People ARE Created Good--I Believe That No Matter What

Yesterday was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day (to quote one of my favorite children's authors Judith Viorst).  It didn't start that way, but then I received a phone call....

Let me back up and give the context.  Several days ago I shared some information with a friend.  We had a mutual friend who needed support--the information was shared with good intentions and out of love and concern, but it was repeated.  It was reinterpreted and repeated and repeated and repeated, and so I received a phone call.

The phone call came from a colleague--someone I've met on a few occasions but not someone I know well and certainly not someone who knows me.  He asked me what I'd been saying and to whom.  I racked my brain--I had only discussed this situation and only briefly with two people and NEVER had I said what was being attributed to me.  So I denied it; I told him I don't know why that was being said.  We ended the phone call on seemingly good terms.  I don't know if he believed me, but we hung up cordially.  I put the phone down and my body began to visibly shake. I've been "caught" in situations before where I was wrong (I'm 46; I've been an adolescent girl--of course there have been those situations), and those times were uncomfortable but I took it because, well I was wrong.  This time was different; I was shaken to my core.  Tears sprang to my eyes not only for myself and false accusations but also for my friend who was the person in the situation anyway.  Somehow rumors were being spread that could potentially hurt her more and my name was attached.  I couldn't breathe and I couldn't let it go.

Chris is out of town, in meetings, and hard to get.  I began to pace in my office--I needed to process.  I was hesitant to call anyone; I felt vulnerable and I didn't want to create another situation like the one that just happened.  My anxiety won (and my complete trust in this friend) and so I made the call.  (In total honesty she also was in a meeting so we texted) I told my friend what had happened and how awful I felt.  She listened and finally said, "Katherine, anyone who knows you knows you would never say something like that and further that you would do nothing to hurt this situation or stir anything up.  Let it go."  Here's the problem--"anyone who knows me"--this person doesn't.  That's the problem with technology and the interconnectedness of the world.  People get quoted or misquoted and it spreads far and wide, outside of known circles and into the world. Judgments are made about people with no context, no knowledge and no fact checking.  I suppose that as difficult as the call was for me, I was one of the lucky ones, I had a chance to "clear my name"--but I couldn't let it go.

All afternoon I was distracted; I hurt and the words from the Book of Common Prayer, "forgive me for sins known and unknown, things done and left undone" kept pulsating through my body.  I had to call my colleague back.  One part of my mind kept saying, "let it go--you could stir things up more--let it go."  But my heart was saying, "People don't just attach names with no basis--sins unknown-I need to ask for forgiveness."  With fear and trepidation I called him back.  We talked and together we were able to piece together what had happened.  It did start with me; I had stated a fact but that fact was reinterpreted and passed on.  I asked for forgiveness and it was given.  But I haven't let it go.

What does this say about my theology of the goodness of humanity and what of my theology of caring for others?  I believe completely that we are created in the image of God and we are all created inherently good.  I also know that while I believe that, I have been guilty more times than I'd like to not extend that grace to others.  I have heard things about people who I don't know well and I have believed them; I have passed judgement about situations that I had no business judging.  I haven't made the phone call.  I wonder how the world would be different if we all behaved as though we believed in the goodness of humanity--if we believed in good intentions?  Would we make more phone calls?   I also believe strongly in caring for one another--in extending compassion and love to those who are hurt, lonely, widowed, orphaned, homeless.  Loving like that brings vulnerability; sometimes it requires putting ourselves in situations where we can be misunderstood or criticized.  Sometimes it means allowing others to think the worst of us to care for the other.

I didn't sleep well.  I keep going over this situation and wondering what I could have done differently.  My natural inclination is to shut down--to withdraw from the world.  My natural maladjusted thought process is to believe that this one situation defines my entire being--that I made a mistake and that makes me "bad".  I can believe in the goodness of others but I don't always give myself that same grace.  I don't always give others that grace.  How would we behave if we did believe and acted on the belief in the goodness of others?  Would we forgive more?  Would we judge less?  Make more phone calls, extend more grace, bring more peace?  Would we in our actions allow others to see glimpses of the love and mercy of God--would we and others catch glimpses of the Kingdom of God?

