Blog - Laurie Klein, Scribe

“When you read this . . .”

When you read this . . .

It’s 102 degrees in the empty parking lot. The mouse shoots past me, silent, alone, nosing pavement that almost sizzles. Lurch right, veer left, double back. Poor thing. My toes bunch in commiseration.

I can’t unsee this.

It’s the outsize proportions, the cruel exposure daunting a creature at home with small spaces, shadows, the familiar path along a wall.

I see you, little one. Displaced. Afraid. No clear way forward.

Insight arrives on an intake of breath: God is here. Now. Companioning me in harsh circumstances.

Several months ago, we moved out of our home. Mold issues. Dreamer’s declining health. Turns out remediation as well as restoration professionals advise widely varying options for treatment. Inspection results may disagree. Wildly. Feeling dwarfed by potential repercussions if we choose the wrong path, it’s hard to read the terrain. Whom to believe? Which data is true?

Am I a project manager now? Hand me a fetching sunhat, a slouch beanie. Not a hard hat.

Dreamer and I have yet to sign a contract. Possibly this weekend . . .

And for this we thank you, dear friends. You have prayed, called, sent emails and meals, cards, affirmations, puzzles, new books to read, mail-order fruit, gift cards, and texts. You have shared resources, research, counsel. Shelter. You’ve shared your faith with gentle empathy. And how we have needed your care!

On the morning the Waste Management truck was scheduled to pick up Darlene the Dumpster (holding 2/3 of our worldly goods), I made a final trip bearing a long narrow sculpture I’d made to honor my mother. Created from paper I’d made in a blender, then shaped, using clay molds, the fragile elements were suspended within a vintage shutter, louvers removed. I loved it. But the risk of spore contamination outweighed sentiment.

Heeding a nudge, I paused to scan fragments of Mom’s letters, collaged around the frame.

“When you read this, I will be thinking of you.”

Friends, I don’t know your hard places, can only imagine the heat you may be enduring amid fears, decisions, relentless questions.

But I know the One who sees you.

And I know, in part, this community. Share in the comments, if you wish, ways we might pray alongside you?

Mouse Photo by Anton Lammert on Unsplash

Resilience, under Siege

by Laurie Klein 30 Chiming In

Resilience?

Just before sunset, when
backlit trees beckon, Dreamer and I
amble down the hill. Thirty-four years
we have jogged, snow-shoed or skied
this sole-beaten path through the pines,
once a vast orchard—long gone
now, save for the random
orphan over a century old: gnarled,
unruly, runed with lichen
and raveled with living,
near-spent, as we are. But

what’s this, at our feet?

Limerick green, the size of a golf ball,
it gleams in the rough grass—
a fruit, fallen
from branches we’ve never seen bloom. How
can this be? Apples,
apples adorn every crooked limb!

***

“BEARING FRUIT in the twilight of life”: the phrase steals into my mind. Here is a displaced tree we gave up on, thriving with renewed energy and endurance. Despite encroaching woods. And weeds. Despite no pruning or fertilization. I squeeze Dreamer’s hand.

Metaphorically, this could be us . . .

Lately, we feel under siege. Dreamer’s braving cognitive impairment. I’ve been waylaid three weeks, first, by a wily kidney stone and multiple ER all-nighters, then diagnosed with Hydronephrosis. One ER doctor said, “It’s like passing a kidney stone. Every day. Without the stone.”

Also, our beloved home needs radical mold remediation. And then, restoration. We had to move out. Wildly conflicting data makes the way forward hard to discern.

Toss in a pet emergency, someone hacking our credit card, and Dreamer and I dumpstering 2/3 of our possessions because of possible contamination . . .

It’s a lot.

Back in January, reeling from Dreamer’s diagnosis, I sensed God preparing me for things to come by leveraging my love for fierce crossword puzzles.

“Take one square at a time. Fill in what you can. Work around the blanks. Answers will come.”

In other words, keep a quiet heart. Wait, with passionate patience. Trust. Practice ardent anticipation.

MEANWHILE, can we coax out resilience, surrender our assumptions about precious people and places and things that make us feel secure?

Sooner and sometimes, later, we recognize the voice of God-with-us, within us . . . spelling out the next step.

