Laurie Klein, Author at Laurie Klein, Scribe

Belated Epiphany

Belated Epiphany . . .

Belated because, so often, words only come when they’re ready. Or is it when we’re ready?

Shadowing the Magi

Tingling, needy, marked
by the long quest—the divining,
then hope, my superstitions
giving way yet again
before anxious relief—this is how
I enter. Taking a knee,

it seems you scarcely breathe.
Does each intake feel
like your first? Maybe
we both look struck, luminous
as the baby’s skin,
starlight still pulsing there. Hush,

friend, the holy has come
so gently we dare approach.

Dear ones, I hope your days are unfolding gently.

Each January I seek a word or phrase expansive enough to guide me throughout the year. Then I line up my lettering pens, print out my theme. Mirror, journal, dashboard, fridge; a pocket, a purse—I spread my reminders around.

But last year, nothing. Several months passed. When would the words come?

Although belated, I chose a single letter, instead. There’s a story, of course: “Alphabet of Presence.” (I hope you’ll read it here: Abbey of the Arts.)

So, amid last year’s viral mayhem, cutthroat opinions, and global grief, I became a disciple of “B.”

Oh, I hope you’ll try it! Once you settle on a letter, you’ll find invitational words pop up everywhere: media, billboards, conversations. Surprise livens the day. Sometimes, it’s downright heady, like sipping chilled champagne, little stars among your teeth, on your tongue, all down your throat.

A word is a launch pad. Are you game? For starters, borrow a few of mine that start with “B.”

Watch the classic movie, “Babette’s Feast” (free here).

Listen to “Be Thou My Vision,” sung by Audrey Assad, or Selah, respectively,
here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Optrm7lF16s
and here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UKByTfiHOFE

Bestow a kindness. This passage has inspired many a prayer, email, and letter:
“The Spirit of the sovereign Lord is on me, because he has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted … to comfort all who mourn … to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes” (Isaiah 61:1-3).

Create a collage. Repurpose images beginning with your letter of choice, using old photos, magazines, junk mail.

Compose lyrics for a tune you love. I piggybacked mine on “Morning Has Broken”:

Beauty before me, Beauty behind me,
bridging our spirits, bountiful Lord;
Brimming within me, moving beside me,
timelessly guide me, forevermore.

Practice breath prayers. Are you grieving? This one helps me:
(on the inhale) Alone, yes, (exhale) but never abandoned.

Ponder questions like these:

What blessed me today?
Who blindsided me?
Where am I broken?
What might yet be born, and what must I bury?

Whether my idea was belated or perfectly timed, I found choosing a letter provided spontaneous, small epiphanies throughout a long, difficult year. And whenever I get bored, there are 25 more.

But . . . I’ve yet to exhaust the beauties of “B.”

There is always a journey. Sometimes, a cave. Often, a star.

In closing, here’s what I hope I’d have said, had I joined the Magi that day:

Take my coat, little one,
you’re shivering. How new,

this now we share, the first
of many yet to be known—by you,

by me—slowly, slowly going
home, by a different way.

Friends, if you choose a letter, I’d love to hear about your experience.

And please, if you’d enjoy more posts similar to this one (ideas, resources, links), let me know . . .

Explore “Alphabet of Presence” here: Abbey of the Arts

You might also enjoy Epiphany and the Epic Icicle

Lastly, welcome, new subscribers! I’m so glad you’re here.
And thank you to all who’ve journeyed with me for so many years.

Magi Photo by Michael Payne on Unsplash

Apologies for the incorrect citation of scripture, and thank you, Lynn, for alerting me!
Collage and “B” photo, by yours truly :>)

Oh Dear

by Laurie Klein 27 Chiming In

Oh, dear Author of All,
here is my page.

These spontaneous words of prayer anchor me. I sync them with each inhale and exhale as Dreamer and I drive into town. We’re headed for my beloved mentor’s home. She’s 95. For nearly 40 years she has guided me in the ever-compelling, never-mastered art of reading aloud. Shared love of the craft increases our love for words and for each other.

Today will be golden. I’ve written a tandem script for an ongoing audio program that Dreamer and I produce. She’ll give voice to Sonnet 73, by Shakespeare, in response to Sonnet 18, read by yours truly.

I’m so jazzed!

We unload recording equipment, then ring the bell. Oh dear. Turns out she’s leaving for an appointment: a schedule snafu.

We book a new date, then climb into our car — which won’t start. Despite countless attempts. She waves goodbye as we pull out the manual. Next, we try the gear shift override. Multiple times.

Prayer seemingly budges nothing, including the locked steering wheel.