I know as hard as it can and will be I will also continue to reach out and to love.  I will reach out with a thicker shell and a little more thought, but I cannot not love others.  I believe we are all called to extend love and compassion to others even when that may be uncomfortable for us, even when it exposes us to the criticisms of others.  How would the world be different if we all reached out, if we all behaved as though we believed in the goodness of others and their intentions?  How many people would feel God's love through us if we didn't allow our own vulnerabilities and fears to drive our behavior, to paralyze our actions, to prevent us from extending the hand of love and mercy and compassion and grace?  I believe that as hard as it is, as scary as it is, that if we don't reach out in love, evil wins.  And I refuse to be a part of that.  Now to begin forgiving myself...

Why I Start Their Cars

I admit it--I probably do too much for my children.  I do all their laundry; I bring them hot chocolate and coffee to their rooms in the morning to wake them up, and I start their cars on cold mornings so they're warm and defrosted when they're ready to leave for school.  All of these things they can and have done.  (SK did her own laundry for over a year until I realized that I only had one year left of getting to do it, so I asked her if I could do it again.)  I've been challenged by some as to why I would do these things (challenged in a friendly fun loving way), but these challenges have definitely had me thinking a lot over the last few days--thinking and trying to put into words why I do what I do.  And to put it bluntly, the answer is, "because no one ever did it for me."  There is nothing that reminds me of a warm and loving home.  There are no traditions or smells to remind me that I always have a place to return where I am loved unconditionally.  (There were some mornings when Daddy started my car as he left for work--and I remember feeling loved and warm and protected as I got in the car. This combination of feelings were rare for me; I don't want them to be for my children.)

Don't get me wrong; I know my mother loved me and loves me and we certainly were well cared for as we were growing up, but we weren't nurtured in the way I wanted to be nurtured.  Our home had stimulating intellectual conversations, good meals and high expectations, but tender nurturing--not so much.  I remember when a friend of mine in high school said that right after she was married she was taking a shower and started to cry because the towels didn't smell like her mother's and it made her miss her mother and the love she showed.  I vividly remember her telling me that, and although I was not yet married--didn't even know Chris then--I thought, "That's how I want my children to be; not sad but to remember our home as one of love, security, and care."  And I realized then that all the words in the world wouldn't create that environment--our deepest needs are satisfied through the actions of others and our memories are triggered through our senses.

Fast forward a few years and I began to create "rituals."  One of these was lotioning up the children with scented baby lotion after baths.  We had a song we sang as I rubbed them each down with lotion. I hoped that in the process of soothing their dry skin my love would also seep into their pores as I carefully massaged their skin, to be remembered and brought out when they most needed it.  Recently Boss told me after he babysat one night that when he smelled the baby lotion he remembered the song and sang it to my nephews.  He also added that he was fairly certain I continued that ritual well after the age appropriate stage--  

So I light a scented candle at the bottom of the stairs every morning so the household wakes up to a nice smelling home; I bring them hot chocolate and coffee to their beds; I search diligently for the right combination of laundry detergent and softener; and I start their cars when it's cold.  (I also decorate SK's lunch bag and always use holiday appropriate napkins--hadn't admitted to that yet; now the cat's out of the bag--or on the bag depending on how I decorate it that day.)  Our mornings aren't perfect (there are even times I go on strike), more times than I like there are cross words spoken and feelings hurt.  When they leave stomping out of the house, slamming doors and barely brushing my cheek with a kiss, even if they don't overtly recognize it then, I hope the warm car in some ways reminds them of my love and that regardless of how cold and difficult the world can be, there is always a warm place to return.  A place where they will be loved and accepted. Truthfully, there are some mornings, I'm so annoyed with them that I have to force myself to do these things but I remind myself that this is about something bigger than they spoke to me unkindly or they didn't pick up their towels AGAIN, this is about unconditional love and building a home where that is the foundation.  I pray that in the years to come they will remember those cross words less and the actions more.  I pray that whenever they get in a warm car, when they smell a familiar candle or drink hot chocolate/coffee they will be enveloped in a feeling of love and care.  I pray that these small acts that I love to do (yep it really is about me) will be reminders that they have a soft place to fall, reminders that they always have a home that is waiting for them--waiting to envelope them in love whenever they need it.  And most importantly I pray that they will pass that love onto others.

Don't know if they're good reasons--but they're mine.

Why I Insist My Children Go to Church, On Their Terms

I love pens--I know that's bizarre (but so are so many other things that I do.)  But really, I do love them--all kinds and all colors.  But I do have my favorites.

