There are stories I want to tell you today.  Stories born in the light of this sun, these waking hours.  So many of these stories, however, I cannot tell you.  I must hold the confidences of those I encountered. But I can tell you that I saw the most gloriously painted barn swallow as I drove to work.  It was so stunning that I couldn’t breathe for a moment.  
 
Also prior to work, I spoke with my mother about the tiny calico kitten I met this past week-end. She took up her wild residence under Mom and Dad’s back porch.  She and I became friends over the course of three days.  And I loved her that quickly, too.  Today she would leave the safety of that porch to seek love in other places with other people, and I felt happy and sad.
 
At work, the story that I want to tell you but cannot tell you, broke my heart.  People carry such pain, pain many of us cannot fathom. Today, I was a witness to such.
 
And by the close of the work day, another story came to my door and heart… an ongoing story of loss and lostness and what it is to bravely seek the loving parts in the midst.
 
To shake off some of the heaviness after work, I had a visit with my two girls… one human, one canine. There was love from both of them… steady and faithful and sweet.
 
From there I had a visit with my three girlfriends… one we carry in our arms, one happy to ride her bike on a bright summer day, and one who sees the visions with me.  We visited the garden.  We fingered the stitching of the quilt.  We soothed the baby.  We planned our next visit.
 
My dinner was lentils over rice with a yogurt and mango sauce.  And it tasted so flavorful and good.  Every mouthful stirred a prayer of thanks.
 
And lastly before I must rest my body for the day, I took it to walk.  We looked at the sky and listened to the birds calling to each other. We watched the kids go down the street on their skateboards, and the dogs walk their owners.  And we prayed hard for the stories lingering close that cannot be uttered this night.  
 
Take nothing for granted.
Take care of those you love and those most in need of love.
Take notice of what is meant to heal you and allow it to do so.
Take care of those you love and those most in need of love.
Take nothing for granted.

May all beings wild and small and wounded, happy and healthy and whole find peace this night.
Find peace this night.
May peace be found this night to turn us round toward the light.

Today I am going through the many brown, cardboard boxes of books that have been stored since I moved to the valley.  I gave up a couple of bookcases when I moved here.  So now I get to decide which ones will grace my new bookcase.  I’ve missed these books, and it feels like they have missed me.  I can almost hearing them catching their breath as they break surface again.  Ahh! Light!  Air!  Touch!
 
I am so happy as I finger these covers and pages that have healed me and taught me and affirmed me over decades of living. As the four shelves of the bookcase begin to name themselves, I laugh out loud as the books know where they want to go and beside whom they want to rest!  As well I am laughing because these books certainly do name me.  Who am I?  Well, look at my bookcase and you’ll get a pretty good picture!!  Spirit.  Art. Poetry.  Mystical wanderings.  Prayer. Nature.  Whimsy.  Soul.
 
What has stopped me in my tracks, however, is an encounter with a 40 year old book.  I was twelve when my school librarian gave this to me as a gift.  I worked alongside of her that year as a volunteer, and I remember being happy that I could help her and be with books at the same time.  How did she know that this was the book for me?  What did she see in me that pulled her to say, “This is the gift that has Kathy’s name on it?”  Or did I read this book from our library and mention to her how much I loved it, and from that she bought me a copy?  I don’t remember.  But what is so stirring is that it feels like I have been following a graciously Divine path all these
many years.

This book, KAREN, written by her mother, Marie Killilea is a beautiful story of love and resilience.  Karen was born prematurely and due to that she lived her life with cerebral palsy.  But get that… she LIVED her life.  Doctors told her parents to simply institutionalize her and forget her… but loving parents know best!  Thanks to that love, her
parents were trailblazers!  Not only did they insure Karen’s appropriate therapies, but they helped to open windows and doors for so many others embracing life with cerebral palsy. According to internet news, Karen is now 70 and is a receptionist at a retreat center in New York.
 
A few weeks ago at work, I sat before students who shared their gifts and talents with a very engaged audience.  Each student had me smiling as they held out their offerings, but one dear child absolutely had me in tears.  She was a senior this year, ready to take flight, and what she shared was this:  Though she sees differently than you
and I, and though her arms and legs move in ways we have not known… she shared her gift song by way of sign language. Yes.  Let that sink in for a moment.  A beautiful young woman with cerebral palsy and vision concerns stood before us all and most graciously signed a song in ways that we could hear it and see it and feel it.

And later this week, I’ll journey to the home of a family who’s blessed 18 month old is loving life in the midst of her own cerebral palsy and vision concerns.  And we shall love as Karen’s mother loved, and we shall advocate as Karen’s mother advocated.  And we shall witness the holy goodness of life that comes in many forms.
 
Forty years ago, a teacher gave me a book… 

Today, before the gentle rain set in, I took a long walk.  When I give myself such a space, I find I see more clearly.  I notice.  The family of killdeer has gone from five to four.  The lilacs have finished their blossoming for this year and the now the scent of honeysuckle is everywhere.  The suet that waited for a week or more to be discovered now has four sparrows nicely perched on the basket sharing a meal.  The greens are deeper.  The hush of the mountain is more profound.
 
I walk.  I notice.  I think. And I open up to the thoughts larger than myself or my hard-working brain.  I ask God to tell me something, to stir in me something that will move me forward in ways that my human feet cannot possibly walk.  And I pose my questions and my questing:
 
How do I trust that the new pain in his hip is not cancer?
Will there be a way to communicate concern to one who endlessly hurts others?
What do we do with the news of the most recent shooting and the fact there is another gun show and sale just down the road?
How do I consciously yield to the needs of my own spirit when there are so many people who simply need the presence of another?
Will what is broken between hearts have the ability to mend?
Can my walking and thinking and yielding possibly evoke blessing and healing and good in this world?
 
I don’t know.  That seems to be what I come back to time and again.  God isn’t giving me some “breaking
news” information.  I don’t know how to stop the cancers or shootings or heartbreaks.  But I do know that this rain is tending earth.  I do know that I am here to witness the good, the questions, and the intimate darkness that comes to each door each night.  I know that without the questions… the answers and the solutions would be
empty.
 
Sometimes, it simply takes the lovely quiet of a walk just before rain to soothe the noise of every care.  Maybe walking is just walking, and rain is simply rain.  Maybe paying attention and bringing intention are just thoughtful kindnesses.  Or maybe all of it communing together in our hearts is what actually stirs our inborn divinity toward what has been hoped for all along.