I just got home from a Women’s Spirituality Retreat.  I am always amazed at the gifts I receive during this weekend once a year.  I think my favorite part was my date with God… 

 Most days, I wake at 5 am.  No matter the time I go to bed, my eyes spring open at five and usually, I am fully awake bounding from bed to my office – my mind flooded with ideas…But this past weekend, I didn’t bring my work with me on retreat.  Instead of working at five, I crept from my room (as to not wake my sleeping roommate) and went to me main meeting area where there were these huge windows over looking the Rocky Mountains. 

 It was quiet.  Only me.  I plopped down in front of the windows in a comfy chair with a book and knitting in hand - just in case.  I looked out the window into the darkness beyond.  There were clouds in the sky, yet there was single star twinkling, calling to me, reminding me to whom I belong…

 Without conscious thinking I began to pray aloud, over and over repeating my gratitude for my life, my family, my work, my clients…and most importantly knowing God.  Suddenly I was a child again, tears streaming down my face – not from sadness, but release, even joy to be here in this moment. 

 In my mind, I heard the voice, tender and fatherly, “This is our time, our date…me and you, my beloved child.”  Warmth spread through my body and I noticed the faint glow of sunrise beckoning from just behind the powerful mountains.  Aaaahhh, this was our time and I settled even more deeply into my chair as to watch God’s glorious spectacle unfold.

 The sky, very slowly, began to brighten and the clouds became brilliant with orange, pink, red, purple, yellow…I pulled my chair even closer to the windows - to get a better view, and that is when I noticed the floating, glittering snow flakes…I was reminded that sometimes your have to change your position to see all the glittering magic before you.  Grateful tears again.

 I was surprised at how slowly the sunrise blossomed.  Again I was reminded about time…Time is man’s invention, but with God, it is without measure.  I had slipped into God’s time, grace – moment’s stretching into hours…We had all the time in the world.

 I sat transfixed, blessed and humble.  I watched the clouds change from orange to yellow to purple…on and on the abundant colors flooded my vision.  What surprised me most was when the sun finally did come up, most of the other colors disappeared.  The clouds turned almost a steel gray, drained of their vibrant colors.  The colors had gone home, returned again to from which they came – the fiery sun. 

 I was reminded to enjoy the journey even before the prize.  And I heard the tender voice again, “This is our time, my beloved. Come, rest in me any time. I am always here.  I am here.” 

 I bowed my head, humbled by the love that poured out for me, always.  Love born not because I did something special, or achieved something great, but because, I am.  Simply.  Purely.  Divinely.  I am. 

Today, February 1st, is the first day of Imbolc, the Feast of Brigit, pagan Goddess and Christian Saint.  I like Brigit.  She’s a Goddess of action and focus.   The fiery goddess of inner strength and will.  A redhead after my own heart.

Imbolc is the first day of Spring in the Celtic Calendar, February 1st.   I look out my window and I see snowflakes falling, one after another, tumbling down.  The ground has been hidden by two feet of hard, half-melted snow for five weeks now.

I haven’t seen a bird at my feeders for two whole days.  They are hiding too.  Deep, within the branches of the pine trees.  Trees that poke and prick at us is where they find refuge—these are their warm places.

A week or so ago, I was with a friend and we were discussing his garden.  He couldn’t wait to show me this big vegetable he had just picked.  Mind you, this was January 18th and there had been snow on the ground for weeks along with frighteningly cold temperatures.  I just nodded my head and smiled at this crazy comment.

Off to the fridge he ran and returned with a grin from ear to ear  holding this massive, gorgeous purple turnip.  This had been growing in his garden since last Spring.  Underneath the snow, this had been growing still.  Thriving in fact.

I could not ignore the message.  The reminder that sometimes we can’t see the change.  The shifting beneath the surface.  We see the snow on top.  Still there, not melting completely.

