The Quilt

This peacefulness…..this gratitude…..when did it overtake me?  Perhaps when we received an unexpected FaceTime after our five year old grandson said to his mother “Aren’t you going to call Nana and Papa?”  

              Perhaps as I watched the blazing crimson sunset filter through a latticework of trees?  Or as we cued up a movie and broke out the popcorn? 

              Or maybe it was when I searched out an unfinished quilt I had tucked away in the closet and renewed my efforts to complete it?

              Maybe it was all of these combined.  I know these events followed one another over the course of the evening.  However, the quilt has a story that likely makes it the centerpiece of this contentment. 

              When my mother was in her 70s, she took up quilting.  She had intended when she retired to take up gardening.  But, sadly, she developed some kind of allergy that made it impossible for her to work in plants.  She made some beautiful quilts and I am blessed to have some of her efforts.  But she started one quilt top that for some reason didn’t suit her.  I’m not sure why.  When I look at the turquoise and rose colors they remind me so of her.  Nothing about it seemed lacking to me.  But she stopped working on it, stitched an edging around it and gave it to me, saying maybe I could use it as a tablecloth. 

For a long time after she died I pondered the possibilities for that “tablecloth.”  I am neither a great seamstress nor a quilter, although I used to sew a lot and enjoyed making a pattern for “magic quilts,” which fold up into a pocket on the quilt to make a pillow.  But I inquired of my friend and expert quilter Mary what she thought I might do.  She helped me to choose a backing and to begin a way to quilt it.  I have worked on it periodically.   Frequently I have forgotten about it altogether.  But I follow Mary’s quilting blog and something in the reading of her last post triggered my memory of that neglected project.  Having retrieved it from its closet “hideaway,” I renewed my quilting activity while we watched the movie.    

Threading the needle, pulling it through the fabric, fabric that my mother’s hands had touched,  soothed me to the core, peace and gratitude in every stitch.  I could imagine her selecting that fabric, cutting it, piecing it together.  I could even see her examining her work and finding it unsatisfactory. (Like mother, like daughter.  I recognize the pattern).  The sewing of this quilt reminds me of how much of her I carry within me….and how very much I am sustained by that embodiment.

And so I invite you to seek those things that soothe you, bring you comfort, connect you to a sense of serenity and gratefulness.  As we carry on through Covid 19, these will be our sustenance. 

May we be bearers of hope, the “wait staff” of Hope’s Café for each other and all those we encounter.

                                                             Shalom, Kate

Hope’s Café Bonus:  😊 My quilter friend Mary’s website: And photos as an added bonus! ♥ My mother and her “disappointing” quilt♥ 

Breaking Bread Together

Some weeks ago I purchased pretzel bread at Aldi’s.  I had never seen it for sale—-and I have never seen it since—not at Aldi’s, not at Publix, not at Food City.  So I googled pretzel bread recipes and decided I would make some myself.  There is something so satisfying about mixing the ingredients, kneading the dough, seeing it rise, smelling the incomparable aroma of baking bread. 

                             I spent a lovely afternoon baking.  Yet I also had a sense of melancholy. In the (not too distant) past, that is, pre-Covid 19, baking often meant “company coming!”    I so miss the camaraderie of sharing food with friends.  We occasionally do social distance picnic with friends, each bringing their own food.  That has helped us not to feel totally isolated.  I am not sure what we will do when the weather no longer permits even that bit of interaction, comfort, pleasure.  It is not the same experience, though, as sharing a meal, lovingly prepared, consumed together in leisurely fashion. 

                            That kind of meal resonates as the ideal to me.  But there are other opportunities to share food that are meaningful if we pay attention.  Four gang members once came to our church’s food pantry and were served without fanfare.  No one was excluded.  Everyone was welcome.  I have observed a homeless man divide his meager rations with his faithful companion, dog and owner clearly devoted to one another.    

