skates.

I should start by telling you that I am not a great rollerblader. In fact, I wasn't blessed
with many of the physical attributes others have--I have little coordination and less
athletic talent than your average first grader. But what I lack in ability I make up for in
attitude. And this morning, come what may, I was out to get things moving--to start my
heart pumping, brain working, ideas flowing, wishes coming true.

My first steps were more sure than I expected. Encouraged, I glided carefully to the
center of the trail. Left-right, left-right, left-right. I tried to smooth out my steps, the way
the good rollerbladers do. L e f t - r i g h t; l e f t - r i g h t. My arms shot out at a slight
wobble; but only once did I do the full windmill wave, trying to regain my balance
without going down in a puff of dust and embarrassment. So far, so good.

A jogger huffed by, wiping his brow with a handtowel. For a brief moment, my eyes left
the trail just in front of my feet and we made contact. "Good morning," we both said
from our islands of self-absorption. A little bud of something sprouted inside me. Today
is going to be a better day, I thought.

I continued my path-- L e f t - r i g h t; l e f t - r i g h t. The breeze flowed over my

shoulders and neck, and the sun, not yet high enough to warm, began to touch my face.
I passed a woman being walked by two beautiful golden retrievers. We caught each
others' eyes and smiled. The bigger of the dogs decided he wanted to investigate me and
say good morning. I did the windmill wave and teetered to a stop to pet the rich -coated
fellow and look, smiling, into his deep brown eyes.
As I straightened and said my goodbyes, I was aware of being yet a little stronger, a
little more sure, a little more hopeful. The dog had given me something. The woman had
given me something. The jogger had given me something. Each contact had been a little
blessing that had touched my heart and helped me to see the simple goodness already
around me--the early morning sun, the breeze, the open trail, my own strength and
willingness, the smiles and good wishes of fellow travelers, the welcoming interest of a
dog--all were contacts life was making with itself, reminding me that I'm not alone, there
are smiles around, that life is good.

Now I'm back at home, in my office in the early morning. The cats are fed, Edgar-the-
Dog is outside no doubt anticipating right now the delicious barking frenzy he will
launch into when my next-door neighbor leaves for work. My kids are still sleeping--it
may be an hour yet before the house fills with sleepy-but-territorial voices and spark-
producing questions like "Who gets to play Mario Golf first?" I relish these moments,
feeling full and grateful, glad that I have the time, awareness, and choice to bless my day
before it happens.

My hope for us all is that, rollerblades or not, we will be able to recognize the many
ways life reaches out to us today--that as we take our L e f t - r i g h t steps through the
office, the neighborhood, or the mall, we remember that we don't walk alone, there's a
smile when we need it, and that "Good Morning!" is really a blessing in disguise.
eight