One of my favorites is a Waterman pen  a dear friend, Kennedy Helm, gave me.  I was honored to know Kennedy and to listen to the words of advice he would often impart.  (He taught me how to take a child on a college tour--and he was mostly right; we didn't fight at all.  And said child will be attending a school of HER choice next year--but that's another story.)  Kennedy always signed everything with his own fountain pen  kept in his coat pocket.  Ask him to sign a paper while holding a pen, he would still reach for his.  When I was ordained Kennedy and his equally wonderful wife, Elizabeth, gave me a Waterman pen.  "With which to write your sermons," Kennedy said, "Or sign the books when you finally publish them."  I love that pen.  Kennedy has passed away and I don't see Elizabeth nearly enough.  I miss them both tremendously.

Several weeks ago I ran out of the pen's ink cartridges.  Life, and snowy weather and illness, have all conspired against me and getting to Office Depot (Kennedy's recommendation on where to buy replacements) to purchase new cartridges.  Today, stuck at home because one car is in the shop and the other three drivers had real things they needed to do, I braved the single digit temperatures and walked to Office Depot.

When I got home, I immediately put a new cartridge in and started trying to write some long overdue notes.  My stomach dropped a bit--it was scratchy and jumped over spaces--it wasn't smooth at all.  What was wrong with it?!?!!  As I felt the panic began to rise, I hadn't written down how Kennedy told me to clean it,  I heard Kennedy's voice in my head, "Make sure you use it frequently.  If you don't it won't write smoothly.  You also have to write with it often so it learns your hand; it becomes part of you.  A pen can be used by anyone but it also becomes very personal. You have to press down with just enough pressure.  Don't be afraid to press down, but not hard enough to damage the nib. You'll get the hang of it."  I hadn't been writing with it--and so I started writing my name over and over on a piece of paper until it finally became more smooth, more clear, and once again a part of me.

As I was repeatedly writing my name it dawned on me, this is why I both insist my children go to church and why I don't make them acolyte or sing in the choir or be a Eucharistic minister unless they want to.  This is why they attend church and why they are allowed to, encouraged to, question and challenge what they hear in sermons (yes, even mine), what they read in Scripture, and how they see people behave. They are allowed to participate on their terms.  Chris and I, along with their Godparents, presented our children to be baptized and made these promises.

Will you be responsible for seeing that the child you present
is brought up in the Christian faith and life?

Parents and Godparents

I will, with God's help.

Celebrant

Will you by your prayers and witness help this child to grow
into the full stature of Christ?

Parents and Godparents

I will, with God's help.

                                                      (BCP p. 302)

And we will uphold them (this is also what I tell them when they ask why they have to go to church--we made promises).  Chris and I make sure the children are in church and my hope and prayer is that with constant use their faith will become a part of them AND that it will be their own personal faith, not what I tell them to believe but what they really believe.  I suspect there will be times life gets scratchy, but I pray that because we have kept the promises we made at their baptisms they will have what they need to work through those times.  I pray that we have given them the tools they need to refill their souls.  And I pray that they are surrounded by people who press them into finding their own faiths, I pray that they press themselves hard enough to find their own faith, but not hard enough to damage them.  

Thank you Kennedy--you continue to impart valuable wisdom.  And now I will go write a note to Elizabeth--it's high time we had lunch.

Being a Godparent

Between the two of us Chris and I have 8 Godchildren. Three we share officially (meaning both our names are on their certificates) but I claim all 8 because all 8 play a prominent part in both our lives and definitely of both our prayers. All 8 remind me that we are part of something bigger than ourselves; we are part of the family of God.

Andrew

Stewart and Eloise

I vividly remember being asked by each parent to be a Godparent. With each request I was humbled, I was honored, and I was overwhelmed. For us being a Godparent goes beyond having another person to whom to send gifts. (We've got four of our own for crying out loud)--for us being a Godparent expands the responsibility we have to live a Godly life, to practice a life of faith, and to take seriously the fact that we are all connected through faith--by blood or by request we are all a part of the family of God. The family of God defies the boundaries we as people create. The family of God demands that we all acknowledge our interconnectedness our interdependence and our  responsibility to one another and particularly to the children. 

