Prayer Prompt

Prayer Prompt 31

God, I sing your praises loudly.
Help me sing as well
with clarity and confidence.

The gift is what I say means more than how it sounds. The beauty is I want to say and fear not being out of tune.


Love and blessings,

Prayer Prompt 30

Embrace me, God.
Your love supports me
that I may stand for you.

What is beyond companionship and greater than friendship allows me not to fear falling.

Unafraid to stand, I am confident to be. Just to be.

Love and blessings,

Prayer Prompt 23

I am pretty sure that God's purpose is Love. Not just that we love one another as we love God. Not just that we replace fear with love. Not just that we enjoy love as the first, last, and always energy we feel.

All those loves, yes. But also the love that is forgiveness. The love that I can forgive without naming a wrong, without experiencing an injury or an insult.

I can reverse forgive to give for. I can see God's purpose is that we give love for our perfect One-ness.

When I feel that soul-centered forgiveness, I feel God most clearly in me.

I reflect you, God.
No matter how great the contrast,
let me strive to fulfill your purpose.

Next time you look in the mirror, know you're reflecting God.

Love and blessings,

...and in with the New

Ellen Fannin, Director of Special Activities (and just about everything else!) at Unity Church of the Hills, read us her recipe for a Happy New Year at yesterday's service.

I do not have the restraint to wait until this last day of 2008 to share it with you.

Earlier this month, as I was planning for a holiday meal and I came across a recipe that I would like to share with you. It is a “Recipe for a Happy New Year.”

1. Take twelve fine, full-grown months.
2. See that these are thoroughly free from old memories of bitterness, rancor and hate.
3. Cleanse them completely from every clinging spite.
4. Pick off all specks of pettiness and littleness.
5. In short, see that these months are freed from all the past—have them as fresh and clean as when they first came from the great storehouse of Time.
6. Cut these months into thirty or thirty-one equal parts.
7. Do not attempt to make up the whole batch at one time (so many persons spoil the entire lot this way), but prepare one day at a time.
8. Into each day put equal parts of faith, patience, courage, work (some people omit this ingredient and so spoil the flavor of the rest), hope, fidelity, liberality, kindness, rest (leaving this out is like leaving the oil out of the salad dressing— don’t do it), prayer, meditation, and one well-selected resolution.
9. Put in about one teaspoonful of good spirits, a dash of fun, a pinch of folly, a sprinkling of play, and a heaping cupful of good humor.
10. Cover this with God's love and enjoy it to its fullest.

Anushruti RK

I cannot imagine a more delicious way to prepare and serve up 2009.

Happy New Year!

Tent Intensity

The Tents of Hope program is designed to offer support and hope to the people of Darfur, Sudan. My church has recently purchased a tent and invited church members to paint it (as part of our participation in the 11 Days of Global Unity effort).

Our tent is almost done and promises to be a beauty. It will be among hundreds of other tents pitched on the National Mall in Washington, DC, November 7-9, 2008. That's before they will be shipped to Sudan.

I have not lifted a paint brush--and probably won't--but I have taken a full share of joy from this Tents f Hope project. With different individuals I've enjoyed four instances of pitching the tent or taking it down. Four times I've experienced a blend of new enjoyments. What a treat to work at different times with

Michael

John

Kay

Jim

And what a treat to enjoy:

• Watching different individuals' energy--all high-level--at work;
• Seeing each one drive in or pull up stakes differently;
  
• Appreciating different task-approaches by an engineer, an artist, and a pragmatist;
• Laughing when the poles don't cooperate and the canvas comes tumbling down;
• Enjoying that we put the tent up and take the tent down faster each time;
• Being part of a much larger "team";
  
• Anticipating the tent sheltering people in Darfur and feeling that connection;

What a treat to look forward already to our next chance to share such fun.

Sir O’Gaite’s Grandfatherly Role

[NB: Bosco and Bumby are two of my very best friends, daughters of a very good friend. These friends did me a wonderful favor...they let me play Granddad.]