An Immanuel Moment
This spring, along with the pink-and-peach tulips and the purple lilac blossoms, my life
started to bloom. I was surprised and joyful; it seemed that each day I found a new
opportunity poking its bud-like head up into the landscape of my life. Beautiful things I
didn't even remember planting were reaching out to me; new ideas and possibilities lined the
path of my life and work. I happily set about faithfully tending the new blossoms, filled with
love and a hopeful expectancy for the good they would produce.
But then some of my older plants started to die. A long climbing vine, one that had been
with me for many years, began to curl up its leaves. Its collapse happened amazingly fast--a
dull green one day, brown the next, dropping leaves and drooping before nightfall.
Dumbfounded, I struggled to understand what was wrong. Did it need more water? More
fertilizer? Stronger sun? A bigger pot? I tried everything I could think of, but it was too late.
None of my efforts made any difference. When I finally accepted that new, green growth
was not going to shoot through those brown, withered leaves, I sadly put my long-time
friend out with the Thursday-night trash.
Then something else in my life began to wither. The comfort of familiar clients, steady
writing work, and a business which had seemed to be within my control suddenly
shifted, and I found myself searching for a way to understand--and reopen if possible--
the closing doors in my life. I listened, I prayed, and I read. I talked, I fretted, and I
reasoned. I couldn't fathom what God would do to solve the situation, and I couldn't
figure out what I was doing wrong. I tried everything that occurred to me, and none of
my efforts made any difference. I wondered how in the world I would be able to
navigate this major change and shakily asked myself whether it would be my business
going out with the trash next week.
And then, just when worry was giving way to despair, came a gift of grace--an Immanuel
Moment that brought back to me the memory of "God with us." For the briefest moment,
the nagging voice in my head quit chiding and pushing and prodding long enough to take a
breath--and that instant was all God needed to completely change everything. In rushed love
and peace and tenderness, replacing my mistaken image of an impatient God who was tired
of my thrashing with the Father I knew--a God who loved me so tenderly that He simply
stayed beside me while I prayed, loving and blessing me and offering me His comfort and
companionship. He wasn't a God who demanded that I come up with just the right answer
or do just the right thing, right now. He wasn't a God who functioned like a lucky rabbit's
foot--a safe talisman against the scary things that happen every day in lives like mine all over
the globe. I met again the God I'd known since childhood--Father, Brother, Friend,
Counselor--a real presence who simply loved me wherever I was, whatever I was struggling
with. A Companion who would help if I was willing to let Him, but who would never force
ideas, solutions, or even trust on me without my invitation.
On Mother's Day, my climbing rose bush bloomed. It has grown an entire foot in the last
few weeks, unnoticed by me as I wrestled with my troubles. This morning there were six
velvet red roses turning their faces to the gentle Indiana rain. Watching the raindrops slide
from one petal to the next, I realized--with thanks--that I don't yet have my answers, but I
do see--and deeply feel--the beauty blossoming all around me. I don't yet have a road map
for this new, unexplored path, but I do have a Companion who knows the way better than I
ever could. I don't have any plan in place except to recognize and accept all the gifts God
has for me in this time of heightened learning, to welcome His presence every step of the
way, to accept that He is changing my life to accomplish His good purpose, and to know
that it is safe to release the things He says I don't need anymore. Somewhere deep inside, I
believe that spring--and the promise it brings--has truly arrived, in my garden and in my life.
And in this moment, that's enough.
nine