One of the most powerful stories I have ever heard of sharing food, though, occurred in World War II.  An infantryman in the British army had ended up in a prisoner of war camp in Poland.  The conditions were dreadful.  There was no heat, and prisoners were given a single bowl of thin soup and a small crust of bread daily.  Men were starving, sick, filthy and desperate.  Suicide was a very real option.  All one had to do was run toward the perimeter of the camp and leap against the barbed wire fence.  Guards would immediately shoot and kill anyone trying to escape.  

                            In the middle of the night the soldier walked to the perimeter and sat down beside the fence to think about going through with it.  He heard movement in the darkness from the from the other side of the fence.  It was a Polish farmer.  The farmer thrust his hand through the barbed wire and handed the soldier half of a potato.  In a heavily accented English the farmer, in his effort to offer nourishment as well as to encourage faith in desperate circumstances, said “The Body of Christ.”  (as reported in October 2, 2013 Christian Century)

May we be bearers of hope, the “wait staff” of Hope’s Café for each other and all those we encounter.

                               Shalom, Kate

Hope’s Café Bonus: for Making bread, Baking bread, Breaking bread together, try Pizza Monkey Bread.  Heat oven to 350 degrees. Combine 2 cans (16.3 oz each) refrigerated biscuits, quartered; 6 oz pepperoni, quartered; 2 c. shredded mozzarella; ½ c. Parmesan cheese, shredded or grated; ¼ c. butter, melted and slightly cooled; 2 T. olive oil; 2 t. Italian seasonings; 2 t. minced garlic (or ½ t. garlic powder). Mix well to coat.  Pour into a greased bundt pan or 9×13 baking dish.  Bake 35-45 minutes, covering with foil after the first 20 minutes.  Then check every 5 minutes thereafter for doneness.  After removing from oven, loosen with knife.  Invert bundt man onto plate.  Warm some marinara for dipping & enjoy.  😊

Earth Angels

In 2010 Terry and I made a trip to Costa Rica to attend Costa Rica Spanish Institute.  However, this trip had a few hitches.  When we arrived at the Atlanta airport to check in we discovered Terry had picked up our old passports by mistake.  We had to rebook for the next day, drive home to retrieve the current passports and return the following day. This created another problem.  COSI was an immersion language program and we were due to stay with a family.  The message of our delay was relayed to a family member but not passed on to the parent who was hosting us.  She showed up on the appropriate day and time, bewildered that we didn’t arrive. 

When we did at last arrive, after a plane and then a bus trip, we were delivered to a bus station at dark in what was clearly not a safe part of town.   We didn’t know the language; didn’t have a phone with us; didn’t know how to contact anyone; didn’t know where we were in relation to anything else.  We were LOST!  A taxi driver who only spoke Spanish stopped and we showed him the little card with the name and address of the person with whom we were to stay.  He looked at it briefly and drove off.  We assumed he didn’t know how to read.  We just stood there on the sidewalk wondering what in the world to do when another vehicle drove up.  The driver, who turned out to be an American living in Costa Rica, rolled down the window and said, “Do you need some help?”  We told him the situation, he called the person we were to stay with, got directions to her home and delivered us safe and sound to our destination.  Even now looking back, I marvel at that miracle.

I have encountered others I would call earth angels.  Once about 11 months after Terry donated his kidney to his sister, we were at a conference.  Terry mentioned in the context of the discussion about the physiology of the brain, that he’d never had headaches until he donated his kidney.  After the lecture, one of the participants came up to him and said he thought he could help Terry.  We went to his room with him, he put a little device on Terry’s hand, took some kind of measurement, and said Terry was low in a particular mineral.  He put some drops under Terry’s tongue and—another miracle!—Terry’s headaches completely stopped and never recurred. 

We all have opportunities to be earth angels.  My friend Kathy was one this week for some folks whose son died while in custody awaiting transfer to a psychiatric hospital after a mental health crisis.  If you review your last few weeks, perhaps you recognize instances when you either were the benefactor or recipient of these kind of interactions. 

I am reminded of Hebrews 13:2  “Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it.”