The invitation to attend the Scouts’ school’s Grandparents Lunch Day was an honor I would never refuse. As I espied other grandparents in the elementary foyer, I knew I could also qualify for the Great Grandparents Lunch Day, if such is ever offered.

Bumby’s class came down the hall first. She spied me from yards away. Her arms hung straight by her sides. She waved by lifting the left hand at the wrist. Of course, I waved with a cheerleader’s gusto. Her eyes said, “No! No! Be calm! Be normal!” but her arm bent at the elbow. This wave, though half-mast, was whole-hearted.

As we walked side by side to the caf, I peppered her with questions. She responded with the most informative monosyllabs. As we stood just outside the actual serving area, the boy just behind us became ill. I was sorry for him while I was glad it wasn’t Bumby. She was sorry for him while she was glad it interrupted my questioning.

Once facing the food choices, she quickly took a pb&j, corn, graham crackers, and a fruitcicle. I took the tuna-stuffed tomato and some grapes.

At her class’s table she was quick to eat half of her (half) pb&j before going for the fruitcicle. That’s when Bumby ordered me to move down one seat “so you’ll be across from me; I’m going over there” as she got up, grabbed her tray, darted to the other side of the table and started to plop between two boys.

As the one on her right blocked the seat with his leg and grinned, Bumby reminded him authoritatively that he cannot save an empty seat. She lithely slipped between Mateo (seat blocker) and Kade (innocent bysitter). She directed everyone’s conversation—Mateo’s, Kade’s and mine—from her seat of power.

The cafeteria aid summoned kids to line up: boys along one taped floor stripe, girls along the other. Ms. Teacher came and headed the line back to their classroom. Seizing every moment, I went along for the walk. With four around each table and edu-stuff everywhere, Bumby’s classroom has come a long way since my 1956 version!

Then I hustled back to the main lobby and asked the teacher on duty when Bosco’s class was due. She wasn’t’ sure if they’d already come by and suggested I check the cafeteria.

Standing in the exact spot where I’d stood with Bumby before (during her classmate’s upheavals) was one very sad-looking Bosco. “No one’s here to have lunch with me” was written all over her face and underlined by arms crossed tightly across her chest. I was relieved and ego-flated when I saw her eyes light up and the smile stretch her face. So, as Bumby’s initial greeting was a wrist-flap, Bosco’s was a full-out hug. (I’ll take both, thank you very much!)

We talked through the line about her morning classes. She took pizza and corn and grapes and a different flavor fruitcicle. I was just watching this round. Something standard about the order of consumption by kids these days: half the pizza slice then the fruitcicle then two forkfuls of corn and none of the grapes.

Bosco sat beside me through lunch. Much of her attention was directed at the friend at an adjacent table. Much of the attention directed at her was from two boys across from us. The one whose grandmother sat beside him was stunned when I called him by name without introduction…until I point out that it was printed on his lunch bag. Bosco gave me a “that was a good one!” nudge on my arm.

I noticed how quiet, even demur, she was as we sat. She offered snippets of information. She remained constantly aware of everything happening 360 around her. Her voice was quiet; her smile was constant. She gives “childhood” the perfect image.

The line-up-to-march-back-to-classroom routine was repeated, perhaps a bit more sedately by fourth graders. Their classroom looked more familiar to me, perhaps because 1958 is two years closer.

Presumptuously, I am looking forward to next year.

Proof that Living Is a Work of Art

Wednesday, August 20
Tuesday of last week, I began a six session experience that continues to thrill me.

The Art of Living course offers the most effective integration of physical, mental, emotional and spiritual discoveries I've ever experienced. (And I've taken more than my share of such workshops).

