Blog - Laurie Klein, Scribe

Exclamation Points in a Story, a Season, a Life

Slight as a cat’s eyelash,
one black mark
graces the page,
piquing my curiosity. O
how it pulses, as if
rendered in neon—
this exclamation point
humans assigned
to an angel,
in the gospel of Luke.

Printers call these marks gaspers, screamers, startlers. Many editors view them as lazy shortcuts. Or overkill. “Never expect punctuation to animate flabby prose.”

As a writer, this is my world. Render passion, yes; but ration those exclamation points. Say, one every six months. (Or every book and a half, as Elmore Leonard advises.)

In the NIV translation, Gabriel gets one—but not where we might expect it.

“Greetings,” he says.

This salutation alone—from a celestial being—seems worthy of emphasis. However, rigorous scholars inserted a comma, then continued the sentence: “. . . you who are highly favored!”

For Mary, a knee-quaking moment.

For you and me, millennia later,
it’s breathtaking,
soul-shaking,
hope-making news.

That’s because highly favored means “to make graceful, to endow with grace.”

Mary embodied in-the-moment receptiveness to God.

As we welcome God, we too become highly favored, our lives affirmed. Transformed. Made grace-full.

Exclamation points, over time . . .

First used in English in the 15th century, they were considered “notes or signs of admiration,” perhaps from the Latin root for wonderment.

In the Greek word for joy, io, the “i” is written above the “o.” The forerunner, perhaps?

In our day exclamation points proliferate in online communications and may indicate surprise, excitement, anger, and other strong emotions. Peruse Luke (in the NIV version) and you’ll find them accentuating promises, warnings, complaints, interjections, exhortations, chastisements, praises, and pleas.

I counted 36 in all—again, not always where I expected them. Surprisingly, the humble period appears when Jesus cleanses the temple. And when the entire heavenly host sings “Glory to God in the highest.”

To this day, consulting scholars, clergy, and other professionals continue to translate the Bible. They peer into, and pore over, the original Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek manuscripts.

They parse grammar. Argue semantics. Assign emphasis.

No matter how we punctuate
this story, older than our world
yet still fresh as the rain,
how radically Love arrives, to upend,
upset, even overturn
our sense of self,
our hopes, and
our flawed expectations.

Where are the living exclamation points appearing in your life this month? Wonderment is contagious. I hope you’ll share one . . .

You might also enjoy the Smithsonian’s take on the exclamation mark

And speaking of strong emotions: Holidays, Saying Yes to Unexpected Gifts!

There’s even a blog about them: Excessive Exclamation!!

“Yes” Photo: John Tyson on Unsplash.

Have I Failed You?

by Laurie Klein 35 Chiming In

Elegant or squat,
satiny, spongy,
slim or speckled,
the overnight toadstools
shoulder through sodden grass.

Beneath thick skirts
undersides flaunt
pale, multi-pleated,
rice-paper gills.

Trouble is, fungi spread like a devilish rash.

Or a rumor.

Or bad news.

Some have erupted—
their fleshy umbrellas
upended, once-plucky
stems torn and exposed.

And my first reaction?

Poison! So says the girl who grew up on Grimm. These toadstools feel personal. Symbolic. Weirdly prolific.

Born of darkness and damp and demise,
they haunt the shadows
along my path
in the way sorrows emerge, one
after another.

Friends, this has been a sad time.

I wonder: Are people you cherish—as well as strangers the media makes you care about—also braving unthinkable woe? Has hope failed them?

There’s much to grieve.

For one: I failed to meet you here, in October. I sorely regret breaking my monthly commitment to you (and myself). My desire is to encourage readers who feel weary. Beleaguered. Jaded and flayed.

That’s why I started this blog, nearly five years ago.

Truth is, I’ve been too sad to write. Guilt, of course, adds its own poison.

This is where
we get the verb mushroom,
we, who cannot number our worries,
rabid as spores, housed in our heads,
we, who launch prayers, seeding the heavens
beyond what the air can hold.

And then, while walking in the city, I chance upon this—although my camera fails to capture the fierce, almost magical shine. One wet leaf glints at my feet, beaded all over with the tiniest convex mirrors. The longer I look, the more this leaf seems to offer a portrait. The image suggests my soul, holding in all that is uncried.

The names on my prayer list seem as numerous, and tremulous, as November’s tears gracing this fallen leaf.

In her new book my dear friend Gena Bradford writes: “I have learned to ask the Lord about my fear that He [won’t] meet the needs of others . . .

“[and the nagging fear that] I might disappoint someone . . .”

She speaks for me.

“Lord,” she asks, “have I failed You?”

And God answers, “The only way you can fail Me is by not letting Me love you.”

Friends, I wish to encourage you. And myself. For now, Romans 8:1 reminds me there is “no condemnation in Christ Jesus.”

Bradford suggests a radical strategy: What if we fast from condemning ourselves?

I mean to try.

Perhaps, it always begins here:
in a season of falling
apples, and burgeoning
fears that resemble
creeping rot, we behold . . .

. . . all the little mercies, silently shining along our way.

I wonder: what’s mushrooming around you? What mercies have you noticed?

Is there something you need to fast from?

Click here to access Gena Bradford’s new book: I Can’t Rest Now, Lord! I’m Responsible: 30 Days from Burnout to the Heart of God, by Gena Bradford

You might also like this post from my archive: Kyrie Eleison: Seeking Mercy

Constancy: The Tale of a Trail

by Laurie Klein 24 Chiming In

Constancy

I want . . . something I can turn to,
regardless of what I do,
regardless of who I become,
Something that will just be there,
always, like tomorrow’s sky.*

Dressed for a jog, I take my usual route. Care to join me?

My trail sinks a fraction lower each year. Call it a packed-earth anthem to rambling. Unwinding. Sometimes I sing.

I love these rolling wild acres beyond our back door. I’ve traversed them in sundry footwear and weather, accompanied by Uncle Tanner, our yellow Labrador. Oh, come with us . . .

. . . This is the jarring, knee-shocker downhill stretch: momentum’s kick-start.

Uncle Tanner will charge the pond, spring-fed and fringed with cattails. Whoosh! Canadian Geese panic, their long bodies airborne. Sunning turtles resembling overturned clogs plop into the pond.

Listen. The water talks to itself as it surges, then cascades, through a buried exit pipe.

Piney woods beckon, crisscrossed by owls and deer, the shadowed expanse sporadically sunlit.

Then, at last, we’re out in the open. Beneath cinematic skies, two tire tracks carve through acres of meadow.

It’s like four small worlds. They surprise and enliven me—even when my feet hurt. Over time, coupled with gratitude, their familiarity breeds . . . contentment.

I’ve traversed this trail for 28 years. I know exactly where the temperature reliably alters a few degrees. I recognize seasonal blooms, each rotation of insects, the arresting ways that light oils the hinges, morning and evening, of every day.

But nothing compares with the big-muscle, thumping-heart rhythm of moving through each distinct space with a dog. I cherish his cheerful constancy. We absorb birdsong and the reedy shrill of crickets. We take in the clean, resinous air.

Today, I aim to jog the entire heavenly loop.

Until I don’t.

Not far from my back door, bluish-green seedlings clog my path and its margins—hundreds of them. An arboreal rash of feathery green.

These baby pine trees are the plucky offspring of bug-riddled trees we felled, two years ago. Now, I must stem the invasion. They are part threat, pure nuisance, yet vital—because, well, they’re trees!—thus integral to the sense of sanctuary.

But this is renewal with a vengeance. Left alone, they’ll take over, obliterate the path, my hard-won path.

So I stop. Then stoop. You have to tease their skinny taproots, long as a forearm, from parched soil. That’s it, an even, seamlessly smooth, slow-motion pull. Too much angle and the tiny green crown snaps off in your palm. Too much tug and the last gasp of root hunkers underground, plotting resurrection.

I also pull knapweed, thistles, wormwood, vetch.

One’s adversaries deserve to be named. Known.

So I am an oft-interrupted jogger. An adamant seedling assassin.

Occasionally I question time spent on weeds and dirt. The relentless, dogged, losing battle.

Yet here is my sacred trail: and here, my gentle loping-toward-God pace—with strategic pauses—all of it so conducive to listening prayer.

There is an art to constancy,
a sinewy ache,
alongside
Olympian rigor.

Constancy in life’s details ripples outward, inward. In times of turmoil, it grounds us.

Cultivating the habit of constancy spills over, nourishing friendships, marriage, and more. I find myself more apt to take a stroll with Dreamer . . . rather than take another mindless scroll through the latest real estate listings.

I’m more prone to savor face-to-face conversations with friends rather than loiter, overlong, on Facebook.

Constancy slows me down.

I make time for two outings per day. Trail time seems to be Uncle Tanner’s constant hope. Fourteen now, he needs less speed, fewer miles, more treats. Who knows how much longer he’ll pad along at my side?

Constancy carves a path through all manner of wilderness.

Tell me more about constancy . . . What have you noticed?

Opening quote by Kazuo Ishiguro, When We Were Orphans
From the Archives, earlier tales of The Trail: Own a Better View
Space: Creativity’s New Frontier

Going Deeper: And Everything Eddying into Light

by Laurie Klein 36 Chiming In

Floor-to-ceiling windows frame acres of light.

The walls showcase B&W close-ups of architectural details: poems in stone. The photographer with the impeccable eye will also perform my root canal.

Scared and fretful yesterday, I memorized part of an old prayer. It’s still with me now, as I leaf through a glossy magazine, where posh Londoners show off their new home. One bathroom features a pschedelic paisley-on-steroids toilet. As you’ll know from previous posts, I’m acutely attuned to plumbing. I show Dreamer, then the receptionist, and we all laugh.

I turn the page. “Oh look. They also installed a personal pole dance room.”

More laughter.

Comic relief helps. A friend died under general anesthesia, a freak allergic reaction. I try to imagine her larking about heaven.

When the Anesthetist arrives, he’s witty, direct, and unhurried. A man I can trust. I tell him about my friend.

“I’ll watch over you,” he says.

Down comes the mask:

claustrophobia
soupy air
aroma of magic markers

“Hold my hand,” he says. “Squeeze as hard as you want.”

I summon the prayer, but it fragments: From this little room and this short hour . . .

“You’re doing great, Laurie.”

. . . I can lift up my mind beyond all time and space . . .

“You haven’t squeezed once.”

. . . unto Thee, the uncreated One . . .

“Just float.”

The mind shrugs. A bodily sigh. All is serene, surreal. Hypnotic. I’m a kite, riding a chemical thermal.

. . . until the light of Thy countenance illumines all my life.

Beneath the crown and dentin my diseased molar holds four canals, each one different. For over two hours Dr. T. wields drill and file. He rasps and reshapes, routing out wider routes, clear to the roots.

Then the bleaching. The final sealing. Like every painstaking work of God: artful, thorough, radically cleansing.

Another severe mercy.

I awake in a different room, brimming with light, still feeling held; tooth saved, the deep work done.

From this little room
and this short hour
I can lift up my mind
beyond all time and space
to Thee, the uncreated One,
until the light of Thy countenance
illumines all my life.

—John Baillie

Tell me your favorite thought or prayer for difficult times.

Photo by Daniel Frank on Unsplash

Coming out of the Rain . . . Ready or Not

by Laurie Klein 20 Chiming In

The phone jangles us awake. Wrenched from the warm crease of sleep, Dreamer and I wedge our feet into shoes. The painters we hired want to pressure-wash both our decks — our charming but overly-furnished decks — this morning. Five days ahead of schedule. And they’re already en route.

We scramble around the smaller deck like Keystone Kops in rumpled pajamas. Rain pelts everything. Lawn chairs, lanterns, bee traps, plants — we jettison décor as fast as we can.

Why would anyone pressure-wash decks in the rain?

The arriving crew frowns over our second deck, half-smothered in vegetation. Like the carnivorous vine in Little Shop of Horrors, my “Feed-me-Seymour” Virginia Creeper must go.

They rev their machine. I rip branches from railings. Dreamer hacks stems thick as thumbs.

Drizzle, of course, morphs to downpour. Did I mention I’m wearing white pajamas?

*****

Here I am days later, winding myself up again trying to get the story down. It’s exhilarating to write, having survived months of illness, brain fog, daily rice, bananas, and gallons of broth. It’s nerve-wracking, too.

What if my writing chops slid down the drain with, ahem, everything else?

Nervous hunger erupts. I pace. Edit. Tear into a bag of chips. Oh, the salty zing of vinegar, the glorious crunch, the greasy addicting coconut oil . . .

I eat all the chips.

What happened to my oh-so-serene resolve to avoid binges fueled by insecurity? I planned to take recovery slowly. Simply. Beatifically.

I stash the empty package beneath discarded carrot peels. So much for my strict recovery diet. Willpower proves flimsy as paper, and I wince at my inward crumple of shame.

*****

Meanwhile, back on the deck: Where’s the machete when you need it? We de-jungle railings, toss the slash to the ground. Our growing heap of greenery feels like an accusation.

I’m entangled in more than deck cleanup.

I want a do-over.

The crew unplugs their equipment. They coil their hoses, then drive away.

We gaze at the decks. Pressure-washing scours away every peeling fold of paint; it also exposes small stubborn islands of rot. Beneath the sheen of rain, the old wood gleams. Patient sunlight presses through layer after layer of parting clouds . . .

What have you crumpled and stashed beneath the carrot peels?

“I want to unfold. I don’t want
to stay folded anywhere, because
where I am folded, there I am a lie.”

—Rilke

Photo by Sandeep Swarnkar on Unsplash