May we be bearers of hope, the “wait staff” of Hope’s Café for each other and all those we encounter. Kate

Hope’s Café Bonus:  Earth Angel Treat:  3-2-1 Magic Mug Cake:  Mix angel food cake mix with a second cake mix of any flavor.  Mix 3 T. of cake mix with 2 T.       water and place in mug; microwave for one minute and enjoy.  😊

Creating Ritual

Rituals are a feature of all known human societies.  We might more often think of them in terms of religious ceremonies, rites of passage, ceremonies such as weddings and funerals, or even common behaviors such as shaking hands (pre-covid 19!).  But in psychological terminology, ritual more often refers to repetitive activity intended to bind anxiety. Think obcessive-compulsive disorder.  However, in the midst of the disruption the covid 19 virus has brought into our lives, developing rituals to give shape to our days would seem to be a reasonable response that might indeed minimize anxiety and increase focus.

            Though I did not set out to develop rituals during this time, I realize I have unwittingly done just that.  We now typically have breakfast on the screen porch followed by a walk down to the road to get the newspaper, a mile round trip.  Just this week we impulsively took a ride at sunset.  We liked it so much we went again the next night and decided we would do this nightly.  We don’t go far or for long.  But just that 30 minutes or so in the fading light of evening, passing fields of sunflowers and pastures of cattle grazing, while the sky blazes tangerine and violet, then fades into blue velvet night, is so soothing to my soul. 

            We zoom twice a week with two different groups of friends.  We plan social distance picnics about once a week.  I zoom with a Centering Prayer group once a week and meditate and pray daily.  I still find I am easily distracted and my focus is variable, a condition I certainly hope will improve as I continue to provide myself with these routines that define this fluid period in which we find ourselves.

            “I learned a few years ago that balance is the key to a happy and successful life,” Gretchen Bleiler, former professional snowboarder, has written, “and a huge part of achieving that balance is instilling rituals into your everyday life.”

            In these challenging times, we have the opportunity to develop whatever rituals we discover to support balance as we navigate our everyday lives. 

May we be bearers of hope, the “wait staff” of Hope’s Café for each other and all those we encounter.

          Shalom, Kate

Hope’s Café Bonus:  Movie night (another ritual!) treat:  To popcorn, add dark chocolate chips, dried cranberries and dry roasted peanuts (or whatever nuts you prefer)…..enjoy! 😊 Creating Ritual


I only came across the term “pneumataphore” in June in a post I receive daily from Abbey of the Arts.   In botany, pneumataphores are defined as a specialized respiratory root in certain aquatic plants, such as the bald cypress, that grows upward and protrudes above the water or mud into the air. But in the Abbey of the Arts post the author revealed that this term was used in the early Christian east to mean “bearers of spirit.”  It referred to both men and women who were considered to be spiritual, inspired and prophetic. I presume the connection between such disparate things as aquatic plants and “spirit bearers” is the origin of “respiratory,” “spiritual” and “inspired” from Latin having to do with the breath.  It is no coincidence that there is an entire category of “breath prayers,” short prayers that can be said in a breath, such as Kyrie Eleison ((translated “Lord, have mercy”). This all sounds quite lofty.  But we also have the word “prophetic,” which introduces another dimension entirely to that of “spirit bearer.”

“Prophet means ‘spokesman’ not ‘fortune-teller,’” Frederick Buechner writes. “The one whom in their unfathomable audacity the prophets claimed to speak for was the Lord and Creator of the universe” Tongue in cheek, he adds: “There is no evidence to suggest that anyone ever asked a prophet home for supper more than once.” And, truth be told, prophets in the Hebrew scriptures could be a pretty harsh lot, speaking unwelcome truths. 

So spirit-bearing would seem to be a high calling requiring a particular skill set.  And yet I think this is the very invitation we have every day with whatever gifts we bring to it.  We are undoubtedly imperfect creatures. But at our best we come from a centered and grounded space that allows us to grow within ourselves; to elevate and inspire others; and to take on the difficult task of spokesperson or “prophet” when hard realities confront us. May we see within this calling, the opportunity that is offered us to become the humans we are created to be, the ones who are “just walking each other home.”

 May we be bearers of hope, the “wait staff” of Hope’s Café for each other and all those we encounter.