Referring to the Art of Living course as a workshop is a mistake and a misnomer. It is an experience, and even someone as left-brained as I am realizes quickly that he'll do fine without manual, handout, notebook or pen. And remembering the wealth of discoveries is no problem at all. They fit perfectly into one's gray matter...and one's heart.

The concepts are basic and astounding at the same time. Put into everyday words they are nothing new. However, the blend of body, mind, and spirit in exploring these points makes them startling and refreshing and profound, all at once.

The six sessions--4 3-hour evenings,  5 hours Saturday and again Sunday--glide by. There is an almost magical amount of interaction and reflection, of listening and reviewing.

I know, I am offering precious few details. To do so would detract from the true value of The Art of Living, a 27 year old creation of Sri Sri Ravi Shankar. In 1981 he formed the Art of Living Foundation, an international nonprofit educational and humanitarian organization that works in consultative status with the Economic and Social Council of the United Nations.

The Art of Living course is one manifestation of the Foundation's efforts, working on a very individual basis. And that individual focus is all the more meaningful when you consider that some 30 million people in 152 countries have experienced it.

Water of Love

Two years ago, as I was moving into this apartment, I read Masaru Emoto's books on the "consciousness" of water. Masaru makes the case that water senses, receives, and resends emotions.

He makes the case strongly.

I brought with me Alex and Whispurr. They'd known each other for several years but had not lived in close quarters before. In fact Alex had spent most of his time outdoors and Whispurr most of her time wherever cats do.

About the same time, I decided to go with Masaru's principles. With a Sharpie and careful printing, I wrote "Happy" and "Friendly" and "Love" and "Abundance" on an empty Ozarka water bottle. Since then I have used it to fill Alex's water bowl on the kitchen floor and Whispurr's water bowl on the counter in the spare bathroom. Important that they share the joy of the water, I figured.

Shortly after, I noticed the water level in Whispurr's bowl never got lower. I watched as closely as you can watch a cat (not very), and found she got her water from the stress-relieving fountain by my front window.

Eager to accommodate, I began to add water to the fountain every morning...from the Masaru Ozarka bottle. I continued to fill Alex's bowl from the same.

Not long after, I heard Alex slurping (dogs do drink more noisily than cats) from the fountain. I felt t joyful that Whispurr and Alex drank from the same water source. I immediately sent positive messages to Masaru.

But this morning--almost 2 years later--was a real high. I looked up from morning reading and saw both of them standing, their front paws braced on the bench holding the fountain. From opposite sides, sure, but still at the same time, Whispurr sipped and Alex slurped.

My only regret: I was too slow to get the camera.

In a Small Town Way

Last Friday morning in Dalhart, TX, was 15 degrees and "Panhandle windy." The sky was eye-blinding blue. Geese honked across that sky, hundreds in every V. With instinctive choreography they regularly dissolved each V and magically reassembled, a new leader bearing the air-breaking burden.

I was 600 miles from home to work for a day and a half with Coon Memorial Hospital's management team. I walked into Coon Memorial on a morning that made this town of just over 7,000 people astoundingly beautiful.

Soon as I was inside, I heard people talking about "the bake sale."

Always hungry, I asked about the bake sale. JoAnn, who had made my every e-mailed request seem the simplest task ever performed, told me it was to raise money for a staff member whose baby son was in the (larger) hospital in Amarillo. JoAnn told me the sale was in the Medical Records office, "two doors down that hall on your left."

I walked into Medical Records, and all I could see were baked goods. Everything homemade, covering desks and file cabinets and credenzas. Looking delicious, and smelling better.

A steady stream of people came in and bought. They said little. They picked up a couple of muffins or several brownies or a bag of cookies. They didn't care what they bought, just that they could buy, that they might contribute. The spiritual prosperity was powerful

I asked the employee's name and why her baby had been taken to Amarillo.

Judy showed me a photograph of Valerie and her four children. Her twin sons are less than 2 years old, and Xavier is in the Amarillo hospital's pediatric ICU. It is the nearest place to treat his critical respiratory condition.

