Immersions Archives - Laurie Klein, Scribe

Ambushed

“You look hungry,” the deli guy says, with a knowing grin.

He means well . . . I think.

“Not really,” I say (a tad stiffly: I want a salmon fillet, not a conversation.)

With his dark shock of hair and wonky paper hat, he is a stooping, nameless, genial giant. His long fingers flex inside flimsy cellophane gloves.

“How was your Thanksgiving?” he asks, slashing, then triple-wrapping the meat.

And then a shrug when I ask about his.

“Just me.”

So stoic: an answer seemingly sheathed in steel.

“Ohh, I’m sorry. No family locally?” Now who’s being intrusive?

Apparently . . . not only is he living in the States—solo . . . older siblings remain, in Israel. He waggles his plastic gloves: “Ten of us. Ten! What a total waste.”

I tilt my head, lean closer.

He consults his scale, slap-dashes a price tag across the bagged flesh. “I’ll never go back. Never be part of that. My brothers? Every last one of them in the Army. All dead,” he says. “And for what?”

Speechless, I press against the display case, hands on the countertop. As if getting closer might somehow help—my exposed mother-heart, almost audible.

“. . . and for me you turned language / into a landslide of glass houses.”

Poet Pablo Neruda wrote that line.

I have no words for this young man handing me sustenance. No gift to impart save welling eyes, a body poised to somehow absorb a shard of his pain.

But now he’s the stiff one, guarding himself. And the spotless counter shines, dividing us.

Whatever I believe about Gaza, Netanyahu, Palestine—the all-too-human or hopelessly heinous, the supposedly holy—I question my lack of action. Would it have eased that young man had I shared a few verses from Israel’s ancient Hebrew prophet, Micah? Probably not.

I glimpsed a hurt lad through his adult armor, knew myself hapless, helpless. Ambushed by a grief too vast to imagine.

Real people. Real pain, stark and divisive and centuries old.

“But you, Bethlehem, David’s country . . .
From you will come the leader
who will shepherd-rule Israel.
Meanwhile, Israel will be in foster homes
until the birth pangs are over and the child is born,
And the scattered brothers come back
home, home to the family . . .” (Micah 5:2-4, The Message)

Friends, perhaps you and I can remember this young survivor—and others we know with terrible stories—remember them together although we are far apart, and pray the rest of the passage:

“[Messiah] will stand tall in his shepherd-rule by God’s strength,
centered in the majesty of God-revealed.
And the people will have a good and safe home . . .

“For the day is coming when there will be no more war” (Micah 5:10).

Friends, how are you investing in Peace on Earth?

Speaking of ambushed: eight medical appointments for us this month! Dreamer will soon be wearing a heart monitor as well as a Santa hat. We didn’t see that coming. Our health safari continues . . .

Dear, dear readers, thank you for your prayers. Your wisdom and compassion continue to strengthen our faith.

May the Prince of Peace renew and defend you.
May mercies as well as mirth surround you.
Whatever you face, may hope enfold you.

Recent sighting: “Leave things merrier than you found them.”

[cropped] Photo by Oxana Kolodina on Unsplash

Strip. Trash. Sever. Yank.

by Laurie Klein 25 Chiming In

“Looks like a forest in here,” our grandson says, peering through the fronds of a fern. We’re in our “new” (old) living room.

Wait. Let me rewind. Months ago, we discovered rampant household mold. Dreamer’s health was at stake, so we scheduled remediation.

In the process, we also discarded many cherished possessions.

Rugs, favorite chairs, couch — but Great-grandma’s Victorian-Era, Eastlake loveseat?

Most fabrics can be cleaned, but microscopic mold spores can penetrate and colonize foam inserts, eiderdown, and woolly batting. Decades ago, we rescued our elegant heirloom with its masterfully tied coil springs (increasingly rare these days) from my grandma’s garage. Perhaps even then it harbored mycotoxins.

Constructed with rigid, strictly perpendicular seating, why gut, then reupholster, the chronically uncomfortable?

It had to go.

But a dumpster? I couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

A quirky idea beckoned.

Picture an aging heiress
in her garage, poised
to dismantle what is,
these days, a dying art . . .

Strange, how a project can mirror life

Strip ornamental trim (all non-essentials must go).
Peel away fabric, then muslin lining (aiii, this feels personal).
Trash the batting (i.e., forfeit risky comfort).

Kneel (does it always come down to this?).

Pry off tacks and burlap webbing (bandage hands, as needed).
Sever twine network, seemingly miles of it (to the novice, a baffling cat’s cradle).
Pause. Sit back on heels . . . and marvel (who goes to such trouble these days?). Three long ingeniously knotted lengths of jute, one per row, somehow compress the tensile force of 18 vintage, coil springs. Exactly spaced knots create a shallow dome shape — in the trade, known as “crown-tied.”

Utter deconstruction — can it nudge us nearer the kingdom?

Yank springs and outer rail (goodbye, tension; farewell, anchoring core support).
Upend frame (maybe upside-down is the new normal).
Cut away delicate, black-cambric dust cover (everything now exposed).

A dying art, achingly personal

How fatalistic I sometimes feel about “dying to self.” Resignation. A shrug. Other times, fear weaves an inner knotwork akin to our loveseat innards.

Oh, how the dearly-familiar shape and angle of life can be skewed by a loved one’s illness, or scary symptoms yet-to-be-diagnosed!

“Rule out one thing at a time,” the specialists say.

Well then, go after each broken, embedded tack (roughly 20 gazillion).
Ponder tack strips: scratched, splintered, nail-scarred (oh dear . . .).
Beautify the salvaged (to deter slivers, adhere new braid, gently mitering corners).