          Shalom, Kate

Hope’s Café Bonus: For “spirit-bearers” everywhere, lift your spirits with this refreshing drink:  Mix 2 c. fresh berries (such as strawberries, raspberries, blackberries or blueberries, or a mixture, plus more for garnish); ½ c. orange juice; 2 T. lime juice (plus lime slices for garnish); 2 T. honey; 3 c. soda water (or lemon-lime seltzer; add ice cubes.  Enjoy. 😊



I became a devoted fan of John O’Donohue in March 2007 when he spoke at a symposium my husband Terry and I attended in D.C.  Participants were treated to a presentation by O’Donohue at a pre-conference event.   Like a magician, this powerful Irish poet, author, priest and theologian mesmerized the entire group. 

In this time of sheltering in place, for solace and inspiration I have turned again to O’Donohue’s CD “To Bless the Space Between Us.”  For example:

“The quiet eternal that dwells in our souls is silent and subtle; in the activity of blessing it emerges to embrace and nurture us. Let us begin to learn how to bless one another.  Whenever you give a blessing, a blessing returns to enfold you.”

Perhaps it is no surprise then, that I have begun to practice praying silently using  (in breath)“Breathing in peace… (outbreath) breathing out blessing” including the name of the person or situation for which I might be a conduit of blessing. I feel a profound sense of connection when I do this. 

There is also release when I offer blessing on persons/situations with which I struggle.  I first learned this lesson after our business manager defrauded us resulting in the closing our business.  For months I prayed daily for her.  Because I am pious? No.  Because I knew that otherwise I would become embittered and would only poison my own well.  In this time of such division amongst even friends and families, this is wisdom to consider.

O’Donohue encourages us to “realize our power to bless, heal, and renew one another.”  In that spirit,  when I officiated the wedding for my great niece and her husband last November, I closed the ceremony with this blessing, (once again, courtesy of John O’Donohue) which I now offer you: “And so may these words of love work their way around you, an invisible cloak to surround your life.” 

May we be bearers of hope, the “wait staff” of Hope’s Café for each other and all those we encounter.

            Shalom, Kate

Hope’s Café Bonus: Popsicles!  For a little summer treat, blend 1 c. fresh or frozen fruit, 1 c. nonfat vanilla yogurt and 2 T. honey.  (If too thick, add a bit of liquid).  Pour evenly into 4 paper cups (or popsicle molds).  Cover cups with foil, make slit in foil and insert wooden popsicle sticks (or plastic spoons).  Freeze 5 hours or until solid. Voila! Peel off paper cup and serve. 


Easter morning 1998, I was in a bitter, angry mood, certainly in no emotional state to go to church.  My husband Terry was due to be admitted to the hospital the next day in order to donate a kidney to his sister.  I was scared and, as often happens when people are fearful, I covered my fear with anger.  But I headed down the driveway on my way to church, only to encounter a deer who emerged from the trees into my path.  The deer stopped midway on the driveway and our eyes locked.  Time seemed to stand still.  I have no idea how long we engaged each other.  But when the deer continued across the driveway and I resumed my drive to church, my spirits were lifted.  I arrived at church, buoyant with Easter joy, somehow mysteriously at peace. 

            From that time forward, deer became something akin to holy for me.  I was more attentive to them when I saw them grazing on our property or when we observed them when we travelled.  Some of my favorite places are Peaks of Otter where deer roam the grounds freely and Zion National Park where our room provided us a ringside seat to these creatures enjoying leisurely breakfasts and quiet suppers on the grounds of the lodge. 

            In 2009 my father, who had come to live with us, began to deteriorate after a stroke.  I had left my job as a hospice bereavement counselor to be home with him but it became apparent I needed to call on hospice services myself.  On a hot July day I drove to the office and signed up my father to enter the program.  On the return trip home, I uttered a silent prayer for some sign, some message that I would have the courage to get through what lay ahead of me.  I remember thinking, “If only a deer would show its face.”  Though mid afternoon on a hot July day is not a likely time for a deer to appear, I watched for one as I drove home. 

