Laurie Klein, Scribe

immerse in God, emerge refreshed

Behold the Holding

by 14 Chiming In

Holding Fast

If I were to paint my friend
B_, tallish, silvery, bike-tanned
and toned, you might perceive
hope wafting off the canvas,
lifelong rigor as well as riff:
musician, instructor, composer,
arranger, photographer — plus,
a DIY flair with espresso, lavishing
swirled foam atop steaming crema.

WHAT A GIFT TO GATHER TODAY . . .

. . . in the kitchen of B_’s new home! Post-tour, he offers lattes.

Dreamer and I last shared coffee with him and his beloved wife shortly before they moved here. A few months later, they were urgently evacuated as our drought-plagued city and countryside erupted in flames.

Think, inferno: demon winds, smoke-roil, three vast raging wildfires. For eight days. Like the 65,000 other evacuees, our friends wondered, would they have a home to return to?

We too were packed to leave if fire encroached any nearer.

And now, here we are. Reunited.

Lattes? Bring on the heat — the healing kind, almost holy. With a big fat yes to whole milk!

B_, our celebrant, faces sleek, state-of-the-art machinery, his reverent flair for ceremony laced, as ever, with quiet joy.

Picture unerring care. Unhurried hovering. He bows, over his work.

PACK BEANS. PULVERIZE. BREW AND POUR.

holding tight

STEAM MILK UNTIL GLOSSY, WITH PARTIAL FROTH. holding steady

NOW BEHOLD THE HOLDING . . .

an angled cup
as well as the pitcher
tilted to pour — an eddy
of swirls, first, then
the lowered spout,
the wrist’s rhythmic
jiggle gradually slowing
as creamy petals unfurl
beneath his gaze:
a small dip, a pause,
one delicate seam
drawn back to the rim.
Cue the dripless rise
of the pitcher, set aside,
the poured “rosetta”
so at home on the surface
it lingers, intact.
Now the hand off: rich,
nutty aroma, extended.

Ahh, the seeping warmth as one palm cradles the vessel.

The at-rest feel of the opposite thumb in the handle, fingers curved.

Taste and see.

LAYER BY SILKEN LAYER, I am drinking the depths of the cup entrusted to me, the designer’s image unmarred.

I peer over the rim at Dreamer. Please, God, may I see your image linger in him, no matter what.

Because, how parched, at times, the fiery ordeal.

How troubling, my thirst to be served.

In the ancient desert of Ziph, David’s friend Jonathan “helped him find strength in God. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said” (1 Sam. 23:15-16).

Steadfast, he held out his belief that no matter what befell them, God’s gift of replenishing wholeness awaited.

Holding certainty on behalf of another somehow elicits a divine reciprocity. “He who refreshes others will himself be refreshed” (Prov. 11:25).

The maker
shapes each stage, grounds
to liquid, a waft of vapor,
the final blend taking on
body, richly layered:
love, made delectable.

A KIND OF COMMUNION?

Afterward, cups emptied, we pray together. And we who thirst are doubly filled.

Need I mention a few beautiful tears? The weightless grace of shared gratitude?

Author Gunilla Norris writes, “How we hold the simplest of our tasks speaks loudly about how we hold life itself.”

Whatever our favorite beverage when temperatures drop, with every sip may we love well. Live, awash. Holding on and being held.

And, after drinking deeply, perhaps this:

Timebound though we are, O Delicious Nearness, how may we serve you?

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still holding
a marvel: the image still holding, until the final swallow

Friends, how are you holding as well as extending weightless grace?

Quote: Gunilla Norris, Being Home

coffee poured into blue cup Photo by Julien Labelle on Unsplash

steaming the milk in pitcher Photo by Kaylee Stoll on Unsplash

espresso grounds Photo by Daniel on Unsplash

rosetta in blue cup Photo by B_

From the archives, you might also enjoy the act of holding in this post.

Pulley, Bucket & Bell

by 15 Chiming In

Pulley, Bucket & Bell

From the tree house porch
an epic, peony-pink
10-gallon bucket
plummets,
only to rise, refilled
with surprises, hoisted,
hand over hand
in glee: Let’s call it
High Tea, in a Tree,
today’s unexpected
feast, with multiple courses.

Mastermind a whimsical hour for children? One of my favorite ways to re-quicken my youth.

Kids inhabit delight. Cheeky freedom. Wholehearted, irrepressible freshness.