The art of dying: “He knows our frame . . .”

WHEN READY, fill emptiness with the living. Literally.

I position the loveseat frame in front of the window, cram the opening with flowers, house plants, and summer coleus prepped for winter. Yes, it looks like a forest in here. And perhaps, a legacy. The unusable, now reconfigured, thrives, lit by four glass dragonflies adorning the lamp I place in the center.

“A sense of gracefulness shimmers,” artist/author Jan Richardson writes in support of reclaiming the dignity of domestic tasks.

She also quotes author Esther de Waal saluting an imagined, Celtic-era housekeeper:

“She has made the mundane the edge of glory.”

Friends, are you in the process of dismantling? How might you inhabit the growing edge?

P.S. DREAMERS RECENT EEG ruled out epilepsy. THANK YOU SO MUCH for your prayers and words of encouragement!

HISTORICAL NOTE: Charles Lock Eastlake’s carved walnut, cherry, and rosewood furniture eschewed over-the-top Victorian furniture design, pioneering a cleaner, “reformed style” (read more here).

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PHOTOS by Dreamer and yours truly.

Plot Twist

by Laurie Klein 30 Chiming In

Plot twist.

IT BEGINS LAST FRIDAY.

My husband and I spend hours in ER — again — this time, for him. Eventually, the doctor diagnoses Dreamer with a TIA, or mini-stroke. The man speaks kindly and clearly, with seasoned authority, knowledge, and long experience.

I remind him that he recently diagnosed me with Hydronephrosis. And that he recommended a followup ultrasound.

He grins, as if That’s why you look familiar.

“You’re a gift to our family,” I say. “God-given.”

He grins all the more. I glimpse him as a boy dreaming of one day healing the sick.

Then he’s a pro again, referring Dreamer to the stroke clinic, mentioning additional tests might reveal something else.

It’s as if authority reconnects to joy — with a whisper of humility. He’s saying he might be wrong.

ON TUESDAY the stroke doctor poses new questions, orders more tests. She suspects Dreamer endured a seizure rather than a stroke. She wants to investigate possible epilepsy.

And Parkinson’s.

Whoa. Didn’t see that coming.

LATER, THE SAME DAY, a jolt of good news: my ultrasound results come back clean: no kidney blockage. (Thank you, friends, for your prayers!)

I also chance to read Eugene Peterson’s introduction to Thessalonians. This line arrests me:

“[C]ontinue to live forward in taut and joyful expectancy for what God will do next in Jesus.”

Perhaps that word “taut” refers to our latest plot twist, one of those sideswiping events we humans encounter now and then, stress plus relentless, wrenching s-t-r-e-t-c-h.

So, how to rise above circumstances? Sustain “joyful expectancy”?

In Luke 10, The Message quotes Jesus as saying, “The great triumph is not in your authority over evil, but in God’s authority over you and presence with you. Not what you do for God but what God does for you — that’s the agenda for rejoicing.”

Author Brian Doyle jokes he never understood the word “humble” until his wife married him.

Then … they had three children.

“Of course, you do your absolute best,” he writes, “to reach out tenderly to touch and elevate as many people as you can reach.

“But you cannot control anything.

“All you can do is face the world with quiet grace and hope you make a sliver of difference.”

Doyle goes on to say humility is not about groveling or timid, milquetoast resignation or indifference.

“It’s more a calm recognition that you must trust in that which does not make sense … by the measure of most of our culture.

“You must trust that … trying to be an honest and tender parent will echo for centuries through your tribe.

“That being an attentive and generous friend and citizen will prevent a thread or two of the social fabric from unraveling.”

The author then quotes his brother who memorably quipped, “Humility, the final frontier.”

Doyle suggests that we either “walk toward love or away from it with every breath we draw,” and describes himself “… trying to leave shreds and shards of ego along the road like wisps of litter and chaff.”

Here’s an abridged, interactive prayer you might like. First published in 1936, it was written by John Baillie, a Scottish theologian entrusted with numerous positions of authority, and a believer whose prayers breathe out humility and joy.

“Lord, let my first thought each day be of Thee,
let my first impulse be to worship Thee,
let my first speech be Thy name,
my first action, prayer.

For Thy perfect wisdom and goodness:
I praise and worship Thee, Lord.
For Thy love for all:
I praise and worship Thee, Lord.
For Thy love for me, and for the indwelling of Thy Spirit:
I praise and worship Thee, Lord.
For the great and mysterious opportunity of my life:
I praise and worship Thee, Lord.

Let me not, when this prayer is said, think my worship ended and spend the day in forgetfulness. Rather from these moments of quietness let light go forth, and joy, and power, that will remain with me through all the hours of the day.

Keeping me mindful … and truthful:
Faithful … and grateful …
Humble and generous …
Amen and amen.”

Authority, humility, joy. Oh, I have so much to learn!

The last word, of course, always belongs to God:

“This is the one to whom I will look. The one who is humble and contrite in spirit and trembles at my word” (Isaiah 66:2).

Are you moving toward love these days, or away from it?

P.S. For all who prayed: our unending thanks. We are able to live in our home again!
For all who wish to pray: For a diagnosis and for our health, hope, and stamina.

Brian Doyle, One Long River of Song

John Baillie, A Diary of Private Prayer
(prayer abridged and adapted by yours truly for this post)

Catch up on our story here:
When you read this . . .
Resilience, under Siege

Photo by Andrea De Santis on Unsplash

Resilience, under Siege

by Laurie Klein 33 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