            When I arrived, the young woman who had stayed with my father while I was gone immediately asked “Do you often get deer around here?”  Startled, I said, “Why do you ask?” She replied “Because one just came to the window and stayed for the longest time.”  I fell into a chair, near breathless, choking back tears. 

            Truth is, though we often see deer around our property, never had one come to the window.  I longed to see the deer that had come to the window for myself.  A few weeks later, as my father’s death was clearly imminent, I woke early and sat in his apartment that was attached to our house.  I began to mentally construct what I thought I might want to say as a eulogy.  Once again I longed and wished for the appearance of the deer that now symbolized assurance and peace to me.    As I did, lo and behold, a deer came to the window.  Mesmerized, I watched as she ate some leaves just beyond the windowpane.   I wanted Terry to see her too but I didn’t want to disturb her.  Eventually she made her way around the house.  I alerted Terry and we were able to share the experience of watching her at a small pond outside our screen porch.

Regardless of how you respond to my unusual experience, I hope you will always feel a certain reverence for deer.  For me, they truly are “something akin to holy.”

May we be bearers of hope, the “wait staff” of Hope’s Café for each other and all those we encounter.

            Shalom, Kate

Hope’s Café Bonus: “Plant-based deer on the menu”  Dip triangle shaped shortbread cookies (“Petticoat Tails” or alternatively Nutter Butter Cookies or Keebler Vienna Fingers) in melted chocolate, attaching pretzels for antlers, mini chocolate chips for eyes and red hots for noses (or if you prefer plain, use icing or melted candy to attach antlers, eyes and noses) .  No deer were harmed in the making of this recipe! 😊


As we have been sheltering in place, I have been especially grateful to live in the midst of trees; not just any trees, but the trees that have surrounded us for nearly 30 years.  They feel like old friends, knowing family stories, holding our history in their roots.   Terry grew up on this land.  I can close my eyes and imagine him scampering around the woods, doing chores on the farm, hiking White Oak Mountain up against which our home is built.

These sturdy companions harbor so many memories:

Arbor Day in 1991, daughter Jenna brought home an Ash tree seedling when we were just in the process of building our home here.  Terry showed her how to plant the tree and she followed the instructions with the result that the tree has matured over the years.  Other Ashes have been birthed from the seedlings of her Ash. 

When we built the house, Terry was adamant that we preserve the trees, taking down only those absolutely necessary for the construction of our home.  I have a memory of walking with him in the woods when he pointed out a particular tree (out of hundreds on the property) and said with such devotion and in absolute sincerity, “This is my favorite tree.” He seems to know them intimately.

Years ago, with our woods as witness, Terry and I stood surrounded by friends and celebrated our tenth anniversary with a ceremony renewing our vows.

These staunch sentinels also stand as the silent caretakers of the pets who have crossed “the rainbow bridge,” sheltering the animals laid to rest beneath their protective branches.

So embedded were our woods in Jenna’s consciousness that when she went off to college in Texas, she called home a bit distressed: “They don’t have any trees here!”  Indeed, they do seem to invade our spirits, even inspiring poets.

Here is a favorite I discovered by Michael S. Glaser*, titled “The Presence of Trees”:

I have always felt the living presence
of trees

the forest that calls to me as deeply
as I breathe,

as though the woods were marrow of my bone
as though

I myself were tree, a breathing, reaching
arc of the larger canopy

beside a brook bubbling to foam
like the one

deep in these woods,
that calls

that whispers home

*Glaser was Poet Laureate of Maryland 2004-2009

May we be bearers of hope, the “wait staff” of Hope’s Café for each other and all those we encounter.

          Shalom, Kate

Hope’s Café Bonus: Take a picnic out amongst some trees.  For an easy and elegant dessert, cut the top off a strawberry, put it on a skewer, add a bite size brownie, a marshmallow and a second strawberry with the top cut off.  Repeat for the number of skewers you want to take to the picnic.  Lightly drizzle with chocolate or take some chocolate dip to the picnic if you like.  Enjoy the trees and the treats!

The Language of Nature

The contemplative Trappist monk Thomas Keating wrote that silence is God’s first language. I would posit that nature is the second.  