Looking at that turnip, I felt a leap of excitement.  I heard in my mind one of my favorite quotes by Kahlil Gibran, “In every Winter’s Heart there is a Quivering Spring…”

Maybe I couldn’t see Springtime out my window between the falling snowflakes, but I know it is there.  Quivering and thriving beneath the snow on Brigit’s day, Springtime is borning.

I went to see the movie the Golden Compass last week.  I have read all three books in the series with waning interest.  What began turning me off in the second and third books was his obvious and negative view of religion.  The books – instead of making me question religion and its role in society – I became repelled by his obvious dislike of all things holy.

 Now I get the complaints about religion – violence in the name of God, a way to control the masses…Heard it all before, even spilling from my own lips at times.  I too had a Mother who identified herself as a recovering Catholic and pretty much my entire childhood was shrouded in negative views of any church and of course, God.  However, I was still curious…I have always thought it a bit naïve to criticize something not fully examined. So as an adult I joined a several different Bible studies to discover the truth for myself.

 Surprise of all surprises, I discovered a living book that spoke to my life right now.  Interestingly, the first Bible study I did was with a fundamentalist Christian (I am most definitely not) because I wanted to challenge myself.

 We read the Gospel of Matthew and one day we were reading Jesus words about his message.  He discussed how men would use his message and twist it to there own meaning, however love was truly the center.  Amusingly, as we discussed this passage, we began to disagree.  My friend really believed if you don’t follow the bible (really a fundamentalist interpretation) then to hell you go…What did you not read the loving words of Jesus – ALL are welcome????  She really could not see an all-inclusive loving God and certainly no other interpretations of God through other religious books were acceptable.

 Personally, I don’t feel any religion has a lock on God.  God is for all of us no matter how you find him/her whether through meditation, nature, different religions, books, whatever.  My image of God is clearly displayed in the story of the Prodigal Son. 

The father, i.e. God, runs arms outstretched for his wayward child.  The son only needs to turn to his father, who has been looking down the road hoping to see his child return.  The father celebrates the return and even chastises his other son for being resentful of the celebration.  I so understood that other brother’s anger and then I realized the truth.  No matter what you have done, God is there, pouring out his love and calling you home. 

 I don’t have to be perfect to be in relationship with God.  I can stumble, I can fail.  It doesn’t matter, God still waits and longs for me – each of us no matter what.  That is power, that is love. 

 So as I read each book in Philip Pullman’s series, I became more repelled.  It malice and distain for religion became more clear with each page; evil angels, the Magisterium (in the Catholic Church, an actual board of power,) the issue of souls, etc.  Honestly, it smacks of an immature and fixated negative view of religion.  I really wonder if he has done any real challenging scholarship on spirituality and religion.  I get the feeling that Mr. Pullman has no respect for spirituality and actually has a “less-than” view of those who do.

In fact when I finished the last book all I could think was, “Wow, this is sad.  How depressing to be so cut off from the magic of life.  How can do you find peace?  So lonely.”  I can honestly say I have no desire to read anything by him again, because I just have no interest in witnessing material that pedals hate, separation from God and violence towards kids guised as a children’s book.  Yuck.  This seems to at least be something that could reserved for adult books. 

What do you think?

Everyday we are bombarded with a noisy world.  Something is always buzzing in the background.  The so-called soundtrack of your life whether it is the radio, the hum of computers and appliances, planes flying overhead, the voices of others – it is constant.  We are ourselves uncomfortable with silence as we fill the quiet spaces in natural conversation with mindless chatter – embarrassed by the silent lapses.

The constant noise around me sometimes draws me into its endless spinning.  I become like the sounds around me – constantly vibrating and moving, not listening.  I become so fixated on my sound and my moving that I forget to stop.  I become so fixated on the “I,” the Ego, that I forget to trust.  I become my own God – I am in charge, I can do it all - forsaking my true God in service of my Ego.