Happy are those with cellphones and insurance. Alas, our towing option is invalid. More calls. Various chains of command. The sky darkens. Flurries commence. Seeking the helpful, we feel less and less hopeful.

Another hour passes. Snow falls harder, and cold seeps through the car and our clothing. We feel powerless.

Finally, a tow truck is promised—sometime within the next hour. We’re hungry. Frustrated. Chilled. A long way from home.

We need, ahem, certain facilities. Swallowing pride, I knock on a neighbor’s door, brush snow from my shoulders. Considering the latest pandemic protocols, will anyone answer? Who opens the door to a stranger these days?

The homeowner not only ushers us in, she offers both bathrooms. Then bottles of water. Or would we prefer soda? Coffee or tea?

“Please,” she says, “Sit. Wait inside where it’s warm. Oh dear, you’re shivering. Blanket?”

She even proposes various snacks.

I recall my earlier prayer, that God would author my day. Taken in, sheltered, cushioned and cared for, I am embarrassed by her spontaneous kindness. She is both stable and manger, an opened door amid the storm.

Today’s fleeting brush with Eternity.

In the fourth century, St. Jerome wrote, “Blessed are they who possess Bethlehem in their hearts and in whose hearts, Christ is born daily.”

Here’s to welcomes—those we give and those we receive—and to room being made, again and again, within the unexpected wayside inns of our common hours.

Emmanuel, you come. You beckon. You shelter us with nourishing care. Oh dear God, thank you. May we do likewise, amen.

Epilogue: The tow truck guy knew a trick. Under his capable hands the engine kicked over. Having parked on a slope, I’d cranked the front wheels toward the curb. More strength on my part would have loosed the steering, allowing ignition.

But we would have missed meeting a neighborhood saint.

Dear friends, in whatever ways you feel stalled or stranded this season, we wish you kindly strangers, revels and reverence, mercies and mirth and healing hope.

Image by Wolfgang Krzemien from Pixabay

Heartspring

by Laurie Klein 18 Chiming In

Hark! the Cricket

Let the cricket wind his heartspring
And draw the night by like a child’s toy . . .

Sounds gentle, doesn’t it. Almost idyllic.

But night falls. Sometimes, crushingly. Which feels worse during holidays.

And who initiates the winding that changes the scene? In the above quote, it’s the lowly cricket at work, back legs cocked like hinges — rubbing, rubbing — its muscular song a vocation: dispelling darkness.

It’s Advent again. For my husband, Dreamer, and I, this year it’s a hard one.

Crèche, sounds like crush

Or kibosh. A long-term dream, just coming into fruition, abruptly ends. With a phone call. The person in charge will be “going a different direction.”

Plans are scrapped. Tickets, cancelled. Months of labor — and now, nowhere to invest it.

Dreamer and I try to lighten our mood. Like the scene-changing cricket, we emulate stage hands. Our living room, awaiting tree and toys for the grandkids, becomes the stage.

We surround our buffet on three sides with a wooden folding screen. Intricately pierced, the eight panels reflect light from the mirror behind the buffet. Glancingly.

The u-shaped walls will shelter our crèche.

Dreamer leaves me to it. “Call if you need me.”

Paging Jiminy Cricket

As a kid, I knew the wishing star was real. Sky’s the limit, my parents said. “Makes no difference who you are,” Disney’s Jiminy sang, “Dreams come true.”

Alone now, leaning into the screen’s hinged embrace, I position the stable. The beasts and the figures. Angels, lights, miniature grasses and date palms.

Greenery blurs the gape of angled joints, a sprung hinge. Dowels placed across the top suggest rafters. A crude dwelling.

Suspended

I enter the hush. Since childhood, this little world poised within the noisy, everyday realm has gathered me in, an irresistible attraction.

Soon little stars made of straw dance on black threads at the merest breath. I stand back, marvel that staggered heights create depth of field.

Then I summon Dreamer.

Yes

We survey our modest act of Advent. The screen shelters the Story like a murmured yes. Like the arms of a mother. Glancingly, wonder percolates. Sadness abates.

Yes bristles around us, chafing our tender places. But as author Brian Doyle once prayed:

… your gentle hand … has sustained me. Thank you for saying yes not once thousands of years ago but all day every day in ways far beyond my ken. Thank you for … the star-furnace of your love.

… Thank you for this moment. Thank you for being in it with me.

Hark! The cricket winding the heartspring — like the Child, himself — both dispelling the darkness: each embodies grace. Within the crux of the cell, the deep core of gristle and bone, the pulse of blood …

… one small, throbbing Noel — newly perceived — at the soul’s hearth.

Any crickets (or their equivalent) at your place?

You might also enjoy: Sometimes, the Gift Tears You Open

* Cricket quote, Robert Siegel, “Rinsed with Gold, Endless, Walking the Fields”

Brian Doyle, “Prayer to the Madonna,” A Book of Uncommon Prayer

Photo: Bill Klein

Transfer Station

by Laurie Klein 20 Chiming In

The transfer station awaits.

Wall-to-wall, in her silver Toyota, ten-gallon buckets brim with trash: batteries and light bulbs, paper and plastic, cardboard, newsprint, cans and glass, everything duly sorted. Time for another recycle run.

A whiff from a milk jug sours the air. She collapses against the driver’s seat, powers down all the windows, then buckles up. Reaching for the key, her door still ajar, she overhears a jarring thought: This is my life.

She swivels to view the refuse of rural existence.

This?

Oh, of course: Be Here Now, etc. etc.

And yet she feels . . . singled out. Clued in. Redirected. As if the boss is calling her into his office, offering her a promotion. Moving forward involves a transfer complete with perks and a moving allowance.

Now she feels unnerved, yet energized, almost weightless, and this cracks open her longings. There’s an inner fizz somewhere near her heart, akin to an electrical charge.

“This is my LIFE!“

A bubble of laughter surprises her. Here she is, still mobile, still independent, a woman empowered by grace to make choices.

She closes the car door. Adios, drudgery. So long, resignation. Away with all she no longer needs! Upending the actual buckets will be cathartic.

She engages the engine, grinning, a little sheepish because she finally gets it.

Each task done in a day can dovetail with God’s will — in itself, a destination. She gets to ride shotgun.

Realigning her will, that’s the real work. Why has navigating this pivot taken her so many years? The idea’s not new, but today it feels like a revelation.

Every task undertaken with God — most likely unnoticed by others — counts. Just as much as writing the next blog post or poem.

En route to offload the used, she feels repurposed. Recharged.

“It is ingrained in us that we have to do exceptional things for God — but we do not,” Oswald Chambers wrote. “We have to be exceptional in the ordinary things of life, and holy on the ordinary streets, among ordinary people . . . ”

Turns out, this IS the life: Savoring the mundane, we encounter the holy.

Photo by John Cameron on Unsplash

You might also enjoy this, from the archives: A Rut Worth a Second Look

*Oswald Chambers, My Utmost for His Highest, entry 10/22

Wellspring

by Laurie Klein 22 Chiming In

Fictional heroine Meg Murry trembles, appalled. Evil Echthroi roam the earth, threatening the lives of all. An angelic mentor declares Meg is a Namer, one who knows who people are meant to be.

“War and hate are [Echthroi] business,” the angel declares, “and one of their chief weapons is un-Naming — making people not know who they are.”

“But what—”

“Meg, when people don’t know who they are, they are open either to being Xed or Named.”

The ensuing dialogue rattles me. Every time Meg judges, disrespects, or despises someone — even silently — she un-names, or “X’s,” that individual. Denigrating their personhood, she dismisses God’s highest vision for them.

She abets enemy goals.

Now I am appalled. When riled, I sometimes forget we are all equally cherished by God — despite diverging ideas, beliefs, and behaviors. Silent slander poisons my thoughts. I mentally conjure black-humor nicknames. My brain scripts ugly retorts.

Am I alone in this?

We may not malign others aloud, yet how often do we cede responses anchored in love to interior libel?

Recent minefields for me include:

The latest toxic allegations
So-and-so’s idiotic decisions
De-humanizing tweets
Murder, after being asked to wear a mask

⁹With our tongues we praise our Lord and Father. Yet, with the same tongues we curse people, who were created in God’s likeness.

¹⁰Praise and curses come from the same mouth. My brothers and sisters, this should not happen!

¹¹Do clean and polluted water flow out of the same spring? (James 3:9-11, Names of God Bible)

With God as our shared wellspring, how will we Name one another?

I go back to The Manual.

You are God’s child (John 1:12).

You are not condemned (Romans 8: 1-2).

You are a work-in-progress (Philippians 1:6).

You are called by name (Isaiah 43:1b).

You are loved (Colossians 3:12).

Liberal, moderate, or conservative — friends, let us meet again, at the Cross. Let’s begin anew the good work of Naming one another according to God’s truth.

If you wouldn’t mind dipping into your wellspring of wisdom . . .
What helps you bless those who seem like enemies?

Dialogue from A Wind in the Door, by Madeleine L’Engle.

Photo by Senya Zhukavin on Unsplash