Blog - Laurie Klein, Scribe

Runaway

by Laurie Klein 20 Chiming In

So of course, we ran away, Dreamer & I & Vinny the dog.

For a whole week.

To escape the diagnosis.

To relish each other and lakeside walks, books and sunsets and daylong fires in a rented cabin.

No phones or WiFi. No laptop.

No clue the heavens would download epic hail . . .

. . . pummeling us, pelting the dog.

Afterward, curled into dry clothes again, I glanced out the window.

Foregrounding the far island,
as if levitating
off Priest Lake, the tail end
of a rainbow’s arc
hovered — curtailed,
yet luminous,
timeless and true as a small ark
of runaway light,
for maybe a minute: Dreamer saw it too.

Heaven bridging earth? Friends, it felt personal. You know what I mean: the future looms, relentless as death. Then one day we glimpse a bright strand or two of God’s handiwork, brief as a tail light’s wink in the dark, already moving beyond our sight.

“Jesus is going ahead of you. Tell others.” So said the angel to women clustered beside the tomb.

Here is a Paschal mystery. How on earth do we endure as well as emulate Christ in our own sorrowful hours . . . for the joy set before us?

Or, as a fellow pilgrim prayerfully put it, after her diagnosis, “Ohhh, I see. This is what we’re doing now: You, Lord, & my love & I.”

The most daunting aspect? Perhaps it was God’s confidence in their whispered assent.

Or so it feels to me sometimes.

There is always a reckoning.

And a beckoning.

In the garden on Easter Mary Magdalene would have clung to the man she cherished — had he allowed it. She thought she’d lost him. Perhaps she had, but only in the ways she had always known him.

“Mary,” he said. “Don’t cling to me. I must ascend to my Father.”

With dementia on our horizon, that could apply to Dreamer and me.

Or possibly you and someone you love.

Dare we taste even a molecule of the cup Jesus drank?

Can we imagine the toxic gradually honeyed? Even effervescent?

Change comes. “Do not cling to the old,” Ronald Rolheiser writes. Instead, “Let it ascend and give you its blessing.”

Here’s part of his poem “Mary Magdala’s Easter Prayer”:

“… if I cling
you cannot ascend and
I will be left clinging to your former self
. . . unable to receive your present spirit.”

For Dreamer and me, home again now, there are moments our runaway minds clamor. It’s tiring. And scary. Even though the same Spirit that raised Christ from the dead dwells in us, loves us.

Ah, don’t I sound wise? I can string words together; I can’t make them live.

For now, I am a woman learning to love
the tail end of a rainbow — incomplete
and evanescent, yes — still
trying to stay safe, or is it open . . .
Friends, how might you allow what is changing your life to ascend . . . and give you its blessing?

Catch up on our story here

Ronald Rolheiser, The Holy Longing

Photo by Harry Quan on Unsplash

Wholehearted Lent

by Laurie Klein 19 Chiming In

Wholehearted . . .

What does this word mean to you at the beginning of Lent?

Many of you know my husband’s latest cognitive test revealed impairment, and that he started medication for dementia. This week Dreamer enrolled in a rigorous, six-month health coaching program that will radically alter our way of living, starting with nutrition.

We’re in, wholeheartedly.

But many foods and beverages he loves must go—not just for Lent, but for life.

Our immersion feels like a sacred, slow-motion launch. Oh, may it culminate in better brain health! Dare I say, a measure of resurrection?

Spiritually and practically — for believers across Christendom — wholehearted surrender often means taking personal inventory.

Where have we been?
How are we doing now?
What does God want to initiate in the days ahead?

This week, around our world, Lent kicked off with three observances:
Clean Monday is an Eastern Orthodox practice, which includes spring cleaning and purging one’s kitchen of foods to be avoided, especially leaven.
Shrove Tuesday — in our case, featuring gluten-free pancakes—concerns confession, repentance, forgiveness.
Ash Wednesday invites us to ask: Lord, where have I missed the mark? We consider our mortality, acknowledge sin, pray for renewal.

Might these threefold responses suggest a gentle symmetry with Lent’s culmination: Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Easter?

This may seem quirky, but a surprising commonality strikes me. During leaven-free Monday, Pancake Tuesday, and the Last Supper, spoons are involved.

