Laurie Klein, Author at Laurie Klein, Scribe

Statio: Any Given Moment

Statio: Latin, noun . . .

Wait, let me begin again, in English. And let’s take the scenic route.

Take that mystery B&B bedding—last week, on our anniversary. No, it wasn’t flannel or linen. Ditto T-shirty jersey. Not to mention slide-right-off-the-side satin.

I’d never felt anything like it: sleek, lightweight warmth, yet cool to the touch, deliciously crisp. An all-over caress.

Sometimes what passes through our fingertips or settles over our skin affects more than the body.

“If I only touch his cloak, I will be healed,” a desperately ill woman said of Jesus (Matt. 9:21). And she was.
Acts 9 recounts aprons and handkerchiefs touched by Paul, then draped over invalids. Result? Long-distance recovery.
In ancient Joppa, Dorcas wove beautiful robes for widows—until her death. Peter prayed, and God brought her to life again (Acts 9:36-42). Imagine her new designs after glimpsing paradise!

In our times of industrial looms, stories like these offer a fresh twist on “material witness.”

Might there be a spiritual parallel to modern factory thread counts?

The number of threads per square inch indicates quality. Fibers closely woven in a “criss-cross, over-under pattern” known as “percale” create breathable lightness, surprisingly durable. Like the sheets at the B&B.

Like the qualities of a yielded life.

Which brings us to statio, an ancient monastic practice still lovingly observed today. Imagine a small devotional segue between activities: “the time between times,” as Sister Joan Chittister, O.S.B., says. “If I am present to a child before I dress her, then the dressing becomes an act of creation. If I am present to my spouse in the living room, then marriage becomes an act of divine communion. If I am present to the flower before I cut it, then life becomes precious.”

Statio prayer is a mesh we weave: invisible, real, often wordless.

**Any given moment will do—time offered to God even as we receive it from God.**

How? Well, pause invites repose. Eyes closed, I focus on deepening breath (rather than headlong thoughts). Then . . .
Criss-cross, over and under . . .

I might add an audible sigh of surrender; receive an intake of grace
Or I physicalize yielding: cross hands over heart, then extend top hand, palm down, cradle it with bottom hand, palm up
A whisper works, too: “Here am I, great I AM.”

Disrupting momentum’s urgency, we can practice reset between one task and the next. The more often we pause, the closer our “threads of connection” align. We live more consciously.

Clearing the mind, even briefly, calms the soul, clothes us in peace.

Half a century ago, I wove Dreamer’s wedding shirt: cotton warp, twisted linen and silk strands, with raw wool feathered into select rows, as accents. Distinctive texture. Terrible snags! Fragile silk went full bedhead: knots, static, split ends—triggering my temper—stupid snarl! I wanted to hack everything off the loom.

Forget blessing my beloved.

Likewise, when a physical fever afflicts us, we fling off the sheets. Then, chilled, we scramble back into them knowing they’ll hold us; rewarm us; an all-over caress.

Can statio happen here, in the hard places—in that fractional moment before our next action? Perhaps it’s as basic as gratefulness we can do something, anything . . . or not . . . at peace either way.

Is this how we “criss-cross, over and under, percale” a day? What stops us from realigning with God’s presence before reaching outward?

Lord, you inhabit every fractional space,
the time between times,
betwixt words,
amid each inhale and exhale,
one foot’s lift and the other’s step . . .

Friends, will you join me? We could start small: a statio prayer before we rise, as we dress, after making the bed.

How else might you proceed . . . now, as the season turns?

“Listen to the tale the threads of your life have woven.” —Sarah Ban Breathnach

For more ideas on statio prayer, click here.

You might also enjoy this, from the archives.

Chittister, Joan. 1990. Wisdom Distilled from the Daily: Living the Rule of St. Benedict Today. San Francisco: Harper & Row, 176-178.

Photo by Alif Caesar Rizqi Pratama on Unsplash

Called by Name

by Laurie Klein 12 Chiming In

Called by Name

Sometimes a story comes my way. It’s not about me. And then, somehow, it is. When I pay attention, a personal longing or loss—often yet to be named—flickers. And sometimes, flares. Which gets me thinking. Maybe this marvelous tale will kindle something in you.

Called by Name

For Aiden
(noun, Irish, meaning “Little Fire”)

Baby Aiden sits on a rug the color of embers,
snapped into a onesie
gray as a mourning dove’s wing:
a blue-eyed boy with stones for ears.

What about lullabies
and Mother Goose? Or incoming surf?
Will he ever thrill to applause,
hear a footloose puppy’s joyous arf?

And Aiden’s people, after tears
and surgical tubes, after the draining
and praying and waiting: what then?
“Aiden,” his mama calls, yet again.

A slow-motion blink, his gaze
turning pure flame, wide
toothless grin—he’s hearing, hearing
his name, his bold, beautiful, blazing name.

***

I’ve watched Aiden’s moment on video, over and over: the palpable flash of revelation—the child’s face, pure wonder!—then his whole body responding, exuberant, knees and hands padding forward.

Consider, for a moment, our names, inscribed on the hands of Christ.

If you’ve been reading this blog as well as the comments over the past few years, you will have encountered Aiden’s grandpa, a man who memorably names what moves him. He recently told me the long months of waiting and praying for Aiden have been good—in part, for the empathy gained, and for the hope of comforting others who are suffering. This family truly understands being called by name.

“What’s in a name?” Shakespeare’s Juliet asked.

Picture a certain garden, on Easter. Among the risen Rabbi’s first recorded words, one noun stands out: “Mary.”

Chosen. Known. Named.

What if the Savior calls our name today, and we hear it as if for the first time?

From the archives: You might also enjoy Gaiety . . . to Go

And Open Sesame

Baby’s ear Photo by Laura Ohlman on Unsplash

Flaring match Photo by Elia Mazzaro on Unsplash

Which Way

by Laurie Klein 22 Chiming In

Which Way?

Picture a big hollow stump, underwater: flat rim, heart rotted out. Two barefoot girls can straddle the edge, toes curled. They must steady each other when fish eggs slime the surface, catch hold of each other when waves wash in.

Using the stump as a platform, my childhood friend and I invented a game: “Spur-of-the-Moments.”

Hold your breath
Submerge, jackknifing knees
Rocket skyward, striking multiple poses (points for the zaniest)
Ta-da! Splashdown

Failure to stick the landing meant flailing through milfoil, and muck, snootfuls of billowing silt, moments of sputtering.

Twisting, mid-leap, sometimes I lost my bearings. Which way was home?

Jump cut to current politics: nationwide waves of dismay, hope, anger, dread, triumph, loss. An old tongue twister comes to mind: A skunk sat on a stump. The skunk thunk the stump stunk; but the stump thunk the skunk stunk.

Which way is up?

My pastor reminds me, “What God builds will last.”

Despite urgency, transitory players, perceived obstacles. Despite hollow declarations and erosive backchat. Threats and reprisals. Fluid truth.

Generous God, give me the long view.

For me, yearning for what’s eternal means trust plus action:

eschew fear,
enact contagious kindness,
emulate bold hope.

In other words, align with the life and teachings of Christ, whose earthly days among friends and foes alike both inspire and challenge me. Sometimes hourly.

The old stump game was wildly impulsive: hasty, unthinking, rash. Also . . . fun. Somewhere between my best impulse and worst reactions there must be a potent, if precarious, balance point. A shot at delight. Freedom from feeling grieved, angry, jaded. Daily diminished by worry.

Perhaps a prayer for graced spontaneity?

Dear Maker and Lover of Trees, grow my integrity—minus distortion and irony. Grant me taproot faith when the figurative waters around me deepen and roil.

Here’s how The Message voices the Savior’s concern for us:

“Are you tired? Worn out? . . .
Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it.
“Learn the unforced rhythms of grace” (Matt. 11:28-29).

Harder times ahead seem inevitable. How I appreciate upbeat friends like you! Your comments and presence buoy my spirits—no matter what fellow voters decide or who wins public office.

Sediment happens. Amid the campaign muckraking, let’s point each other toward calm waters. No need to be sucked under. Let’s seek wisdom. Love well. Then, take the next leap.

“And let us consider how we may spur one another on
toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together,
as some are in the habit of doing,
but encouraging one another—and all the more
as you see the Day approaching” (Hebrews 10:24-25 NIV).

Amid candidates out stumping and hair-trigger tensions smoldering, which way is home? What helps you, en route, to sustain balance?

First-timer: Never too late

by Laurie Klein 10 Chiming In

First-timer?

Think amateur: “one who ardently engages in something, for love.

Of course, it also means “skill set in progress.”

Do you remember Ted Mack’s mid-century “Amateur Hour?” If not, imagine “America’s Got Talent” meets “So You Think You Can Dance” — but in black and white, mono vs stereo, with minimal sets and lighting. Each hopeful celebrant steps up, giving their all despite first-timer heebie-jeebies. Jim-jams. Screaming meemies.

Love the lingo, if not the sensation. But public emergence? Me? Not so much. As you may have read in my last post, God seems to be coaxing me out of my cave. In the process, I get to practice learning to laugh at, about, and with myself. Sometimes, almost beside myself.

So maybe we should switch out “emergence” for effervescence. After all, we’re to rejoice in the Lord our God in everything we put our hand to (Deut. 12:18b).