Beckett

Being a Godparent is hard--it is another part of life through which the "world"--the secular world--can assess you. Did you remember every birthday, do you stay connected enough, and do you measure up?  I believe being a Godparent transcends those expectations--being a Godparent is about a Trinitarian relationship--me, the child, and God. Being a Godparent is about accepting the honor and the privilege of joining another set of parents on a life long journey of loving, guiding and praying for one of God's most vulnerable--a creature created in the image of God's own self--a child. Being a Godparent is about acknowledging that the world is broken, that we are all broken but that by coming together in our

Jonathan

brokenness, healed by God's love we can be a part of creating something holy and good. Being a Godparent is about becoming a part of something bigger than ourselves--it is about being incarnational and it starts with a child.

Celia

The truth is that most time becoming a Godparent originates with a relationship between adults. I don't know how I was chosen to be each child's Godparent--I don't know how I made "the cut", what the competition was, or what criteria I had to meet. I know that each time I was asked my heart expanded.  I know that each time I said yes to the parents I also said yes to God. "Yes" I accept the responsibility of intentionally being a conduit to let the children come to You. "Yes" I will strive through my life and my prayers to make sure these children know You and that they will have a connection to You through me. "Yes" I will practice my faith and connect to them so that they know there are people who love them not because they were born into a particular biological family but because they were born into the family of God.

Matilda

I love being a Godparent. I wish I had more time with each of them; I am often overwhelmed with the feelings of responsibility I have to each of them. But I treasure each of them and the little time we have. I love hearing about their lives and spending time with them laughing, playing games and being together. I mourn that there are some too far away for that to happen often, and I hope they know they are in my daily prayers.

Charlotte

Being a Godparent helps me to experience God and being a Godparent makes me a better person. Being a Godparent is holy and good.  I love being a Godparent!

May I Repeat, "I Wasn't Ready to Answer God's Call"

I have said to almost anyone who will listen that while I heard God call me into the sacred order of the priesthood in 1997, I was really happy being a stay-at-home mama.  My plan was to answer the call when the children (who kept coming) left home.  When it became apparent God wasn't quite on the same wavelength, I fought it.  When I entered seminary in 2009, I fought it, and truth be told as much as I love my vocation, I still fight it. Let me repeat, I was really happy being a stay at home mama.  Last night that fight hit epic proportions.

Chris and I both try to be at all the children's events.  It is very important to us that we are in the bleachers, on the sidelines, in the audience--you get the picture.  And, although they like to pretend it doesn't, it matters to the children.  When Boss was on the JV basketball team, I arrived a few minutes late to one game.  Amy, another mother and very good friend, said, "We're all glad you're here; now Christopher can stop looking up in the stands and actually shoot the ball."  It matters, being there matters.

Last week I realized that Caroline's final regular season home game as an 8th grader was last night.  Both Chris and I would be out of town.  I was distraught; I thought there would be recognition at the game,and I was literally brought to tears.  I was ready to cancel my trip to Forma, an annual conference for people involved in Christian formation.  I love this conference, and I love my friends and colleagues whom I only get to see once a year.  The fight in my heart was fierce--I reminded God that I indeed had been quite happy with my life; I railed at God--"why couldn't the call have waited?"  I finally, with many tears and prayers, resolved that I had to go to DC and so I asked SK and Boss if they would represent Chris and I.  "Sure," said Christopher, "We'll be her teenage parents."  ( I love a smart ass 16 year old!)  SK recognizing that this could indeed be a breaking point for me replied, "Don't worry Mama, we'll be there."

Last night came and I was having a wonderful time in DC with old and new friends.  I was seeing friends from the past, and I briefly forgot that Caroline was having a game, until I received this text from Sarah Katherine..

 I froze; it hit me in the gut and I could barely breathe.  I couldn't even make fun of Sarah Katherine for using true basketball terms--I said I was happy being a stay at home mama not that I wasn't a slightly sarcastic one!  I excused myself from the table and called SK who filled me in on how it happened.  Yes indeed in the final seconds of the game down by 1 Caroline hit her free throws and the game was over.  I proudly told my table of friends, but inside my heart was breaking, and I kept repeating to myself, "I wasn't there; I wasn't there, I wasn't there"

I later called Caroline who relayed the whole thing to me in her Caroline way.  "They fouled me Mama," she explained, "Idiots--who fouls someone when you're winning and it's almost over?"  She finished the story with, "Mama, they all stormed the court--everyone, the whole boys basketball team--and were all over for me.  It felt like I was even popular."  She laughed and said, "And you know that doesn't happen much."  I laughed along and wondered how much money to put into the therapy jar--can't decide if it was for me or Caroline.  I sent a text to my good friend (and a mother who was actually there) trying to make light of Caroline's popular comment, really trying to make light of it to deflect the waves of guilt surging through my body.