To this day, these utensils for celebrating Passover are cleansed, then koshered by boiling them in water. In ancient times, on Passover Eve, women laboriously swept their homes clean of every trace of leaven with a feather, a wooden spoon as receptacle, and a bag to dispose of all.

The Hebrew word for spoon is kap. But it is also variously translated throughout the Bible.

It refers to the ancient, angelic fire-spoon holding the live coal, touched to Isaiah’s lips: a means of purification.
Kap also denotes the twelve golden spoons for burning incense in the tabernacle: a means of worship.
Yet another translation refers to that which humanly cups and holds: literally, “the palm of the hand”: a means of receiving, as well as serving.

Picture God’s hands, pierced for us. The prophet Isaiah reminds us our names are engraved on the palms of our Savior.

Talk about wholehearted surrender!

Perhaps you have a favorite spoon. You might want to picture it now as you continue to read, or hold it in your hand. What is it made of?
Consider the shape, and weight, the warmth or coolness, color(s), decoration, and texture.
Does it feel well-balanced?
Is there a scent?
Do you see tarnish, patina, scratches, shine?
How much can your spoon hold?

Using the spoon as a sacred launch point, here are a few personal inventory questions you might consider.

What feels mixed up in my life?
What do I crave?
Which fruit of the Spirit is God nudging me to savor?
What is being stirred up in me?
How might I serve others in this season?
Whom, specifically, does God hope I will nourish?
What new recipe might Jesus invite me to wholeheartedly create with him?

Friends, for the rest of this day, what if you turn every encounter with a spoon into a spontaneous prayer?

And if you prefer a written one, you might try this:

Beloved Lord, conform us to your image.
In your mercy, cull from our lives
what harms and disrupts our responsiveness.
Teach us to serve you well.
May we hunger for your presence,
thirst for your Word.
Deliver us from anemic faith,
indifference, and discouragement.
Forgive our greed,
our conditional hospitality,
our need to control others.
Draw us into humility,
patience, and wholehearted living. Amen.

כַּף, Hebrew, kap

kPhoto by Lex Sirikiat on Unsplash

Photo by Burkard Meyendriesch on Unsplash

Listening to You Breathe

by Laurie Klein 26 Chiming In

“Found a dog . . . on Craigslist,” Dreamer said. “But the ad’s a month old.”

A month ago, I couldn’t imagine initiating a rescue.

But things changed with Dreamer’s diagnosis.

Might a loyal, eloquent-if-non-speaking, waggery companion shadowing our steps help us face the future?

We emailed the owners, somehow won their hearts, then drove to Rosalia, Idaho, for the hand-off.

Within the first minute, “Vinnie” licked Dreamer’s face. Think power wash.

Then, tail thumping, he leapt into our car, and he snuggled my beloved all the way home.

Vinnie is a tawny, 4-year-old Husky/Rottweiler. He’s sweet-tempered, patient, and well-trained. After a worrisome three-day hunger strike—despite our elderly charm campaign and wheedling dog-dish charades (plus a dear friend’s prayers)—hunger won out.

The Vinster consented to eat.

Consent denotes willingness to embrace change: You seem nice; sure, I’ll sleep by your bed—while also maintaining a measure of control—Kibbles? I can snarf ‘em or leave ‘em. Watch me.

Consent, even canine, can be withheld. Given. Withdrawn.

Assent, on the other hand, cedes power differently. Factual circumstances may not change—in our case, despite fervent pleading with God.

Like Vinnie, re-homed, Dreamer and I can’t change where we find ourselves now. But God’s grace can change us in profound, unforeseen ways.

Moment by lurching moment, we are learning to say yes to this new chapter unfolding before us.

“Be it unto me according to your word,” Mary told the angel Gabriel. Her willing, wholehearted assent embraced a life radically reshaped, from that moment, forward.

Author Sarah Clarkson writes, “You don’t have to assent or agree with what is before you, and often you ought not to; but if you do, [your assent] is something offered, a yielding to a story you perhaps didn’t choose and don’t yet fully understand.”

Which sounds really spiritual.

Yet often, we’re sad and scared. Or mercifully distracted. There are also moments we struggle to breathe through the sneaker wave of desolation.

Some nights, I distract myself with a crossword puzzle. Other nights, it’s enough to simply listen to Dreamer breathing beside me. Still here.

As well as the random snurffle from Vinnie, snoozing beside our bed.

Our days fill with prayers and research and learning the ways of our new companion. We are a threesome now. With a dog who just barfed, twice. Once on the carpet.

Didn’t see that coming.

Post-cleanup, barricaded in the kitchen, Vinnie somehow Houdini-es through one corner of the canvas folding screen. Turns out Velcro tabs do not deter 70 pounds of lonesome, panting, disoriented mind, muscle, and heart.

He misses his old life. As we miss ours.

Dementia can be erratic, unbearably cruel. Our Healer-Redeemer never sleeps, is ever-present, unchanging, compassionate. It is to God’s unending love we say yes, not to the disease—trusting that what tears us open is already, by grace, deeply at work within us, and will continue, ultimately forging a healing path forward.

“. . . Jesus is going ahead of you,” the angel at the tomb tells the women gathered there in sorrow, fear, and confusion.

Talk about a lifeline.

Perhaps you’re enduring events likely to unravel your heart or ravage the life of someone you love. Friends, let’s pray for each other, seeking the grace to surrender to God all we are and have and will one day be.

P.S.

Here’s a “5 – 5 – 8” breathwork stress-buster we find calming, a small, real-time rescue when panic looms:

five-count inhale
hold breath for five counts
exhale audibly for eight counts

I’ve added words and motion, which help dispel late-night anxiety spikes):

(inhale for 5) As if playing a keyboard, palms down, moving left pinky first, sequentially tap each finger, praying: “We trust you, Jesus.” (Or: “We love you, Jesus.”)
(hold breath for 5) Right thumb to pinky, sequentially tap each finger, praying: “Have mercy on us.”
(exhale for 8) Left pinky to right middle finger, one tap each: “All that we have and are is yours.”

Repeat, as needed.

You might also enjoy “Catch Your Breath Here” (from the archives.)

I highly recommend Sarah Clarkson’s book, Reclaiming Quiet.

Photo of Sleeper by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Epiphany

by Laurie Klein 14 Chiming In

EPIPHANY, January 6, 2025:

Enter Dreamer, one daughter, three grandkids, and yours truly . . .

PLUS . . . a visitation. No, not the Magi.

We began our day scouting Christmas Eve treats the children left out, last month, for the neighborhood wildlings. The leftovers were re-scattered close to the house.

Then we shivered our way to the front stoop where Dreamer, by turns, hoisted each child high. Following an ancient custom, they chalked the door lintel with the new year’s numerals and three letters: 20 + C + M + B + 25.

The letters represent three wise strangers from afar, traditionally named Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar. They also coincide with the Latin phrase meaning “Christ, bless this house: Christus Mansionem Benedicat.

Our grandkids, ages eight and nine, must miss being carried. Grasping the chalk, they sure took their time writing. Who wouldn’t, held safely aloft by a gentle giant?

C + M + B . . . Dreamer might have thought “Courage, my biceps.”

Afterward, we made Star Cake for tea time. While it baked, the kids rushed to the bay window, hopping and chirping like sparrows.

A wild turkey! Eating their leftover seeds!

Looking up, I clattered a pan.

“Aanie,” they hissed, “SHHH!”

So I tiptoed over to join them.

It was Gladys, the Stalker. (So named by Dreamer.) The homely hen, seemingly exiled from her group, had lately been foraging solo.

Or was she a scout? A rafter of twenty-pounders can damage a house and yard. Should we have chased her away? We still had mixed feelings.

“Aanie, she LOVES my seeds!”

Sure enough, beak in overdrive, Gladys scratched and gobbled. Bark chips flew.

Bird-struck, the kiddos leaned closer, fogging the glass.

I witnessed the kind of rapt “celebration that roots us moment by moment in [a] deep watchful quiet that ushers us into the presence of God.” Sarah Clarkson wrote that, and her words capture the moment, a seeming fulfillment of our chalked prayer: Christ, bless this house.

Then the timer beeped.

Why didn’t I linger at the window? Too focused on icing and slicing. “Martha, Martha”—there I stood, messing with details, missing the true feast.

I love wholehearted celebrations, gladly embrace each fiddly, trivial detail. Post-party that day, our newly blessed home showed the chaos of a happy invasion. As well as the avian visitation.

During cleanup . . . another epiphany. So I made a decision. Next time, the cake can wait. As the old saying goes, What we behold . . . we become.

Why curtail magical moments with those I love?

Sometimes, I’m the turkey; sometimes, a child, surprised into breathless stillness.

Can we sustain wholehearted readiness to experience God’s love for the quirky? The potentially troublesome? If so, how?

And, in view of current events, how do we embody God’s love for those who are not like us?

Reclaiming Quiet, Sarah Clarkson.

Chalking the Door: “An Epiphany Tradition”

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Unsplash

You might also enjoy Epiphany and the Epic Icicle

Black Sheep: Between Noels, Part IV

by Laurie Klein 6 Chiming In

Black sheep? Moi? Oh yes. Sometimes.

During childhood I cradled my stuffed counterpart, complete with music box.

Amid adolescence I perched it atop the desk handed down from my mother.

Seven decades later, it sits near my keyboard, flop ears and button eyes cocked my way.

Twist the oval brass ring in its belly and the song still plays, almost as if, once again, Mom croons the lullaby words of Brahms. One night, an insecure new mama myself, I asked to hear it again, her voice by then crackly with age.

Sleepyhead, close your eyes.
Mother’s right here beside you.

Do we ever outgrow the childlike longing to be held? Rescued?

Re-wind with me . . .

to a distant, long-ago night. A swaddled infant’s gaze locks on his mother’s brimming eyes.

Perhaps Mary sings:

Guardian angels are near,
So sleep on, with no fear.

From starlit Bethlehem, slip further back in time. A month will do. Picture slopes and valleys partially blanketed in wool, as if fallen clouds rest on the earth. These sheep are specifically raised for temple sacrifice.

And King David’s descendants keep watch.

Farther afield, a grizzled shepherd bows over a feed trough. He swaddles a flailing newborn lamb. The birth rags will protect spindly new legs from harm. Little eyes close, the damp body nestled in warmth.

Does the shepherd pipe a tune?

I’ll protect you from harm,
You will wake in my arms.

What of this motherless lamb? And that bleating ewe, over yonder, grieving a stillborn body?

How gently the shepherd nudges the bereaved aside. How painstakingly he bathes the orphan in the dead lamb’s placental blood.

And then, how wondrous, the milk of recognition, the miracle of adoption!

From these hills we can look toward Bethlehem or, five miles north, toward Jerusalem; from incarnation to eventual crucifixion.

Among these grasslands hundreds and hundreds of lambs — black sheep, white sheep — were once raised for twice-daily sacrifices in the temple.

Thousands more of them met the priestly blade at Passover. BUT . . .

. . . before that feast of remembrance, each household brought their best lamb into their home for several days. Hand-fed it. Treated it as family. Maybe the children named it.

Everyone knew that when they presented their gift to the priest, he would ask them one question: “Do you love this lamb?”

Spotless, tenderly cherished lambs led to the temple.

My threadbare black sheep on my desk.

Heaven’s Lamb — who loves us.

Now and forever NOEL, noel, noel . . .

Black sheep, white sheep: Photo by Megan Johnston on Unsplash

Close-up, white sheep Photo by Sam Carter on Unsplash

Lamb: Photo by Bill Fairs on Unsplash

Brahms Lullaby, Celine Dion

Lullaby lyrics

https://video.search.yahoo.com/yhs/search?fr=yhs-trp-001&ei=UTF-8&hsimp=yhs-001&hspart=trp&p=celine+dion+brahms+lullaby&type=Y235_F163_217427_042622#id=1&vid=150f47cd4fb7c8d9305ca40e9f5ccbe2&action=click

Foregrounding the far island, as if levitating off Priest Lake, the tail end of a rainbow’s arc hovered — curtailed, yet luminous, timeless and true as a small ark of runaway light, for maybe a minute: Dreamer saw it too.

“… if I cling you cannot ascend and I will be left clinging to your former self . . . unable to receive your present spirit.”