Expectantly Yours

Sometimes it’s hard to live up to everyone’s expectations. The kids want to go to the pool;
my publisher wants to see a finished chapter; I had hoped to transplant the hostas in the
backyard to a place where they have more room to spread their smooth, rounded leaves and
reach their flowers toward the sun. When the phone rings, someone is expecting an answer;
when an email message arrives, someone wants a response. It’s possible to go through a day,
simply answering “have-tos” and solving problems as each new expectation comes into view.
It’s a little like hitting baseballs, one at a time, as they are pitched over the plate of my life.
This morning I was thinking about expectations—those I put on myself and those I accept
and place on others—when the image of Jesus at the well, talking to the Samaritan woman,
painted itself in my mind. Jesus was always defying and surpassing expectations. Here he
was, a single man, a Jew, resting by the well and talking to a Samaritan woman. It was
something not done in the culture of the day, and yet it opened up a new world to a message
of forgiveness, acceptance, and peace.
When it came to feeding multitudes of people with a few fish and a basket of bread,
what if Jesus had done nothing more than meet the expectations placed on him? When
the disciples said, “We can’t possibly feed all these people—let’s tell them to go get
something to eat and then come back later,” Jesus would have said, “I guess you’re
right. Tell them to come back after dinner.” The result would have been a miracle
missed, an opportunity overlooked, and yet another time we stuffed God back into a
human’s body, thinking “it’s not possible for us, so it’s just not possible.”
When the panicked disciples awakened Jesus in their sea-swept boat, he stretched and
yawned and shook his head at their fear; then proceeded to calm the storm. What if he
instead had jumped to his feet in alarm and hastily started to recite the Lord’s Prayer, trying
to pray the storm into submission? Think of the comfort, the calm, the peace, the assurance
that would have been lost. He surpassed our very human expectations by not acting as a man
would act, but rising as God and calming our fears.
And in the final moments of his human life, when all the hatred and ignorance of mankind
was heaped upon him, Jesus looked around with knowing eyes and asked for forgiveness for
us all. Surpassing expectations? Absolutely. For all time.
When I think of the expectations in my own life, I become aware of a several key things.
First, by the time I start to notice others’ expectations of me, I am already feeling
overwhelmed. The expectation that comes with “Can we go to the pool today?” isn’t the
problem—my feeling inadequate or unable is the problem. There’s something inside me
that says “I can’t possibly take the time to do that today!” and then I resist and push back
against the perceived demand by creating an argument in my head that justifies my
feeling. What a lot of wasted energy! That’s why Step #1 for surpassing expectations is
to remember that we’re all working in the same direction. My sons want to have a
good day; I want to have a good day. My publisher wants a good chapter, delivered on
time; I’d like to give her a good chapter, delivered on time. When I realize that we’re
really working toward a common goal, I can look at the situation differently, seeing that
we’re really moving together and not at odds helps create some kind of internal shift
from confrontation to cooperation. The expectation then becomes an opportunity to be
creative about ways we can all do what we want or need to do.
Next, it’s important to see what needs to be done—and ask myself whether it’s mine to
do. If I am taking on the expectations of others simply because I’m unable to say No, I
will be buried in a heap of tasks, duties, and unnecessary busy-ness that keeps me from
doing the things I’m truly responsible for. Even though in Jesus’ day there were plenty
of openings for military leaders and revolutionaries, Jesus knew what was his to do, and
he kept as close as could be to the mission that was his to fulfill. In the tempting in the
desert, all kinds of opportunities were thrown at him. Each one he denied, choosing to
stay focused on the work given only him. Step #2 for surpassing expectations is to
know what’s ours to do and be willing to say No to expectations that take us off
course. How will we know which expectations we are to meet and which we are to
leave? The only answer I’ve found is through prayer and meditation —and lots of it. I
invite God into the situation (even though He’s been there all along, making the
invitation reminds me that I’ve asked for His help and I’m then more likely to remember
to accept it); I listen closely; I stay tuned into my body’s reactions and responses, and
take heed of the feelings in my mind and heart.
The last step is the turning point for me. Once I’ve found the harmony in the situation
(Step #1) and determined that the expectation is one I need to address (Step #2), I choose
to let God work. Step #3 for surpassing expectations is to remember that with God,
all things are possible—and I need only to yield and let Him do what He will do. I
don’t want to stuff God into a human body through my too-low expectations of Him or
my limited understanding of His love and power. My best guesses are just that—
guesses--when I act alone. But God fed the multitudes; God stilled the storm; God
spread his message through Samaria with a single conversation at a well. He sees
solutions I do not; He knows the yearnings of hearts I cannot know. The best thing I can
do for a peaceful, graceful resolution—whether it’s a question of going to the pool,
meeting a hard-to-reach deadline, healing from an illness, or resolving hurt feelings—is
to stop struggling against the situation and let God work.
My hope for us all this month is that when we’re overwhelmed with burdens or
expectations—whether those are things we place on ourselves or the responsibilities we
accept from others—we remember that we are not alone, and that God will let us know, if
we ask, what’s ours to do. And if He gives us an assignment, we can be sure He will work
through and with us to provide the strength, courage, and inspiration we need to accomplish
it—even if He has to change our calendars, rework our priorities, and move heaven and
earth to do it.
eleven

The Beauty of a Face

One morning last week as Cameron was taking a shower and getting ready for school, I
was in the kitchen packing his lunch and making his breakfast. I heard him call "Mom?"
from the other room and I stopped rinsing the dishes, dried my hands on a kitchen
towel, and turned in time to see him step into the doorway. He stood there with a
radiant smile on his face and both hands pressed against his cheeks.

"I just looked in the mirror..." he said excitedly, "And my face is beautiful this morning!"

I stifled a surprised little laugh and stood there smiling at him. "Well, yes—" I said, not
quite sure what to say. "You do look happy—"

"It's not that," he interrupted. "It's my face! My eyes are bright, my cheeks are red. My
face is just beautiful!"

And with that he was off to make sure his homework was in his bookbag and he was
ready for the day.

I stood there, aware that I had just been blessed. It felt like joy was sparkling in the air all
around me. Such a gift—to be present to another's radiant happiness. Every time I think
of that moment, I smile. I'm still smiling.