This is when I fall.  Somehow, something happens and I am reminded to stop and listen.  I see the Psalms of the Old Testament, “Be still and know that I am God,” and I remember I am the beloved child of God, and no one shall ever separate me from this knowledge.  A certain peace washes over me.  I am amused again to see my feet of clay that never do go away, but reappear again and again in new ways teaching me compassion.

In this humbled state, I am able to sit in the silence and know I am not alone.  This quiet does not call me to fill it with my own chatter, my own ego, but the silence draws me closer to my own longing to be whole.

When I meditate with this truth, this longing to be connected with a living God, I hear the silence talking to me - inviting me into the fullness of my life with opportunities and people who suddenly materialize as if by magic.  God is great and sometimes you need to provide the space, the silence, for a living God to speak directly to you.  May you discover the silence is waiting for you too, calling you to peace.

Sometimes I forget I love Christmas.  Sometimes I get sidetracked by all the stuff, the impending arrival of relatives, the gifts, the ill-will of certain individuals, even myself.  I forget I love Christmas, because on this day so many, many years ago – I know a God that began to live with me.  I know a God that sent his child, really his own self, to live among men – not as a King with riches to spare, but as an “everyman” brought into this world through an unwed mother, poor, but never abandoned. It took me years to understand the significance of this…When we think of God – maybe we think all-powerful, the ultimate “in-control.”  Surely the God of the Old Testament displayed this imagery both positively and negatively.  (Let us not forget rainbows where a sign of God’s never-ending love after he leveled humanity…an earlier version of flowers as a make-up gift I’m thinking.)   The God of the New Testament is the vision I most closely relate to…This is the God that runs arms out-stretched for his prodigal son – aaaghh, this is my God.  A God that knows no limits - that is always available to me if only I would just turn my face to him, to her.   Long ago, in the dark of night, a couple struggled to bring a child into the world.  Joseph did his best, finding shelter where there seemed to be none.  Mary lay her newborn in the only resting space available to her - a manger where animals surely ate from moments before.  Did she know that this was the beginning?  The child she held in her womb so tenderly, even as those around her must have pointed fingers and whispered?  Did she really believe anyone bought her stories of angels? This was the beginning – confusing, slightly scandalize, but a miracle none the less.  If you believe the story, Jesus the son of God, then you know the miracle.  The Jews of Jesus’ day were on the lookout for a savior who was promised to save them.  Of course they were looking for a King in the guise of maybe someone like the powerful King David.  Isn’t that always what we believe – might and bravado will win out?  Some things never change… But, how does the savior come?  Poor, son of an unwed mother, on the margins of society – the last, almost forgotten among us.  Why did he come from the least among us?  I believe he came this way to know us better, to support each of us more.  Haven’t each of us been marginalized, less-then sometime?  Jesus came to be with us, not above us.   This is my God who came to the world, frail and helpless, dependant on the kindness of others.  He came to be loved and maligned.  He came to heal.  He came bearing the name Emanuel - translated “God with us.” He came to live with us, as I believe he still does everyday in so many different ways.  Reminding me always - I too am a beloved child of God.  May you have a very, merry Christmas.   Peace be with you.

In the night, under the tenderness of the dark, you can find me resting in the palm of God’s hand.  I found my way here years ago.  I came crawling out of my despair, longing to feel loved.  What I first thought was an empty promise, lead to my grace.

As a child I was taught there is no God, only me.  I would find my way with no shelter from the storm, just me, alone and not surprisingly, frightened out of my mind.  I became an over-stressed, anxiety prone adult completely unsatisfied from within.  However, on the outside, the persona the world saw, I was fine - I had a lot of friends, a boyfriend, a good education.  My whole life lay before me and I felt lost and alone.

One Sunday, I don’t even remember why, I found my way alone to a church.  It was a beautiful church.  Pure New England style – a tall, white steeple with a giant bell, stained glass windows and filled with warm pine pews.  The minister was new, just filling in while the regular pastor who was on sabbatical.  The new minister was a woman.