  Lately we have had balmy breezes coming off the tropical storms. For me they have been like an orchestra: soft strains of strings, followed by rousing stanzas of woodwind, brass and percussion, as the gusts build, reach an apex, then fall to a reverent hush.    Indeed, the Irish poet John O’Donohue described wind as the first music. Summer evenings crickets and cicadas join in the chorus; fireflies fill the woods with their tiny lanterns of hope.

A flaming red and gold sunset fades into pastels and then into deep luxurious blue.  Night settles on the woods and the whispers of night creatures begin to fill the air, sometimes punctuated by the hoot of the owl or the howl of the coyote, the “timpani” among the forest musicians. 

When Terry and I lived on the lake, we would sometimes sleep on the dock. After a day filled with the sometimes near-frantic activity of boats and jet skis, the lake would relax into night.   Stars would tiptoe into the sky to join the moon and we would be rocked to sleep by the gentle gliding of the water.

Though sometimes driven inside by discomfort before morning, we would often find  ourselves wakened by sun’s first rays and the early conversation of birds:  “How’d you sleep?” one might say.  “Oh the baby kept me up!  And now he’s hungry and I better get busy finding some worms!” I could imagine another responding.  😊

I have seen photos of hospitals in the influenza pandemic of 1918, with lines of beds moved outside so that sick people could get fresh air and sunshine.  We can take a page out of that playbook and immerse ourselves in nature, which speaks to us in the language of peace, of healing, of hope. 

May we be bearers of hope, the “wait staff” of Hope’s Café for each other and all those we encounter.

          Shalom, Kate

Hope’s Café Bonus: Summer Treat.   Make some fruit kabobs: cut favorite fruit into bite sized pieces and line up on a skewer (bananas, grapes, strawberries, raspberries). Serve cold.

Meet Biet

Biet was a winsome eight year old in South Vietnam in 1968.   She was one of a group of children my husband Terry encountered selling cokes to soldiers to earn some money.  Biet was especially engaging, with bright eyes and smile, and she always sold the most. She would call “Honcho!” to Terry as soon as she saw him coming.  Naturally, he garnered quite an entourage.

The children liked to follow him back to his camp.  Terry permitted them to stay awhile and would share any extra rations with them.  But he would eventually tell them “Di di” meaning go on.  But one day Biet, was adamant in her refusal to go, saying “No di di, honcho.”  Terry, as he describes it, was unwilling to get into a struggle with an eight year old girl in front of his men.  She was allowed  to stay and from then on she was permitted to come and go as she pleased. 

In the beginning of their friendship, her English was not very good.  But after several weeks of tutoring she was capable of carrying on a meaningful conversation in English.  She expressed much anxiety for Terry’s safety.  Out of that concern she gave him two Buddhist icons to wear around his neck for “protection.”  He wore those religious symbols around his neck for the remainder of his time in Vietnam.

The last day before Terry was moved to a new assignment, he arranged to go with Biet to see her mother.  He gave her mother money to buy Biet an “ao dai” (a traditional Vietnamese female dress) to wear to school.  He hoped to emphasize to her mother his hope that Biet would attend school.  That was his last time to see Biet. In his memoir, he writes he did not fully appreciate how much he would miss this spunky little girl.  One can imagine that loss was mutual.

Woodrow Wilson once said “Friendship is the only cement that will ever hold the world together.”

I am also reminded of the quote from The Little Prince: “The tender friendships one gives up, on parting, leave their bite on the heart, but also a curious feeling of a treasure somewhere buried.”

Such enduring friendship is indeed a treasure.  Just as that relationship anchored a soldier and a little child in war-torn Vietnam, our deep connections support our wellbeing when we travel difficult roads in uncertain times.

May we be bearers of hope, the “wait staff” of Hope’s Café for each other and all those we encounter.

          Shalom, Kate

Hope’s Café Bonus:  Vietnamese Snack, “Rice Paper Rolls” (Goi Cuong): fill rice paper wraps  with pork, shrimp or tofu; add ingredients like lettuce, vermicelli noodles, bean sprouts, mint garnish or other vegetables. Dip in peanut sauce.