What struck me was the honesty, acceptance, and joy of Cameron's reaction to the
beauty he saw—even if momentarily—in himself. When we look in the mirror as adults,
I think it's so much harder to see what's really there: the child of God, the gift, the
blessing, the life. How much easier is it—or at least more routine—to look in the mirror
and see where we don't measure up, where our flaws are most obvious, what we don't
like about ourselves. Our long road to self-understanding brings up many opportunities
to experience the unbeautiful in ourselves. How much different would it be if we could
experience an 8-year-old's radiant joy in simply being the beautiful person God created?

And then it occurred to me that, thank goodness, forgiveness can open our eyes.
Forgiveness can set us free to accept the beauty that is really here right now, lifting us
over our disappointments in ourselves, dissolving the "shoulds" that we've heaped on
other people and accepted from them. As I sat quietly, a freeing thought came to me that
I would like to share with you, a type of simple prayer that I suspect—if I could say it to
every person I know, have known, or ever will know—would clear my eyes of
expectations and enable me to be myself with them and allow them to be their authentic
selves with me:

"I forgive you for sending me messages that I'm not who I should be and for missing the blessing of
who I am. I forgive myself for the same thing. And I ask your forgiveness for my messages to you—
both spoken and unspoken—that imply that you are not good enough just the way you are. You are
loved, just as you are, and so am I. We all need forgiveness to remind us of the love that is ours
unconditionally and forever, simply because we live."

I repeated this thought as many dear people past an d present came to my mind and
heart, and I felt a tenderness, an acceptance, and a gratitude for what we'd all been to
each other and how special we all are to God. I also said it to God, because even though
His messages to me are loving, I sometimes tap my foot impatiently and urge Him to be
different than He is in a particular moment (usually when I'm waiting for Him to do
something I want Him to do). I felt myself lighten as I put down the heavy box of
expectations I had been carrying and let myself feel the gift of life, just the way it is.

After writing all this down in my journal, I got up from my cozy rocking chair and
stretched. The morning sun was streaming in, gold and soft—beautiful. I heard birds
outside, which is funny in mid-January in Indiana, and I accepted their song as a gift.
And then, curious, I went and glanced at my reflection in the hall mirror.

And you know what? That person smiled back.

twelve

Thank Goodness for Cap'n Crunch

This morning I caught myself taping up a cereal box. When I opened a new box of
Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch--Cameron's favorite this week--I accidentally ripped the
back of the box. That meant the thing wouldn't close all the way when I slipped the tab
into the little slot on the box top. I tried it twice an d then reached for the tape. I
bandaged the rip with the clear plastic and closed the box securely, feeling a relieved
wave of life as it should be wash through me.

And then I looked at the near-perfect box sitting upright on the counter and thought
"What am I doing?"

My eyes scanned the kitchen around me. Clean countertops. No evidence of last night's
supper on the stovetop. The kitchen table cleared of yesterday's graded papers and the
sparkling glitter of the art project. Even the floor seemed to be missing the tell-tale juice-
spills and dropped-crumb evidence of life with kids.

Where did this come from, this sudden moment in time when I had the focus, energy,
and will to tape up a ripped cereal box ? What about the days, nights, and years of never a
quiet moment; of always on the run; of a house never clean enough; of pushing
activities, schedules, and tempers to the *tilt!* point? When did my life become quieter,
and how did I miss the moment when it happened?

I stood there for a moment filled with nostalgia for those rushed and hectic days--the
days when everything stopped for a crying baby, when laundry sat and deadlines
passed because chicken pox came to roost; those times when plants were neglected in
favor of preschool meetings and I was always waging a losing battle with carseat
buckles. During those times, there was the rush of importance -- I could see my priorities
so clearly when they stood before me with runny noses or scraped knees. And as they
learned to grab their own Kleenexes and shrug off the little bumps and bruises
(especially when it meant losing their turn at bat), my role became fuzzier, and more up
to me. The choice of what to do and when to do it became mine again, somehow --
almost without me noticing it. And suddenly I'm taping up ripped cereal boxes.

My hope for us all today is that we recognize and appreciate the gifts each season of
parenthood offers us. Whether our kids are grown and on their own or just taking those
first tottering steps on chubby legs, we can remind ourselves to slow down enough to
accept the tender blessing each moment with a loved one brings.
thirteen

Cars and Colors

My son made his first ethnic distinction at age three. He stood before me, looking up,
small and reddened from his exposure to a rather unseasonably harsh October wind,
sniffled, and said:

"Mommy, I let the chocolate boy ride my bike."

Hmmm. How to handle that? I smiled, of course. And although I knew at some point I
would probably need to correct his terminology, I nodded and said "Good, honey."

When you're three, you don't think of things as unimportant as names when you've
found someone new to play with. True to his age, my son didn't think to ask his friend
what his name was. They played in the sandbox together. They pushed the Big Foot
trucks around in the dirt. They picked up rocks from the driveway and threw them as
far as their little arms would allow. Sharing. Fun. What more do you need from a
relationship than that?

Three-year-olds have freedoms that you and I do not. They don't have the world-view
understanding to know what a put-down is. They don't have the command of the
language that you and I have, so they don't fill their time with meaningless
conversation. They join forces in an imaginative world of unlimited adventure; they
become partners in fantasy. They can't analyze and scrutinize and judge the actions of
others like we can. They don't carry with them past experience that tells them to stay
away from this group or that group. They only know how they feel in the moment.

To a three-year-old, life is right now.

Consider, from a three-year-old's perspective, how ridiculous our labeling system

sounds: black, white, yellow, red. Gay and straight. Christian, Buddhist, Jewish, Hindu,
Muslim,Taoist...the list goes on and on. Black people are not black. White people are not
white. Gay people seem as happy as everyone else. And what else could "straight" mean
except someone who walks with good posture?

I'm so thankful that children are born without labels. Labels are created by the mind, the
ego, as a means of identifying us and others we come in contact with. Labels don't start
to stick until we reach the age where we are aware of ourselves thinking. Thoughts, as
adults, come to us in the form of words, a kind of internal talking to ourselves. As you
read this book, your eyes scan over the words and something very much like a voice--
your own voice--is reading them to you in your head. We can capture the thought as
though it is being spoken to us. We can hear ourselves thinking.

At three, my son didn't realize what thinking was. Not like you and I. He didn't analyze
things. He didn't hear that small internal thinking voice in his head. When he saw
freshly baked chocolate chip cookies sitting unguarded on the counter, there was no
voice in his head to say "Wait a minute, hold on. Mom wouldn't want you to sneak those
without asking." He saw, he wanted, he took. Only through programming do we teach
our children to hear that separate, inner voice that cautions them to go against their
inner nature.

As an adult, have you ever tried to return to the world of pretend? It probably didn't
happen. As a kid, I spent hours and hours pretending in a drainage ditch close to our
apartment. We lived in a world surrounded by concrete and asphalt, so trees and grass
and water were things to be cherished. My friend and I worked diligently to clean up
the area, digging up discarded Coke cans, pulling up wads of paper that got stuck in the
rocks and the trickling stream carried them out of the apartment complex. We called it
our Secret Cove. I remember that place with a certain awe-laced love and wonder. No
matter how many truly beautiful nature-filled places I visit as an adult, I don't think the
feeling can match the one I felt sitting on the bank of th at ditch, watching the water
rippling along.

My son has close to a million toy cars of varying shapes and sizes. (Okay, I'm
exaggerating. But it seems like a million when I'm the one picking them up off the living
room floor.) When he gets those things out and starts playing, he goes away, mentally.
He becomes the car he's pushing around.

"Beep beep! Look out! The monster truck is going to squash you!" the monster rolls over
my little car, smashing it into the carpet.

"Call the ambulance! Anybody in there?"

His voice changes to become the ambulance. "Let's get him to the hospital!"

The voice goes back again to the monster truck. "Look out, you little cars, I'm coming
back!"

And what do I do? I play along. I use different voices. My cars go to the grocery st ore, to
the gas station. My red car gets washed in the pretend car wash. I use the Lincoln Logs
and the Legos to build garages and oil-change places.

But you know what?

I'm aware that I'm pretending.

Christopher zooms around, unconscious of the fact that h e's a boy, not a car. He has no
idea, in this moment, that he's participating in a game known as make-believe.

And that is what I think happens to us when we begin to listen to our thinking and start
gathering labels. I think we cover ourselves up so that we can't be the experience
anymore.

"I'm an adult," I think. "What if Doug sees me playing this? He's going to make fun of
me."
Or, even worse:

"Maybe I should use this time with Christopher to teach him something." And
outwardly I say "Christopher, what color is that car? How many blue cars do you see?"
Wrong.
I should be learning from him. I need to take my Parent label off for a moment and see
how seamless he becomes with the experience. There's no little voice inside him saying
"I look silly" or "I should be watching cartoons right now." There is no I. There are no
labels. He's living in this moment, true to the experience, not carrying around judgment
or labels or fears or restrictions.

He is Light.

He's what I hope I someday remember I am, too .

fourteen

Rubber Mats

Several years ago I had a dog named Larry.

Larry was a sheepdog, big and hairy, with one unseen blue eye and one brown. I'd
always wanted a sheepdog puppy, and my mind was filled with expectations of a huge
animated teddy bear, my best buddy, a lovable companion.

Larry wasn't playing along.

He'd been the biggest male in the litter, and from the first time I'd seen him, he'd been
forging his role as the bully of the family, pushing the other puppies around, rolling
them away from their mother, jumping on them and biting their ears.

"How cute," I said.

Nine months later it wasn't so cute.

Larry had become a bully in our family. He was the dog-equivalent of a cocky eighteen
year old boy, full of himself, sure of his strength. When my daughter--then five--would
try to play with him, he'd treat her like he had his littermates. I was getting worried with
his aggressiveness.

So I enrolled him in dog training school.

We showed up the first night to an incredible mix of dog species. Each dog stood or
shook or paced near its owner. Yorkies and Rotweilers and everything in -between. The
owners all stood regarding each other nervously.

A huge rubber mat lined the outer edges of the room, encompassing us all in a big black
oval. The object, we were told, was to begin walking with our dogs around the mat. The
instructor blew his whistle and we all began walking counter-clockwise, dragging our
canines along with us, like we were participating in some oddly conceived cake walk.

Larry wasn't about to cooperate.

For that matter, most of the dogs weren't either.

The instructor tooted his whistle and shook his head. "No, no no, people," he said. "You
are supposed to control your dogs. Your dogs don't control you." And he proceeded to
show us what he meant. He walked up to a woman timidly holding the leash of a tiny
Westie. He held the leash tightly in his hand, said "Heel!" and yanked on the leash so
hard that the puppy's feet came clean off the ground. The owner stood by, blushing.

He walked that dog once around the ring, very fast. The rest of us stood silent while our
dogs figetted nervously, sniffing at each other. When he reach ed the point where he'd
begun, he swung the leash carelessly around to his other side, dragging the animal like
it were a toy duck on wheels. After frightening the animal into submission, he flashed a
smug smile at the rest of us.

"That's how you do it," he said.

I looked down at Larry. He was hopeless, I knew. I was hopeless, I knew. I couldn't force
my dog to comply to such a ridiculous practice, no matter how ill-behaved he was. I
couldn't force him to walk around some stupid ring and learn appropriate people
behavior and jerk his leash so hard his eyes would roll. Why was I involved in this
relationship with this dog?

Was it to control him, to turn him into the Perfect Dog I saw in my head?

What about his own nature?

Why wasn't I respecting that?

As people, we often try to get other people to walk around out little rubber mats. We
jerk the leash. We bark commands. We tell ourselves that it is for their own good.

When we live in the rainbow, we need to be convinced of how "right" we are. When we
discuss religion or politics, we're not wanting to be enlightened by someone else's point
of view, we're wanting to convince others that we're right.

When we walk away from a discussion in which we've made our point, we think " My,
that was a good talk."

When we leave a discussion where we feel that others disgreed with us, we have this
hurting, Nobody-listens-to-me kind of feeling.

Not Being Right

The world continues to operate on a level that is beyond right and wrong. The sun
shines, the flowers bloom, streams flowing into other streams.

Animals live and die. The earth goes through its cycles of birth and death. Storm clouds
gather, expend themselves, and the sun comes back out.

None of this has anything to do with who's right and who's wrong.

As people, as rainbows, we are invested in our arguments. We take sides (Us-and-Them)

and find evidence to support our positions.
When you get in touch with your light, you realize that there is nothing to take sides
about. All the disagreements that happen on the surface begin to seem a little silly. You
find yourself less willing to take sides, less eager to state your case on any given matter.

It's not as important to be right.

And it's not a behind-your-eyes "Oh these people don't really know what they're talking
about" kind of feeling. More of an accepting "Whatever they believe is right for them"
understanding.

You don't have to point fingers at people anymore. Or label them wrong. Or spend
countless hours and energies trying to convince them of their error.

You start to understand that, on the surface, you'll only agree with people to the point
they mirror your decisions.

A friend feels strongly about ecological issues. "You should be recycling," he says.

"I know," you say.

"And how come you still use XYZ products? Don't you know they pollute the
environment?"

"I forgot," you mumble.

"And what's this spray can of vegetable oil doing in your cabinet? Don't you care about
our environment?"

You put your hands on your hips. "You're really turning into a fanatic about this," you
say.

And so a heated debate ensues. He didn't mirror your choices, obviously. And you,
feeling threatened (and maybe a little guilty), could not mirror his.

Who is going to walk whom around the rubber mat?

What a waste of a good evening! Why be right and lose the moments we have now in
disagreement? Underneath all our rainbows, there is no cause to fight for. There are no
battle flags to wave. In spirit, we are love pouring through. Love that is not threatened
by differing opinions. Love that does not waver because an individual, a group, or a
society does not mirror our rainbows.
fifteen

The Suddenly Sacred

My son learned to walk suddenly.

Oh, the process had several very definite stages. There was the I-can-pull-myself-up
stage, in which he'd clutch at the arm of the couch and, with a white-knuckled death
grasp, pull his little round body into an upright position. Then, pleased with his new
perspective, he'd squeal and raise one arm over his head, wanting everyone to see.

Then--plop--down on his bottom he'd go.

After that, there was the Look-I-can-move-while-I'm-holding-on stage. He could hang

on to the couch, more secure now on his tottering legs, and move a step to the right or a
step to the left.

One day he got tired of the couch. He was, I assume, fed up with watching all the other
humans in the house walk around unaided. He turned, set his sights on the middle of
the living room, and let go.

He was walking.

One minute before, he hadn't known how to walk.

We fool ourselves into thinking that becoming is a gradual process. Someone might
argue that my son was preparing to walk-- becoming a walker--since the first day he
tried to crawl. Or from the day he was born.

But no matter how we look at it, the change really happens suddenly.

One minute you weren't yet born. (Your mother probably remembers that moment very
well.) The next, there you were, pink and squalling and probably mad as hell.

One minute, you hadn't graduated from high school. You stood in line, with that hot
robe and the hat that wouldn't stay on right, and waited nervously for your name to be
called. When you heard your name, you crossed the stage and accepted your diploma.
Just a few seconds before, you hadn't graduated. Now, you had.

Every change can be traced to a single moment. When you plant a seed, it remains a
seed until that first green, tender shoot parts the earth and shows itself. Now it's a plant.
You may not have been around in the moment it happened, but it did happen in one
precise moment. There was a single microsecond in which the green growth first poked
itself through the moist dark earth.

Understanding, like all other change, happens in one single instant.

You may tell yourself that it is a process; that alleviates you from feeling pressure to look
for the change too soon.

But understanding, loving, realizing what we truly are takes no time at all. In the time it
takes to read one word, take one breath, or hug one person, you could be illuminated by
your own light.

Dear reader,

Thanks for reading this small book of essays. I hope you found something that uplifted your heart
or stirred your thought and inner knowing.

I love to write and am grateful to have someone to share it with.

Namaste. :)

Katherine