Imagine collective resilience, in prayer. We’ve all weathered a siege or two: escalating stress, relentless change, misfortune. Even now, you or someone you cherish may feel utterly beset.

May God’s love,
flawlessly faithful (and,
honestly, at times
enigmatic), direct our paths,
see us through the siege,
reveal glints of wonder
unfurling, like a seed, undercover.

“YOU HAVE TO STAND STILL so that the enchantment of the world can step out of its shyness,” author Sherry Ning writes. “Beauty is a momentary happening of a glint of truth surfacing in the material world . . . a moment of something divine making itself perceivable to human eyes.”

A gift. Without fanfare. Like one little apple bidding us, “Look up.”

Any tips on resilience you’re willing to share?

You might also enjoy this 2021 post: Resilience

Photo by Marina Grynykha on Unsplash

Act IV

by Laurie Klein 23 Chiming In

Act IV

Why is it that once we dare hope we’ve embodied the role of a lifetime . . . the scenery shifts?

Those once-trusty props? Whisked away during intermission. Our favorite costumes, removed; our former entrance lines, cut.

Even the set changes. For the story-in-progress at our place, think healing as boot camp.

Perhaps I’ve been auditioning all along for my current role—daily domestic triage—despite no discernible training, no talent for research, no medical skills.

You might be nodding in empathy, your life, or that of a loved one, re-cast in an unscripted Act IV.

It’s all-out improv.

Feeling alone onstage, you suspect the Director is occupied elsewhere. Singled out by the spotlight’s glare, you are exposed, reduced to mumbled ad-libbing.

Drop the curtain, somebody! Douse the lights!

If I ask you to complete this line, what would you add? “Lord, why can’t I . . .”

I am increasingly aware I can serve my loved one, try to salve all the sorrows. But God alone saves.

According to Paul, the Great Physician counts this work in us a pleasure.

Meanwhile, sidelined in the wings awaiting my next cue, I wonder . . . amid the pressure, can I dare enjoy small delights—without guilt?

Imagine this: a walk-on cameo role, perhaps in a garden at twilight. Nothing to memorize, no need to perform.

Ahhh. Moonrise. A few early stars. Hear that occasional drowsy cheep as birds settle into stillness? The splash of a fountain. Breathe in, absorb the tapestried atmosphere: perhaps threads of reverence surface, while running unseen (beneath a network of small knots), measured, orderly strands hold it all together. Not a sampler, but a story. Not a stage, but a sanctuary: the very air seemingly woven with prayers uttered, over time, layered here and there with a trill of merriment . . .

“Beauty tells us that we were created for joy and summoned to healing,” author Sarah Clarkson writes.

She urges us to embrace how healing it can be to savor the small and hidden—a surprising medicine amid brokenness.

“The way I tend and cultivate [small] things,” she adds, “which belong intimately to me in my ordinary sphere—home, body, friend, child, spouse, garden, table . . .” not only matters but becomes “more potent than we often imagine.”

Friends, no matter what role
you might be currently learning
or leaving,
Dreamer and I wish you
peace in the midst of longing,
abounding grace to lean into it, waiting,
and aerobic faith
for the leaping . . .

Father of Lights, may we
wake to your presence,
watch for your gifts,
wait on your grace,
walk in your ways.

Friends, in what ways are you praying for your own unexpected Act IV? Or, that of another?

“Let the loveliness of the Lord, our God, rest on us.” —Psalm 90: The Message

Unfinished tapestry photo by Birmingham Museums Trust on Unsplash

Hands cupping spotlight Photo by max im on Unsplash

Under the Primer

by Laurie Klein 5 Chiming In

What if
a painter pencils a prayer
across bare canvas before
covering it with
swashes of primer — an act
of trust akin to
a life laid down,
layer by layer . . .

Is that cry lost?

As works-of-God-in-progress, how to embrace erasure? Or surrender our lifestyle, our preconceived notions?

Decades ago during my ardent art-student days, flush with ideas, I itched to paint them! Skip stage one: forego the whitewash; flourish the paint. Wasn’t it enough that I’d mitered and hammered each wooden crosspiece, stretched the canvas taut?

No, my professor said. The surface had to be prepped to receive pigment. Didn’t I want my work to endure?

Fine. Atop that dead-white expanse I penciled guidelines. A roof here, a horizon there. Colors and forms accrued. Shadows, too.