She was a petite lady with a helmet of short, gray hair and sparkling eyes behind thick, black rims.  She used to be nun years ago, but left to have a family.  Immediately I felt a kinship to this woman who took the road less traveled.  Starting down one path only to shock the world by turning around and going in the opposite direction.

I’m not sure what the service was about that Sunday, but I remember I wept throughout.  I couldn’t stop.  I just felt like somewhere inside I came home.  As the pastor spoke, she silently invited each one of us to know God not only by the words she uttered, but by her very presence.  This woman was peace - a beacon calling to a new life.

I do remember she spoke of a loving God who was with you always.  The words were a balm for my wounds and I could feel myself calm from the inside.  I breathed again.  Then we sang hymns, ones I had never heard before and suddenly I was singing the words, “Resting in the palm of God’s Hand,” and I was.

In that moment, I understood - I am never alone.  I looked at the shining faces around me and saw pure joy.  “Joy,” not pleasure derived from buying or attaining something, but joy - the glorious simmering of your soul in the fullness of life.  This was a place for me, resting in the palm of God’s hand.

Today I still use this imagery over and over whenever I feel lost, or out of balance.  Sometimes, as you grow up, you discover you have to release certain beliefs you were taught as a child.  I know this lesson of “There is no God, you have to do it all,” was taught to me with the best of intentions – survival.   However, it crippled my life and I became obsessed with control or truly, the illusion of control.

Fortunately, I changed my belief and allowed myself to feel supported by an abundant and loving God.  So now, in the dark of night, you can find me resting in the palm of God’s hand.  Maybe one day I will see you there too.

Many years ago, I felt lost in my life.  I felt alienated from my husband, my kids, my parents, my friends, even myself.  Sometimes I could see my part in the problem, but more often than not, I saw others to blame. I knew I didn’t want to live this way, so I sought help through a hypnotherapist, Christina.  When I met her, she sparkled, and I thought, “I want some of that joy.”  She looked happy and peaceful from the inside out.

We began to discuss my childhood. I grew up in a violent, alcoholic, often frightening  home and like many other children of alcoholics, I don’t really remember much.  I have very few memories.  Since my childhood was so unsafe, Christina suggested we find a spiritual mother for me through hypnotherapy.  This was all very new to me.  I thought, “Spiritual Mother, What?  Don’t I have a Mother?  How could that help?”  Fortunately, I was so desperately unhappy, I was willing to try anything.

Christina began guiding me through a very relaxing visual meditation, finally leading me into a meadow.  In the back of my mind, I was thinking, “I wonder if this works?  I hope someone shows up.”  I was even a little scared that maybe no one would come.  Then, out of the woods, there she was.  Floating towards me.  Bursting with joy.  Arms flung wide.  There before me was Mother Mary in Blue.  Blue veil, blue dress.  So beautiful.

In my head I heard her say, “I have always been here with you.  I’ve just been waiting for you to see me.  I love you.”  Tears streamed down my face and as I felt her words, I thought: “I am so not worthy.  Doesn’t she have places to be?  Isn’t she needed somewhere else?  I’m not important enough.”  And, “I was raised by two atheists and Mary is my spiritual mother?  Wow.”

I couldn’t stop crying.  Her unconditional love, her absolute adoration of me, her child, was overpowering and life-giving.

After the session ended, I kept seeing the experience in my head over and over, awed by the whole session.  What did it mean?  Later, sitting in my office at home, still contemplating the afternoon, I looked up and saw the picture.  I giggled.  The framed picture my mom had given me before the birth of our first child stared back at me.  More giggling escaped my lips and then a burning in my throat.  Hot, stinging tears fill my eyes.

I had always wondered at the content of the picture.  As a child, we never went to church.  My mother didn’t believe in God, calling herself a recovering Catholic.  I read my name in the corner of the picture: Kelly, 1975.  I was five years old when I drew the scene.