I bought a beautifully quilted jar filled with hot cocoa mix. First cup that night back in the hotel was the best cocoa ever.

Every sip was a prayer all its own.

Help the Less Fortunate...All Year

Thanks to Bridget Johnson with the Los Angeles Daily News for the piece that follows:

Monday, December 24, 2007

When I was 11 years old, there wasn't a lot of reason to pine for a stack of presents piled under a Christmas tree.

My father had lost his job, as scores did in the mid-1980s oil-industry bust. With our house in foreclosure, my family packed up the car and moved to try to make a new start, in hopes of my father finding the exploration work that suddenly was not in demand.

The everyday tension was palpable. The small house we rented became the dark spot in my young life, where each night I feared going to bed because the inevitable insomnia was draining me. Then one night, close to the holidays, I overheard my father say that if things continued as they were much longer, we would be living out of our car.

The next day I sat in class at Our Lady of the Assumption school in Sacramento, one of two students there on a financial-need free ride. I can't remember what the catalyst was — or if there even was one — but suddenly the tears came pouring out. Every fear I had rushed forth. I felt embarrassed in front of the classmates I barely knew.

The kindly teacher, Mrs. Cynthia Knapton, pulled me to the back of the classroom and softly asked what was wrong. I wept as I spilled all: the poverty, the loneliness, the ominous words I'd heard my father say the night before.

She consoled me; I went back to the sleepless house at the end of the school day. But a couple of days later, when my mother came to pick me up, she was asked to come into the principal's office. I was terrified that I'd let loose some awful secret, and would surely be in trouble at home.

But what was waiting in that office was a beautiful gesture pulled together by Mrs.

Knapton: a box of food for my family, a gently used coat for me, some money for my family to buy Christmas meat.

A couple of years later, after my father was at a new job, we visited San Francisco for the day. Frankly, I couldn't understand what was so grand about Union Square: There were homeless people everywhere. People literally stepped over a man sitting against Saks Fifth Avenue, his head hung low and eyes sadly staring into space.

As I trailed behind my parents, who were waiting for a crosswalk light to change, I turned to face a man sitting on a low wall, similarly anonymous to the rush of passers-by.

"Hi," I said to the homeless man. His downtrodden face turned up, his eyes lit up and teared up, and he offered an enthusiastic but genuinely surprised "hi" back, as if it had been years since he'd received a greeting.

I felt incredibly sad, returning to a home that day as that man had none.

Nowadays, I still wonder about society's relationship with those without a place to live.

We hold holiday food drives and celebrities dish out turkey and stuffing at soup kitchens, but what about when the cameras aren't clicking?

The holidays are seen as an inspiration to help the less fortunate, but what about the other 11 months of the year?

We might classify the homeless as drunks or mentally ill, junkies or simply down and out. Everybody has a different story. But in the end, is not every person without a home, living out of a shopping cart or under an overpass, just as human as you or me, just as deserving of our compassion and respect?

We might say that handouts are bad for the homeless, as they might use the cash to buy smokes or booze. But what stops us from buying an extra cup of coffee in the morning and giving it to the shivering man huddled along the side of the strip mall?

In fact, what makes us think that helping the homeless is all about material goods? Introduce yourself. Shake a hand. Talk and listen. Offer a wave and a smile to the person who may like nothing more than to be respected as part of the community, but lacks a roof over his head.

Treating the homeless, those who have fallen on hard luck, with kindness and respect is seasonless.

Because even Mrs. Knapton wasn't just giving a poor 11-year-old a handout: In the short time I was in her class, she told a parable one day about a woman who was afraid to cross the street for fear of getting hit, and therefore stayed shuttered in her house — safe and secure, but lonely and missing out on life.

I listened intently, feeling a shred of hope, and in the two decades since I've run across many streets, taken lots of chances and embraced life for all its ups and downs.

And that lesson was the greatest gift.