I couldn't let it go so I texted Boss asking if he had indeed been there and then if he stormed the court.  I shared with him that I was overcome with guilt. This is his response. (again love that smart ass 16 year old boy--but it did make me laugh)

Still, I wasn't getting over it, and I suppose I thought I needed to continue to wallow as some sort of penance. So I sent a final text to Chris.  Chris is a rock.  I know that he wanted to be there as badly as I did, and I know he was probably bursting with pride, but I also know he knows me well and I wonder how long it took for him to figure out just the right thing to say...

I wasn't there.  I had to get over it.  This morning I opened my email to find this...

And it hit me--I wasn't ready to answer God's call, but God was ready for me to answer.  What I had forgotten was that God didn't abandon me; God provided me with a family who steps up, a family who loves and supports one another, a family who values being there and is there.  And God provided me with friends who love and support my children both when I'm there and more when I'm not.  When God calls there is no question, you can't say no.  And God will provide...

Reality and The Ring

Caroline's lost pinky, for better or worse, has played a part of our family's narrative for almost as long as anyone in our family can remember.   It is a part of who she is, and because we are Doyles, it is a part of who we all are.  For the most part, it has been a nonevent in our daily lives, but every once in awhile....

Caroline wanted a monogram ring for Christmas and Daddy and my Bonus Mama, Marguerite, bought her a beautiful one.  Two weeks ago when we were in Augusta she got it.  (It had been on back order.) She was so excited and it looked beautiful on her hand.  She has the most gorgeous long, thin fingers with nails I have to pay to try to emulate.  It was perfect.  Sarah Katherine, Caroline, and I were all admiring it and how perfectly it fit her finger.  (I suspect SK was silently gloating as she indeed was the one who chose it.)  Caroline left the room for a moment and when she returned she held up her left hand.  She had moved the ring from her right to her left hand.  As she held it up she said, "This is what my hand will look like with an engagement ring on it.  It looks weird." And with that a look we rarely see on her face appeared--a sad look in her eyes and she lowered her head.  My heart stopped; I froze and my mind raced with what to say to make it okay.  I wanted to deny that her hand looked any differently than any other girl's left hand would with a ring on it.   I wanted to lie to her and for her to believe me.  I wanted to say, "well it will be a long time before we have to deal with that" and for that to make it okay. I wanted to change the subject and avoid the reality.   This was one of those moments I had dreaded; it was here, and I was paralyzed.  But Sarah Katherine, Caroline's biggest advocate, protector and best friend, calmly said, "Well it looks different, but it doesn't look bad.  I think it just means that you'll need a great big diamond and I'm sure you'll get it."  Sarah Katherine did what I did not; she named a reality and thereby took control of it.  

Caroline's head raised, her eyes began to sparkle again and she smiled.  Then in true Caroline form, she added, "Or I can just marry a Jewish person--they wear their's on their right hand."  

The Stole

I had the great honor of  meeting The Rev. Alan Houghton in August of 1996.  Sarah Katherine was 11 months old and her Godfather and our close friend Carter Houghton invited Chris, myself, and SK to Pawley's Island for a week.  Three other men were invited, so the house was filled with me, SK, four bachelors and Chris. (That may seem an odd combination--well because it is, but it was a wonderful week nonetheless!)

Every morning I would wake up, pick up bottles and tops--not SK's and not because I was trying to be guest of the year or subservient woman but rather because I had an 11 month old walking around.  Every morning almost as though he was watching, as I finished, Alan (which he quickly asked me to call him) came over with coffee and an assortment of newspapers. He and I sat on the deck (at this I was trying to be guest of the year seeing as an 11 month old makes more noise than bachelors who have been up late with aforementioned bottles, might enjoy) and talked as we sipped our coffee, read the paper and watched Sarah Katherine.  Anyone who knows The Rev. Houghton knows he is a brilliant man both because of his education as well as his life experience.  He  can talk theology, politics, current events and just about anything else.  I loved listening to him share his knowledge, his life stories, and a few good stories about Carter that I am still keeping to use at the appropriate time--say with his children.  It was a highlight of the week--a gracious, charming, brilliant gentleman took time out of his morning each day to spend with me, an 11 month old he barely knew and the others as they slowly emerged.