The older I get, the tighter my focus to sustain wellness. Personal triage revs. So many good-for-us life hacks worth shoehorning into a day!

My list might resemble yours: reading, prayer, meditation, exercise, healthy food, supplements, family time, career, research, brainiac puzzles, breathwork, further education, more exercise, volunteering, chores . . . oops,

. . . Not Have-tos but Get-tos.

STILL, I shadow box fears, juggle the weight of a future ever shifting.

How? Try to be faithful. Generous. Do all things for the love of God.

Plus, gag the craven, inner miser — lest I lose touch with mirth.

“What if we content our souls with too little?”

Lay-brother Lawrence of the Resurrection posed this question over 400 years ago. Known for his lifelong, moment-by-moment conversations with God, Lawrence’s letters speak across the centuries of God’s infinite treasures . . . earmarked for us:

Daily bread
Divine companionship
Rescues
Windfalls

I get sidetracked by duty, fatigue, empathy overload, denial, bootstrap positivity. Tree house Time seems frivolous.

I forget to “kiss the joy as it flies.”*

Then, a jolly, bright pink bucket injects a note of humor.

A pulley, by definition, alters the direction of force.

My granddaughter can pull in — or play out — the rope. She can steady the bucket once it reaches her, bow over the rim to unpack the savory goodness prepared for her.

Or she can cross her arms, stamp and pout. Boycott joy.

Friends, I share small, everyday sitings of grace to encourage myself in the Lord — as King David did when down on his luck. His example inspires me:

Cherish every reminder that God remains kindly mindful of us.

Describing a minor windfall, my soul peals with wonder. Translation: I forget to feel sorry for myself.

There, I’ve said it. What I write likely affects me most. And yet you keep reading. Praying alongside in solidarity. Some unsubscribe. Others chime in.

With compound pulleys, you can halve the weight by pulling down, together, as gravity helps lift the load.

Sounds like fellowship, doesn’t it?

pulley times two

I don’t have a tree house, and inside my soul’s hidden, dimly lit bell tower, sometimes my lone pulley squeals.

Then again, one tug on the rope moves ponderous bronze toward music.

I will give you the treasures of darkness and the riches hidden in secret places, so that you may know that I am the Lord . . . who calls you by name (Isaiah 45:3).

Known (and chosen anyway!),
feasted afresh each day,
when we’re left dangling,
let’s encourage ourselves in the Lord,
stay available, free to be filled
and used, like a swinging bell
or a bright pink bucket . . .

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Friends, what might be rising to meet your readiness? 

Side project:

No grands? Borrow a few kids for an afternoon.
No tree house? Stage a No-fuss High Tea under a Tree.

Tie plastic $-store pails or baskets holding edibles to tree branches.
Spread a rug or blanket beneath.
Stash costumes (hats, bow ties, wacky glasses, jewelry) and disposable tableware in nearby tubs or baskets.

Here’s what we served:

First Course: Cheesy Goldfish crackers and red grapes
Second Course: Summer sausage, pickles, peewee carrots, String Cheese, World’s Teeniest Muffins (Muffin King), and Arnold Palmer Iced Tea (half lemonade)
Third Course: Ice Cream Bars
Fourth Course: $-Store Bubbles & Wands

 

*“. . . kiss the joy as it flies.” William Blake

Photo by Ries Bosch on Unsplash

Double Pulleys Photo by Jay Heike on Unsplash

Y.E.S. and . . .

by 10 Chiming In

TO YOU, DEAR FELLOW TENDERS OF THE TENDER:

I’ve spent decades talking to God while planting, pruning, and weeding. Hence my recent garden blues with a slow-burn ache.

Time is an issue. I’m surrendering half my personal Eden.

Y.e.s. and . . .

In the lull between two bites
of the spade, I strip away
starry carpets of sedum

and budding thyme — mounded
plantings knelt over
for decades. Next,

yank the barrier fabric
weighted with bark chips
gone rogue, riddled 

solid with roots — tendrilled,
or stout as parsnips. Hard to uproot
dew-loving borders in bloom,

aromatic lavender, pungent sage.
Out with those aspen saplings,
summer’s taffeta rustle

silenced. Mercy keeps nudging:
Stay simple to go deep.
Bless the bed, graveled over.

***

STILL, I GROUSE, as if hardships aren’t known for cultivating wisdom, each hard pruning gradually boosting resilience, setting hearts free.

Imagine Mary’s “y.e.s.” to Gabriel. She must:

Yield . . . to impossibility
Embody . . . scandal
Stretch . . . in ways she cannot foresee

My version?

