Laurie Klein, Author at Laurie Klein, Scribe

In the Dark: 1 Old Bird Learns a Few New Licks

No one would choose this.

Enforced seclusion
for the past month (with recurring
C. Diff, a vile intestinal bug)
resembles—viewed hopefully—
a dubious Gift: unwanted,
yet potent as incubation.

And not only pathogenically.

C. Diff is highly contagious. For now, I can’t leave home.

Like embryonic birds trapped inside eggs 24-7, I face confinement.

Waiting in the dark for something to change, the psyche squirms. And, like those chicks, slowly, surely, the soul stretches. And develops.

Emotionally and spiritually, some days there’s not a heck-of-a-lot of light.

How cautiously, then—choice-by-choice—the soul met by grace befriends isolation. Limitation. The ambient darkness.

Good thing I’m not alone.

A process built right into creation

In a landmark 2016 study, ecologists in Australia staked out the nests of superb fairywrens and red-backed fairywrens. Concerned about their predation rates, researchers concealed a microphone beneath each nest. They hoped to record 24-7 avian alarm calls, warning each other of predators.

Later, they replayed the recordings. Parents engaged in lively duets called to their eggs.

And the nestlings, unhatched, called back—from inside their shells!

Learning to sing in the dark

Almost a century before the Australian study, Oswald Chambers wrote about songbirds being taught, over time, to sing in the dark.

Are you in the dark just now in your circumstances, Chambers asked, or in your life with God?

[W]e are put into the shadow of God’s hand, he adds, until we learn to hear Him.

Chops, Riffs & Licks

Songbirds, like humans (and bats), learn to make sounds by imitation. Further Aussie recordings replay fairywren hatchlings mimicking the song of their father.

Tirelessly, the father repeats his signature song. He drills his chicks on introductory notes—even slows them down.

He spaces out phrases, clarifies syllables. Mastery requires a lifetime of practice.

For everything, there is a season: a time to listen. A time to sing.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mCFwRh4tEkw

What time is it in your life?

As for me. I’m learning a lot. I’m calling my voluntary seclusion Laurie’s Backward Sabbatical. I read, work puzzles, color, and enjoy books-on-tape. I’m perfecting Klein’s Killer chicken broth.

I spend more time than usual in silence, listening for God. Sometimes improvised songs arise (It’s been years since this happened!).

Currently on a two-month tapering regimen of a Big Bucks Medication, I am (mostly) grateful for this cloistered season, and completely thankful for your prayers.

YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE: Learn to Sing out on a Limb

Learn more here. And here.

Many thanks to Susan Cowger for pointing me toward Oswald Chambers’ thoughts.

Stepping Out amid 100 Questions

by Laurie Klein 25 Chiming In

Stepping out …

Quail: roughly the size of a man’s fist.
Sleeping, they splay;
roused, they leap into the air,
like popcorn kernels hitting hot oil.

The females lay eggs on the run. All of them poop on the run.

One breeder says every time she leaves, her quail cry. A sound somewhere between a mew and a moan.

That’s me lately, writhing with undiagnosed infection. I doze in weird positions, then leap up for, well, the facilities.

Grousing: a verb

Twice, in the ancient Hebrew wilderness, God lavished quail on the Israelites—despite their ingratitude. Tired of manna, they demanded meat. The Almighty practically flung quail into their faces.

There. See the BLESSING?

A sign

Today, quail huddle in gangs beneath our spreading juniper shrubs, before stepping out. They make a break for it, get out of Dodge. I want out too.

I spell mad: B.R.A.T.
Broth
Rice
Applesauce
Tea

For now, no tangerines, no Mae Ploy sauce, no Honey Dijon chips.

And no escape from the smallest room in the house. No stepping out. Because no one knows if my immune system is functioning.

What eccentric blessing is staring me down?

And then in the wee hours, words from Isaiah:

In all their distress, [God too] was distressed,
and the angel of his presence saved them.
In his love and mercy he … lifted them up
and carried them all the days of old.

Even here. Tonight. Alone, on cold linoleum.

I want to know how to see blessings …

Quail make me laugh.

They dither. Their topknots bobble. Their heads are like spastic question marks.

So I have questions too …

how to send roots down into hope until I feel the sap rise
how to turn enigmas into love: valentines, worthy of stamps
how 100 questions might whirl like lassos, aiming for heaven

I want to know gratitude’s face when it roams—homeless, in my neighborhood.

I want to know What you want to know …

Raining quail story here

Sometimes, the Gift Tears You Open

by Laurie Klein 32 Chiming In

Gift? Or Riddle?

Joseph wakes her, by lantern-light. “We have to go. It’s not safe here.”

Their rickety donkey snuffles. Joseph carefully settles Mary behind those elderly, twitching ears. Hands up the child.

Does she look back? Perhaps a kindly local woman supervised the swaddling, nursing, burping.

“Best to leave quietly,” Joseph murmurs. “Avoid questions about our destination.”

It’s cold. Mary misses her mother. Over the stony ground they plod, under uncountable stars—Mary’s longest night yet.

Riddle

Where will they live?
Can she trust a Gentile doctor?
Will Joseph find work?

She shifts her son, easing her cramped arms. Daily trips to a new village well will demand safely balancing him and the water jar.

Can she do this?

Gift

You carry God’s gift wherever you must — Mary might say to us — each small goodness divinely implanted, whether within your arms, your mind, or deep in your belly.

Over nine months, Mary has apprenticed her soul to the quiet arts: nurturing hope, pondering Mystery, carrying on.

The gift tears you open, she might add. There will be scars.

Mary’s endurance instructs me, as Dreamer and I continue seeking medical answers.

Cherish each moment. Every good gift starts leaving your care long before you feel ready.

Perhaps we never fully comprehend what God births within and through us. Child or brainchild, creation is God-breathed. Offer yourself and your work to this world, believing God will reanimate a fraction of its lost hope.

Head into the unknown, step-by-step.

“Living into the mystery of things helps us to release our hold on needing to know the answers.”*

“What Child Is This?” —acoustic guitar, Bill (Dreamer) Klein

We wish you all a wildly fruitful, delectable New Year!

*Final quote: Christine Valters-Paintner, from her marvelous New Year’s Eve post

Grace … in media res: (in the middle of things)

by Laurie Klein 18 Chiming In

Grace … in media res

“In the Middle of Things”

Between our creaking dock
and the park’s rocky point,
leaching blue
from Fowler Lake’s surface,
the perilous sandbar lurked.

Rowing across it one day,
I spied my future:
strewn across restless sand,
a scatter of strange shells.

Shells meant PEARLS.

And P.E.A.R.L.S. meant . . . CA$H!

Any kid who loves books
can tell you

• Pearls fall from the sky
when dragons fight, and
• Pearls always match the color
of the host oyster’s lips, and
• Pearls are made of moonlight,
trapped inside dew

The part about salt water?—
completely escaped my notice.

What would I buy first?

Sixty Years later

As a kid obsessed with treasure I’d probably spotted freshwater mussels. My schemes of wealth now seem endearing.

But the wide-open heart, the hope and dreaming … this is still me.

Especially in media res, “in the middle of things.”

It is the hour of pearl, Steinbeck wrote, the interval between day and night when time stops and examines itself.

Isn’t this how we often awaken, half-aware

• the dog wants breakfast
• deadlines loom
• chores clamor
• sellers may reject our bids
• loved ones battle disease
• hopes wane
• relationships fray

Where are the PEARLS?

Pain proves annoyingly democratic:

and almost all shelled mollusks afflicted by broken shells, or parasites, or one measly grain of sand can—incrementally—create a living gem.

… the pearl is the oyster’s autobiography.*

We mortals, too, must process harm and grit and doses of brine, withstand rogue currents and shifting ground—while keeping our (eventual) luster hopefully strung through average days.

Give me room. I’m trying to make pearls here.

No.

I’m trying to save my self.

And I can’t.

Grace is weightless

(So Ann Voskamp writes.)

And wait-less, I’d add.

Grace is a gleam in the soul. It soothes and guards us against each day’s irritations and intrusions.

Grace is a pulling force, attracted to tacit fear and each relational shard we secretly harbor, or overlook, the mediocrity chafing our days and thoughts, our loves, and lives.

Grace lurks.

And it shifts, as needed, to meet our next breath.

Singular as each whorl
embossing our fingertips,
every pearl embodies
opalescence alongside
insult and imperfection.

Grace waits for us at the imminent, ravaged ends of hope.

Any pearl sightings at your place lately?

*Frederico Fellini, Italian film director and screenwriter.

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

Oyster Photo by Charlotte Coneybeer on Unsplash

Dream House, Take 2

by Laurie Klein 48 Chiming In

Dream House.

Chef heaven. Double ovens, gas range, gorgeous granite countertop—I picture myself ladling out gourmet soup. And if I drop a bowl? No problem. Cork flooring cushions all.

The place is perfect. One-level living, spacious rooms, views of naturalized parkland—we LOVE it! Seizing Dreamer’s hand, I pray aloud, “If this is our house, Lord, hold it for us.”

Next morning, while signing our bid I recognize the owners’ names. Long ago we attended church together.

God must want this for us.

All night I alternate between “Don’t count your chickens” and mentally furnishing every last room.

Come morning, we send the owners a winsome personal letter and our bid—15 K over list price.

God loves us, so things will go well. Right?

Turns out other bids have preceded ours. All day we hope our old friends will choose us.

Nope.

Therapy Option #1: Write

(To the tune of “Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow”)

The Real Estate Song, or Let It Go, Let It Go, Let It Go

with apologies to Jule Styne and Sammy Cahn

Oh, the bidding wars sure are frightful,
And the dream house so delightful.
Our offer turned out too low . . .
Let it go, let it go, let it go.

Well, the market is really hoppin’,
And it shows no signs of stoppin’.
I wish we had lots more dough . . .
Let it go, let it go, let it go.

It’s no wonder I sit here cryin’
As our hopes are slowly dying,
But today’s nearly through and so . . .
Let it go, let it go, let it go.

Meanwhile, back at the rancher

I pray.
And pace.
Grieve.
And growl.

Mostly growl.

Therapy Option #2: Bake

Anger spits and sizzles in me like a downed power line. I was so sure the house was meant to be ours. I imagined Dreamer’s faith being renewed in the process of buying the dream house.

Heat works its way up my throat. A hard lump. I swallow it down.

In my one-butt kitchen with its erupting linoleum and elderly laminate counters, I mix cookie dough. Granite and cork are overrated. So are kitchen fans. Around me the air congeals, laden with sugar and fat. I breathe it in. Maybe it will sweeten my thoughts.

Nope.

I slip cookies onto the rack to cool. This, I can control. Unlike crushing dismay.

I am breaking my heart over a house, looking behind me with longing. Like Lot’s wife.

Tears come, briny and fast.

As do reminders of mercy.

No brimstone. No judgment.

Relief, finally, is remembering God is good. And always, always worthy of trust.

Then believing it. Slow work, sometimes.

My knee goes down, my gaze lifts.

I have a goofy song.
Fresh cookies.
And Time.

I eat 6 cookies, still warm and gooey, taste the sweetness, a promise of things to come …

UPDATE: Friends, thank you for your prayers! Parkinson’s has been ruled out. Dreamer recently underwent a brain MRI and will have an EMG on Dec. 21. He’ll consult with an M.D. specialist sometime in the New Year. Both our daughters are also experiencing acute physical challenges, including surgery in December. I’m learning a lot about grace.

We’re dialing back the moving process, for now.

Catch up on our story here.

Photo by Jamie Strett for Unsplash.