In that spirit, I’m sharing the link to my first podcast — on camera: an interview with Riley Bounds, calm, genial, thoughtful editor of Solum.

The interview during which I discover . . .

a new soapbox sturdy enough, perhaps, to support the weight of a growing passion,

and

how to look 30 years younger for 38 minutes and 53 seconds (thank you, Zoom!).

The same interview after which I learn . . .

how vain I still am,

and

why a person must laugh over accidentally channeling a slo-mo, dashboard bobblehead (we all have a visual go-to-focus, while thinking: mine’s upward and to the left; what’s yours?).

I also learned when to exchange chairs minutes before going live (never!): your carefully rehearsed eye contact skews and you will earnestly address everyone’s hairline.

BUT: if you wonder how “I Love You, Lord” rolled into this world, then crossed and re-crossed it, multiple times, over 48 years,

or why every creature in my latest book speaks, including the house,

or c’mon, why poetry? . . .

. . . this one’s for you.

“It’s out there,” a beloved father figure once explained to me, “as long as there are electrons.”

First-timer, amateur effort notwithstanding.

Friends, much as I hope to stir your heart and meet your gaze . . . your hairline may tingle, ever so slightly.

Click here to listen only.

Friends, if you’re stepping up to, or into, something uncomfortable, how might I pray for you?

P.S. In the high-tech swirl of “algae-rithms,” a click or comment makes a difference, even if you only have time to watch part of the podcast. Fellow writers, my favorite moment? It’s Riley’s: time stamp 38:13.

Photo by Marcela Rogante on Unsplash

Author photo by Dean Davis Photography

Chrysalis

by Laurie Klein 38 Chiming In

Chrysalis

Every so often God lovingly summons me to spin myself a figurative chrysalis, a timeout from the rhythms of normal life.

“In soul-making we can’t bypass the cocoon,” author Sue Monk Kidd says. “There’s always the husk of waiting somewhere in the corner.”

In other words, we’re invited to both embrace and endure a season of claustrophobic dark where transformation occurs — sometimes atom by atom.

To weather being set apart “involves weaving an environment of prayer,” Kidd adds. “It’s not about talking and doing and thinking. It’s about postures of the Spirit . . . turning oneself upside down so that everything is emptied out and God can flow in.”

Some will equate this process with conversion. Others believe it’s a recurring experience meant to enhance a new stage of faith, not a onetime event.

Me? I’m a serial cocoon-ist.

Regardless of where you land, here are a few secrets I find heartening.

For instance, the physical anchoring point of the butterfly pupa to the twig is a tiny, built-in hook. It’s called the “cremaster.” The creature relies on this attachment to survive the cold as well as the winter winds.

I’m thinking spiritual velcro.

CHRYSALIS PRAYER . . . IS WAITING PRAYER — aka dis-assemble-ment. Nobody’s favorite.

But how awesome that grace, at every turn, meets our expectant, if feeble, vigilance. And how sobering that this same grace may reduce us to goo.

God reconfigures us while we wait . . . in the dark . . . often clueless.

Waiting prayer is a thorny yet sacred wonder: wrenching as that ambush of tears we can’t explain; alarming as finding ourselves in fetal position; raw as our candid “Who cares? I’m outta here.”

THESE, TOO, ARE PRAYERS.

Still, don’t we fear that those we love may turn away, dismayed by how changed we are?

“Where there’s no risk, there’s no becoming. And where there’s no becoming, there’s no real life.
So we give people time, accept their resistance by listening to their fears, speak honestly of our path, and go on quietly finding our new wingspan.” —Sue Monk Kidd

Saying Yes multiple times to a life newly curtailed? This is courage, resolutely embodied.

I’m thinking of Jesus . . .

“Afterward, taking his body, Joseph and Nicodemus wrapped it in strips of linen, then laid him in the garden tomb.

Sounds cocoon-ish to me.

“The third day, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene saw that the stone had been removed.”

At the right time the cremaster, or seal, gives way to resurrection energy.

“Who is it you are looking for?” Jesus asks Mary. For she does not recognize him. Resurrection is transformation.

“I have seen the Lord!” Mary tells the others.

Our Savior — “for the joy set before him” — embraced separation, transformation, and emergence. Now, he intercedes for us.

ARE WE BORN TO SOAR?

In Hope for the Flowers, by Tricia Paulus, a caterpillar tells its curious pal, “I’m making a cocoon. It looks like I’m hiding, I know, but a cocoon is no escape. It’s an in-between house where the change takes place . . . the becoming . . . takes time.”

But did you know some caterpillars resist the chrysalis? Preferring larval life, they suspend their development, cling to what is known and familiar. Scientists call this the “diapause.”