Yelp . . . Practical, sure, but wow, it hurts
Erupt . . . I’m too old for hard labor
Self-soothe . . . I deserve a massage, a nap, more chocolate

Not exactly Mary’s “Be it unto me according to your word.”

Can this honest,
half-grudging heart chuckle,
shrug,
nudge closer to God?

“We must pray not first of all because it feels good or helps, but because God loves us and wants our attention.” So says James E. Miller in The Art of the Healing Presence.

MAYBE START WITH A WHISPERED VALENTINE: Lord, I love you.

No agenda, no hidden motives. No bargaining.

Yes . . . to being, breathing, listening.

In The Road to Daybreak, an intimate diary of writer Henri Nouwen, readers see him prayerfully poised to forsake his cherished academic career for caregiving. He’s scared. Resistant. Sad. How to go the distance?

FOUR WORDS, spoken by a fellow priest, inspire him. Be faithful in adoration.

Prayer, itself, heals us, Nouwen adds. “Not just the answer to prayer.”

Yes, it’s hard to embrace change. Long-tended plants give way to gravel. Shared interests with a beloved alter; in some cases, cease.

As we more deeply believe that perfect Love is directing a vital reconfiguration, might simple acts of kindness unfurl more gracefully? Foreshadow, perhaps, a more generous, inner transfiguration?

Jesus said, For I was hungry . . . thirsty . . . sick . . . a stranger.

Over time, people we love can seem like strangers.

And the Savior still says, “I tell you the truth, whatever you do for one of the least of these brothers [and sisters] of mine, you do for me.”

Will we emulate Mary: open, questioning yet faithful, in adoration? What about the woman in Mark 14 — the one who poured out what wealth she had to anoint the Savior for burial?

Jesus said of her, “She did what she could when she could.”

Yearn. Engage. Serve.

Y.E.S. Oh, yes.

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Friends, what turns your eyes back to God?

Here’s a past photo essay you might enjoy: “Natural . . . infinite . . . yes” 

Photo by Kyle Hinkson on Unsplash

 

 

Oases

by 16 Chiming In

SAY YOU WAKE UP HAPPY, inwardly fizzing. Almost effervescent with quirky ideas . . .

BUT someone depends on you. What to do?

“Spend the afternoon,” author Annie Dillard says. “You can’t take it with you.”

In other words: Despite life’s erratic side winds, seek out (or create) mini oases — no matter how fleeting. Once there, bend a knee to the Creator.

Or, summon curiosity, directed by love. You could explore that languishing stack of books. Make something. Unfold a lawn chair and daydream.

“Don’t you know God enjoys giving rest to those he loves?” (Ps. 127, The Message).

STILL, can there really be daily, guilt-free reprieves?

Dreamer and I recently spent half a day in the Emergency Room, his upper body in spasms — at times, well over 300 per hour. New diagnosis: Myoclonic Jerking.

So far, no solutions.

So, there’s that.

AND YET . . . today I surge out of bed, pumped.

Dreamer says, “Go for it!”

Then he returns to bed, muscles seizing.

I pray for him, open windows, rearrange his pillows, refill the fountain. Then pray again.

No visible change. Faced with physical urgency, maybe I should stay by his side.

But no. If he needs help, he’ll ask.

WHY IS IT SO HARD sometimes to receive a blessing, tenderly blow a kiss, then ease a door closed?

Mercifully, with a few vigorous stretches, worry ebbs. Along with the need to feel needed.

Eased, energized, I tamp begonias into flowerbeds. Then a pause, to survey my container plantings.

SOMETIMES we wake up with ideas that aren’t ours. I’d forgotten, but first thing this morning I imagined my lavender topiary bedecked with dangly earrings. The notion felt wonderfully playful. Then . . . too frivolous.

BUT WAIT, when Dreamer wakes from his nap and sees it, he might enjoy my goofy delight. Shared laughter can neutralize dread.

I’ll do it!

Oops. Those earrings were tossed during the household mold purge.

NOW WHAT?

In The Geography of Memory, poet and playwright Jeanne Murray Walker quotes her priest. “Life is SHORT, and we do not have much time to gladden the hearts of those who travel with us. So be swift to love, make haste to be kind, live without fear.”

A shiver sharpens my awareness . . . an echoing, boundless chuckle, the sense of an unseen hand cupping my elbow. Then a wise, whimsical voice: “You could plant cocktail umbrellas among the boughs.” Oh, racing heart, too big for a rib cage . . . I feel buoyant, sensing God’s joyous, fun-loving benevolence.

And this: “Child, all your times are in my hands: your hearts, your hopes, your hurts.”

Someone once said the divine moment is the present moment. We can move toward what beckons, no matter how unlikely: take the topiary — dead, but still shapely — brittle arms upstretched.

What will they hold?

FRIENDS, an oasis can save your life.

oasis

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Adapting on the fly — could this be an answer?

You might also enjoy Oases: Between Noels, Part II
Packing Light: 9 Ways to Reclaim Joy

Bubbles Photo by Alex Alvarez on Unsplash

Dead topiary with cocktail umbrellas and tiny light bulbs, L.K.

Anchor

by 12 Chiming In

Anchor, 1962: AHOY, Maiden Voyage!

rowboat missing an anchor

My best friend and I embark today in the rowboat—first time without a grownup. I grip the oars, gung-ho to go.

Mom commands the pier, shifting her weight from foot to foot as if soothing a baby.

“Are your life jackets snug?”
Triple cinch knots . . . by you, I say.
“Extra sunscreen?”
Got it. (Small eye roll from friend.)
“You don’t want another—”
MOM, we’ll be fine.

Double thumbs up and we’re off. At our feet, a mound of rope, canary-bright, curls alongside a new anchor.

“WAIT!” Mom calls. “Do you have your watch? I want you back in an hour.”

I wave and grin, feeling strong, in control, unstoppable.

Down lake, we drop anchor. Sploosh!
Rope un-loops fast, all friction
and hot neon blur—Z-z-z-z—
down to the last coil until,
phloop, the tail end flips 

(Oh no!) over the side . . .

floats for a moment,
then disappears
into the murk.

L. O. S. T.

And who failed to tie the line to the boat? Flighty, unreliable me. With every stroke toward home the word irresponsible whirls in my head, a growing vortex sucking me down.

So, why remember this now? Sobering, unfamiliar responsibilities. The occasional sense of hovering doom. The brain whispers You’re going to mess up—an echo of what I felt long ago, in the boat.

Oh, I know all the right words . . . “We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure” (He. 6:19).

Still. Bogus beliefs formed in childhood can go undercover. Shelf life? Notorious.

To dodge looking deeper, I open an escapist novel. A character says, “Why don’t you question some of your wildly incorrect underlying assumptions once in a while?”

Oh dear.

Each youthful assumption that surfaces exposes a faulty conclusion lurking beneath it. With tentacles.

  1. I can’t be trusted.
  2. I’m a failed adult.
  3. I don’t deserve hope like an anchor.

Yow.

Near the end of my mother’s life her broken mind drifted, detached from reality. Briefly lucid, she gripped my arm and said, “I feel like a little boat, all alone in the middle of the ocean.”

Nothing dissuaded her. Had she let me, I would have rocked her in my arms and sung to her.

I failed to find a way to soothe my mama, but fresh grace seeping through me today might comfort my beloved.

This fact remains: I lost my dad’s anchor, but I am not lost.

Still. “When hope recedes, so does the capacity to move toward . . . wholeness,” grief counselor James E. Miller writes.

To become a healing presence, I must reckon with self-judgment. Enact the old heave-ho. And picture Jesus present with me so long ago in the boat as well as the aftermath.

Re-anchored in truth, I can navigate shifting circumstance, perhaps steady our journey.

No way to feel strong, in control, unstoppable. Sometimes guilt muscles in, and worry rides shotgun. Will a life jacket appear for my beloved when needed, tenderly fastened?

Will he sense Someone who loves him watching, watching for his return?

We’re all underway. Healing may be different than curing.

Amid the murk of cascading decisions and the burden of waiting-waiting-waiting: friends, can we welcome hope?

Centuries ago, Augustine wrote, “Our hearts are restless until they rest in Thee.”

Lord, steer us toward wholeness. Expose old assumptions.
Ease the dead weight of ambiguity. Helplessness. Senseless pain.
Anchor us in you, our hope, now and always. Amen.

anchor

What helps you live free of former assumptions?

Rowboat Photo by Jasper Garratt on Unsplash

No One Would Do What the Lamberts Have Done, Sophie Hannah

Hands gripping miniature anchor Photo by Lucas Sankey on Unsplash

Here’s a wise, practical, deeply compassionate, beautifully written book I am loving: