Blog - Laurie Klein, Scribe

Under the Primer

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:

Runaway

by Laurie Klein 26 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 21 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