There, from the frame, smiling broadly at me, is my Mother Mary, floating next to a very happy baby with the word “joy” croakily written above.  Both their faces sparkle!  Glittery star beams touch their heads.  I look into the blue eyes of the Mary I drew as a child and I hear, very clearly, from deep within, “I have always been here with you.  I have been waiting for you to see me.  I love you.”   Finally, I know it.  Mary has been here, next to me, loving me unconditionally, always.  I felt peace at last.  I was never alone.  I am never alone.

Today I see images of Mary everywhere.  I am constantly reminded of her presence and love in my daily life.  I feel her unconditional love for all of us.  Friends and clients have told me their own “Mary” stories.  I am grateful for the stories, because, sometimes I feel a little lost again.  Life is joyful, but also remarkably stressful.  The new stories and images remind me, again and again, of the love that surrounds me always, even in the dark of night.

Maybe you are feeling lost and alone.  Today, I can tell you with absolute faith, you are not alone.  I am grateful to be able to help others discover this truth.  Right next to you is spirit.  Cheering you on.  Loving you…waiting for you to see.  Waiting to lift you up.  So, ask - knock.  The door will open for you.

For the past few years, I’ve been going on the women’s spiritual retreat with our church.  I had never been on a retreat before a few years ago.  The only other time I voluntarily lived with women was in college and only then because boys were too messy and smelled funny.

To be perfectly frank, in the past I never liked women all that much.  I usually had only a few close girlfriends growing up and the rest were guys.  Women were always too emotional, too catty for me.  They would cry easily and I could laugh with the guys.

Tears have always made me uncomfortable.  I don’t like to cry.  Both my parents were coaches, so needless to say tears were frowned upon.  If anyone started crying in my house, you were sure to ridiculed until the tears were replaced by hot anger.  Quickly, I learned to stuff all my emotions and found refuge in humor.

In my early twenties, I began uncovering all of those stuffed emotions—rejection, humiliation, anger, hurt, desperation, fear, longing, on and on.  A list of emotions we all run from, but never quite stay ahead of.  I also found  tears.  Yuck.  Aching, lost tears that would come pouring out at the movies, while watching soap operas, even commercials, the Olympics…It was pitiful.

I sought help and worked successfully with an excellent counselor.  There were lots of tears and healing, thus leading to the next phase in my life, marriage and kids.  It was only after “birthin’ babies” that I discovered the true value of girlfriends.  Girlfriends know your shoes, especially when they are covered in spit-up and the kids’ breakfast.  Not only could you laugh with your girlfriends, but you could cry too.

I joined a Mommies group after my daughter was born and found a wonderful circle of women.  I soon discovered that if one Mommy started crying, invariably someone else began sniffling and so on and so on.  Same went with the babies, one baby cries and soon there was a roomful wailing.  You did not cry alone.  Many times I would find myself welling up with tears and even sometimes, tears fell.  This was all very new to me.

Then I decided to go on the women’s spiritual retreat with my church after my son recovered from a health crisis.  Little did I know that spiritual retreats are set up to get you vulnerable, inevitably leading to tears, usually en masse.  I cried the entire weekend and I really, really needed it.

I had been so strong in my belief that my son would recover and in searching/finding the cure, that there had been no allowance for tears.  I was an old pro at stuffing my feeling from childhood.  That survivor had stepped back into my life for a while, but fortunately I was able through this circle of women and cleansing tears to regain myself, my adult.  As much as I have fought it, tears actually bring release and peace.

So I was surprised last year, when I was at the retreat that I shed no tears.  It wasn’t for lack of compassion with the suffering of those around me but I finally discovered the concept of “holding the space.”  I no longer had these wounded places that could be triggered by a friend’s pain or experience.  I was free.

I was free to support my weeping friend by just listening.  I did not need to take on her issues.  I could be her witness.  She could tell her story without having to worry about me.  It was such an empowering feeling to be on the other side.  I knew I had finally passed through and released so many of my painful “hooks.”

Her tears did not make me uncomfortable, they told me of her heart.

Oh, I know another year I’ll go to the retreat, I’ll be telling a painful story and quite possibly be in tears, but now, I know tears from every side.  I see the many facets–cleansing, sadness, joy, pain, triumph…all of it.  I am grateful to be here, in these new shoes, no longer covered in spit-up.  I am grateful to have a circle of women in my life that allow me to be wherever I am on my journey.  Sometimes holding the space, and sometimes being held.  May you find your circle.

I have been participating in a Bible study group with my church for about 3 years now.  I guess it was my curiosity that first drew me to the Bible a very long time ago.

I was not raised in a religious family.  My mother described herself as a “recovering Catholic.”  Needless to say, religion was not discussed in any positive light.  It’s use being only, “a way to control the masses.”

It wasn’t until I started reading a lot in high school and college that my interest was peaked in religious books.  I became an English major in college and there were constant references to the Bible in literature.  I felt like I was missing part of the story by not having any biblical understanding.

Whenever I read the Bible by myself, I felt like I was reading Shakespeare.  Maybe some of the words were familiar, but I certainly didn’t understand the context or the true meaning of the passage.  Like Shakespeare’s works, I perceived the Bible to be for someone else.  It was too hard.

But my curiosity propelled me on.  I just knew I had to be missing something in that book.  In my middle twenties, I studied the Bible with a dear friend who also happened to be a fundamentalist Christian.  Most of her social views were in direct conflict with mine, but I thought, who better to read the bible with then someone who would really challenge my values.

I know we read one of the gospels, but I’m not sure which one.  Very quickly I realized, although we read the same words, we had completely different interpretations.  The Bible I read, spoke of inclusion and love at the center, and hers spoke of the rules.  It really was a fascinating experience and happily, we remained friends throughout our differing views.

I did not truly begin understanding the Bible until a few years ago in our church Bible study.  Oh, I don’t mean I understand everything or even that I don’t struggle with the readings.  Now, however, I get to the other side of that struggle and see the Bible as really a pathway to myself.  It is truly a story about me.

I used to get so angry at Jesus’ disciples.  They didn’t listen.  They would bicker among themselves over who was Jesus’ favorite.  One night, he told them to stay awake and watch.  He even told them of the impending disaster in the morning and what did they do?  Fell asleep, not once, but three times.  This all made no sense to me.  These were the disciples?

Then my wonderful minister asked, “When have you fallen asleep?  Did you ever worry that you were not the favorite?”  It hit me–oh my God, I’m the disciple.  These disciples drive me crazy as I unconsciously see myself in them.  I have let someone down.  I have worried and feared to not be enough.  Does he truly love me best?  The Bible finally became a living book for me.  Finally, it spoke to my life, here and now.

Now, I love going to Bible study.  It’s like a puzzle to me that unlocks, piece by piece.  I still struggle…Just last week, we were reading Matthew 5 & 6.  Many people know these chapters as Jesus’ sermons from the mountain top.  It is an impossible list of ways to live with God culminating with the direction, “You shall be perfect.”(Matthew 5:48)  Well, this was just too much for me.

I think every therapist, every college psych class has preached to give up this obsession with “being perfect.”   Isn’t every self-help book based loosely on this concept?  So, again, I question my minister and she points me to translation.

The actual word used in the Hebrew Bible is “telios.”  The more accurate translation is, be the best you can be in the eyes of God, the most perfect you.  “You shall be the most perfect you.”  Now, this I understand.  This I can embrace, and I have discovered something new.

The idea of “perfect” bothered me because somewhere it implied there was a judge somewhere deciding who was perfect and who was not.  What if I was not?  Being the best I can be, well this allowed for error.

And there I was again, a disciple.  Not a God walking this earth in the guise of a man, but a blundering, stumbling, soul landing in grace time and time again.