Fast forward three more children and 10 years.  Our family was living in England as were Carter, his wife Ingrid and their two children.  One weekend while we were visiting I was sharing with them that I was in the discernment process for the priesthood.  Several days later our phone rang--"Katherine, I hope you remember me, this is Alan Houghton."  That's how he was--unassuming--remember him?  How could I have forgotten him; frankly I was more surprised he remembered me and even more surprised by the conversation.  "I hope you don't mind but recently Carter and Ingrid told me about you and discernment.  Can we talk?"  A hundred things were going through my mind.  Was he against women's ordination? Was he going to tell me it was a terrible idea?  Why was he making a transatlantic call about this?  Instead I said, "Yes sir."  "Katherine, I remember sitting with you many mornings that summer you were here.  I have to tell you that when Carter and Ingrid told me I wasn't surprised.  I can't say that I ever left the deck saying you'd be a priest, but based on those conversations I'm not surprised.  I'd like to pray for you daily and I need to know if in addition to praying for you and the discernment committees you have any specific things for which I could pray?"  I was speechless--and that doesn't happen often, and it didn't last long.  Without knowing what I was going to say I blurted out, "Please pray for my family.  I don't know how this will effect them."    There was a long pause and Alan said, "Those are important prayers and ones I will make certain are said daily.  Becoming a priest does impact your family and not always for the best.  But I believe in my heart you are called to this and with support and prayer I think you can do it.  Now I remember Sarah Katherine, but I'm kind of getting old.  Could you remind me of your other children's names?"  He made certain he had their spellings correct.  We spent the next 45 minutes talking about the priesthood--his joys and challenges and his belief about where the church was moving.  And he shared with me why he thought I was called and what I could offer as a gift to the church.  As the conversation ended Alan asked for my address; he asked if I would be willing to continue conversations with him either by phone or mail during my process, and we prayed.   I hung up the phone and tears streamed down my face.  It wasn't only that someone had affirmed my calling, there were others who had (I am equally thankful for them), but this man had met me once and yet he took the time to reach out to me.  I was overwhelmed knowing that he would be praying for me and my family.

A few weeks later I received a book of prayers that Alan had written along with a note.  Over the next couple of years I received a few other notes--often very short but always handwritten. I again saw Alan in July of 2009 at Carter and Ingrid's third child's (and Chris' and my Godchild) baptism.  Alan had clearly aged, but he remembered our original conversation, asked about each of the children by name, and told me that he continued to pray daily for me and the family.  Alan told me he wanted to be at my ordination, and I believe he did although due to health he was unable to make the trip.  As I stood in the front of the church with my family around me, as Christopher high fived me, SK sang the Venite Sancte Spiritus, and the babies and Chris surrounded me, I knew that a large part of how we all got to this place was the prayers of The Rev. Alan Houghton and a phone call many years ago.

New Year's Day Alan's daughter and my good friend Hope handed me a beautifully wrapped box.    I unwrapped the package, opened the box, and my heart stopped.  I knew instantly what it was--one of Alan's stoles.  "We wanted you to have it," Hope said.  There are truly no words to describe what this stole means to me. I have tried countless times to write a thank you note--it still needs to be written but I have no words.   I have held and studied the stole--the worn parts I know were worn by Alan's fingers as he vested each Sunday and I like to think that in some way my ministry is now connected to and a continuation of Alan's.

The Stole

Today, for the first time, I was able to wear the stole as I celebrated the Eucharist.  I began vesting; I knew it was going to be a special time, but I was not prepared for the emotions that surged through me.  I closed the door to my office as my tears spilled over; I kissed the cross on the nape and as I placed the stole around my neck I gave thanks for the life and ministry of The Rev. Alan Houghton.
After the service as I removed the stole it occurred to me that Alan taught me something else.  He taught me that as members of humanity and members of the community of faith--as people who are called to be the hands and feet of Christ on earth, we are to reach out to others, to acknowledge their gifts and to support and encourage them, but beyond them we need  to ask them how we can help and then to follow through.  It is taking time out of our lives to invest in someone else's even if that someone else is someone we casually met one summer.