I never thought to begin with a graphite entreaty.

What if underneath those long-ago layers a penciled cry of the heart had somehow suffused my finished painting? Perhaps viewers would have perceived added richness, translucence, depth.

A riveting glimpse of meaning,
bodied forth through managed obliteration . . .

What might we be “writing” within these days, while caring for a loved one? Or battling disease in our own minor masterwork(!) body?

I’ve long admired this line from French author Collette. Facing her later years, she spoke of “the supreme elegance of learning to diminish.”

But how? Dare I trust the Creator’s unseen hand at work?

I can only lay bare the questions. Invite God into each one.

Take our home (my personal canvas, signed each day these past 34 years): Turns out, it’s contaminated with mold. Catastrophically toxic. Five rooms must be emptied. Then remediated.

Hard not to feel shamed by ignorance: e.g. When the roof is redone but fails due to shoddy workmanship you know nothing about. Or when the dishwasher overflows and you don’t enlist professional help.

Hard, too, not to despair over casual housekeeping. Black mold and its cousins, secretly colonizing on joists, beneath drywall . . .

What’s the message here?

Perhaps, for now, this: The Master Artist signs the nucleus of every created thing. Even mold. A world full of valentines to us all.*

All-seeing God, write your words on the primed canvas of our hearts.

Renew our inscape.
Update our outlook.
Illumine the next step . . .

Friends, what do you picture God writing today? It might be obvious. Or, it might live under the primer . . .

*Paraphrased from James Parker, Get Me Through the Next Five Minutes: Odes to Being Alive

Photo by Steve Johnson on Unsplash

Hold Fast

by Laurie Klein 25 Chiming In

Hold fast, says the writer of Hebrews.

It’s May again, and
tendrils of vine
finger our wall,
inching along
toward the shadows
where each rosy tip
swells, anchoring
like the little pads
on a gecko’s feet.
Each breathes,
feels for the vertical
with sinewy
footings, splayed yet
elastic. Only
the plant’s steps
leave a mark (We are
still here), a hidden
holdfast
beneath unfurling leaves.

“Holdfasts,” we call them. In the plant world they anchor vines, lichens, even various seaweeds to some form of substrate or structure.

Here’s the author of Hebrews again, this time in The Message: “[Y]ou need to stick it out. . . . It won’t be long now . . . stay with it and survive, trusting all the way.”

Will our faith count for more than a ghosting remembrance, a slight stain left behind in places we’ve been, amid people and flora and fauna we’ve loved? Where’s the beauty in that?

Amid all that fractures within and around us, is sticking it out enough?

Author Sarah Clarkson writes, “God gives us beauty, not as his argument but as his offering—a gift that immerses us in something that allows us to touch hope, to taste healing, to tangibly encounter something opposite to disintegration . . .”

As Virginia Creeper clings to our wall, and as dementia stalks our path, Dreamer and I try to hold fast to this promise: By God’s gift, believers possess the mind of Christ.

Friends in the faith, I also know this. Whatever our reach, our literal touch—curtailed as it is—often embodies Jesus touching others through us.

Remember the gentle practice of prayer via the laying on of hands, in the Savior’s name? Love, with skin on.

When God’s love supports and directs our growth, it also anchors our rooting as well as our reaching.

“It is Christ, working through us, who does this,” Ronald Rolheiser writes. “The power is still with God, not with us, but in the incarnation God has chosen, marvelously, to let his power flow though us, to let our flesh give reality to his power.”

Oh look! A swoosh of iridescence overhead—a swallow, circling the vines that wreathe our birdhouse. Half-hidden, it crowns the retaining wall. Beyond, in the crab apple tree a reedy voice calls up a song. Her mate? She makes another pass, swooping closer. As if she remembers. As if she knows somewhere amid the tangle a haven awaits.

She carries a twig in her beak . . .

then enters the opening.

God, our holdfast, be here with us in the shadows.

Friends, what helps you hold fast?

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Autumn Creeper Photo by Sam Goodgame on Unsplash

Vines with lantern: Photo by Yurii Zinets on Unsplash

B&W Vines around Windows Photo by Greg Willson on Unsplash

A profound book that keeps reminding me Christ is our Vine and we are the branches: