Immersions Archives - Laurie Klein, Scribe

Anchor

Anchor, 1962: AHOY, Maiden Voyage!

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.

I can’t be trusted.
I’m a failed adult.
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.

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:

Terroir

by Laurie Klein 11 Chiming In

Pedal 60+ miles over two days with a wine pro, touring vineyards?

Sun-drenched countryside
Tastings & lively lectures
Charming B&B, gourmet al fresco meals
First Aid support vehicle

Dreamer and I were younger then. I anticipated riding among laid-back retired folk in track suits. No need to splurge on Spandex, summer cotton would do.

We would, however, need mental grit—plus stamina for narrow, hilly roads. And triple-digits weather.

Mostly clueless about wine, might we awaken sleeper palates? How marvelous to return home savvier, sleeker, tanner, toting an elite vino for future celebrations.

Press Play: Opening Video Shot

Down-home Dreamer & Laurie meet The Athletes—chummy, bon vivant couples in Lycra: spin-cycle thighs, calves like rocks, state-of-the-art gear.

And perfect palates.

After downing glass after glass at each winery, they stacked the support van with crates of their favorites.

Even half-lit, they outrode us. Despite cracked pavement oozing tar in the heat, no one wobbled or overshot a curve. On and on they pedaled, lithe and laughing.

Lagging, we reached the last stop. No samples for us. We collapsed, spreadeagled, limp and panting.

Oh, how that shaded patch of grass cradled, cooled, and renewed us. A fleeting breath of Eden?

As for dinner, at dusk: sublime. Over dessert the wine guy explained terroir, the French word for natural regional assets as well as growth practices, the combination producing unique flavor, full-bodied character.

“Topography, climate, water and light, specific rootstock—all contribute,” he said. “Voila! One-of-a-kind taste encounters.”

Pause, to rewind

Pop a metaphorical cork with me and picture ancient Cana. Let the scene breathe . . .

Sunlit village wedding, a seven-day feast
Merrymakers in linen, multiple toasts
Backstage panic: “Not enough wine!”
Support intervention (surprise guest healer)

Jesus turned local water into an exceptional vintage. Perhaps, thereafter, attendees would compare every future sip to what they savored that day, in his presence, in that singular place.

Did the miracle enhance Cana’s terroir?

In my imagination, the community’s age-old exhilaration feels palpable.

I mentally replay our trip: the last vineyard’s lawn, a magic carpet, late afternoon sunlight shunting through vines. God soothing us amid waving grass. Granting us rest.

Fast-forward

These days, despite Dreamer’s health, we’ll stay put long as we can. Our home and surroundings sing back to us our unfolding story.

We’re also sinking new roots into soulful, life-giving practices to refresh brain and body.

Friends, some of you are re-grounding. Amid seismic shocks in a world madly cycling to keep pace, you’re reassessing how you want to live.

Perhaps, like the servants of Cana, doubts creep in: will there be enough to see you through?

Are you drinking in April light? Amid current shadows, are there effervescent moments that bubble up? Could watching for a surprise wellspring be one way we cultivate terroir of spirit?

***Hitting* *pause***

Alcohol’s taboo for us now, but past rituals echo:

Corks, released,
a prayer, then the pour,
the swirl and rising bouquet . . .

Still, when troubles grieve or rile or haunt us, terroir looks like a typo for terror.

Good thing the wonder-worker of Cana still regales his friends, slaking thirst. He still nurtures stamina and a sense of humor. “[T]hanks be to God,” the apostle Paul wrote, “who in Christ always leads us … and through us spreads the fragrance of the knowledge of him.”

Honest, artisanal joys and one-of-a-kind encounters await. Embrace them.

Author Joyce Rupp puts it this way: “Open, open, open us to the journey of love that is ours.”

Adonai-Shalom, Lord of Peace,
meet us on the ground you entrust to our care.
Make of every woe, a gate,
open to deeper wholeness at work.

Here’s a little song about becoming rich terrain for the Sower. (Recorded with Dreamer years ago)

Photo by Maja Petric on Unsplash

More about shalom, from the archives

Memo from the Wild

by Laurie Klein 16 Chiming In

Memo from heaven? I wonder, can I muster what it takes to crack the code?

Two days ago, a mama sparrow alit on our window box—mere inches from where I journal and read the Word. She twig-footed her way over leftover holiday greenery and branches festooned with cotton bolls. Pausing, head cocked, she looked . . . thoughtful. Then wily.

Squaring her stance, she rapidly beaked up four or five mouthfuls of fluff. Then made a getaway.

Fortuitous comic relief?

Yesterday a chickadee zoomed in. Same drill. Another backlit, feathered visionary with a snowy Afro.

Here’s to spring, I thought, and resourceful females, part bird, part cloud.

Today, three scavenger-bandits flap in to pillage the cotton. Are these small acts of nest-worthy curation? Or a message?

First thought: update window box. It is almost Easter. (Plus, I paid more than I wanted to for those faux cotton bolls.)

On second thought: How pressing and universal the instinct to cushion, soothe, and provide for those under our care. A memory bubbles up: my tender, clever mother braiding my hair to close a small cut on my scalp—a wee blond nest of healing protection taking shape beneath her fingertips.

And just like that, I feel part of something deeper, more maternal, ancient.

A part-time caregiver now, I’m on the lookout for resources, wisdom, new ways to renew patience. How best to savor life alongside Dreamer, my beloved . . . without diminishing his dignity and independence?

These days he is deeply, heart-breakingly sad. My usual energies falter before his grief. It seems I comfort him best by sharing the strength God imparts to me, letting it overflow. In other words, keep the inmost well topped up. Then pass it on.

Healing is a moving target.

And aren’t we all keeping closer watch on dear ones these tumultuous days? Like spring birds, we prioritize nurture for those we love.

Long ago, when I was a nervy, forewarned-is-forearmed kid enduring sweltering days at school, I monitored hornets circling overhead. Every room had at least one. To dodge a sting I had to be ready!

Memo to current self: hypervigilance still skews focus, and it triggers twitchy exhaustion. To this day I tense when hearing a menacing buzz.

Because the sting comes, again and again. In many forms. No matter how fiercely we keep watch.

And God promises to keep vigil with us. No matter how long the process.

Where to turn? Like my window box needing a seasonal update, I’m scrabbling some, seeking fresh ways to lean into proven truth. Perhaps an update can encompass learning and relearning. To that end, I’ve personalized the Ten Commandments, creating a prayer to hopefully re-energize a heart for service.

Linger a little after reading the prayer? Click the sound file to hear Dreamer voicing his marvelous song “All My Days.”

But first, I give you the Ten Commandments as prayer:

You alone are Lord of earth, Master of heaven.
May I ever hallow your Name, your Word, and your presence.
Help me rest in your perfect grace.
Thank you for parents who did what was in their power to do,
who loved and led me the best they could.
Help me inhabit this day in healing ways . . . lest I cause harm.
Keep me loyal in love, patient in mercy, rich in wisdom, abounding in Light.
Keep me from slander, deception, and envy.
Nurturing God, suffuse me with faith and truth.
I am yours, now and always. Amen.

“. . . I will always have hope;
I will praise you more and more” (Psalm 71:14).

Friends, I wonder what’s cropping up in your prayers these days . . .

P.S. As to the insouciant moose that recently pruned our budding crab apple tree? And last week’s visiting owl commandeering the big stump outback? Head swiveling, she hunkered and glared: a fellow being on high alert. Hmmm. Perhaps, another memo to parse . . .

Photo by Sies Kranen on Unsplash

Table 23

by Laurie Klein 14 Chiming In

Table 23 beckons . . .

“It’s a strange thing,” author Kate Bowler says, “to carry so much grief and . . . still make dinner.”

I slump over the kitchen counter, blindsided by clickbait headlines devised by others to stoke fear. They radiate hatred. Manipulation. I feel compassion unraveling.

How dare they?

Straightening, I redirect my emotions. Picture a curvy, seemingly armored, butternut squash. Armed with a knife that could be sharper, I decapitate, peel, halve, and scrape away stringy snarls of seeds and slime. A fitting soundtrack for processing hype-gripe-&-spin. Why merely vent when I can outargue, outmaneuver, the resistance?

Kitchen morphs to courtroom. Did I mention I am a lawyer’s daughter? A daughter of heaven, too.

And God eternally, thoroughly, absolutely treasures each person who disagrees with me. ***Love your enemies,* the Prince of Peace says. *Let them bring out the best in you.***

I rest my knife. Unevenly peeled and ker-chunked, the hapless vegetable before me awaits judicious seasoning. Messy, yet it brims with sustenance and care. Someone raised it, watered, and witnessed its rooted goodness.

So, what am I wrongly assuming from sensationalized public accusations and skewered truth?

I have blind spots. Biases. In other words, dirty dishes to bus, another surface to disinfect. Someone, please text me “6 Tips for Granting a Fair Hearing.”

Meanwhile, I tip squash into an oiled pan. Add quartered red onion, walnuts, fresh parsley, a glug of EVOO, a sploosh of pure maple syrup. Sprinkle feta like manna. Ingredients this good are bound to turn out alright. Right?

Earlier today a friend shared her take on King David’s twenty-third psalm—specifically, the metaphorical table God prepares for us in the presence of our enemies.

A personal Table 23.

“Morning by morning,” she says, “I get to ask, ‘Who will I be serving today? Can I facilitate goodwill? Celebrate common ground? Ease hunger or soothe a festering grievance?’”

She trusts God will inspire her with timely questions and observations meant to unlock a guest’s truest self, so that when they break bread together—be it supper, coffee and conversation—even confrontation—something honest and generous changes hands.

This rings true.

Time to set the timer.

Long ago, on the uphill road to Jerusalem (where Jesus would face a host of enemies ranged against him), he dropped in on two sisters. Perhaps he was pale, drawn, in need of a meal. Perhaps he hungered for someone to hear his troubled thoughts.

Look closer . . .

Martha cooks for him . . . dutifully takes on the work.
Mary sits by him . . . beautifully takes in the Word.

Mary embodies a loving gaze, a listening heart. And Martha, ever at her ancient counter, shows me myself—wanting to help but caught by inner arguments roiling, resentment building: fairness, on trial.

Gently chided for angst over Mary’s choice, did Martha mutter into her napkin? I hope she smiled, sheepish and loving, then passed the salt.

Afterward, perhaps they all felt heard and seen, deeply loved, doubly filled.

I survey my butchered squash, recall the day’s shock-wave news and toxic fallout, how people sometimes carry death on their tongues. Friends, too. Even family. I’ve mentally grilled a few of them today in my kitchen courtroom. Asked by God, would I feed them tonight? Or might my heroic preparations outweigh the worth of my guest?

Whatever they might feel compelled to say, may I also listen for what they secretly ache to hear. Then say it true.

Kate Bowler also says, “. . . you show quiet courage in continuing to care when cynicism would be easier.”

And then, there’s this prayer, from poet Gunilla Norris:

“You are the hidden joy which feeds
and keeps everything.
You are the table,
the guest, the meal . . .”

Go on. Slide that tender, truculent squash into the oven. Don’t be afraid. It can take the heat.

Friends, if you were to describe your Table 23, what would it look like?

Teakettle Photo by Suraj Suryawanshi on Unsplash

“23” Photo by Portia Weiss on Unsplash

You might also enjoy this post, from the archives: Table Talk

Tangle, Crane

by Laurie Klein 17 Chiming In

What a TANGLE! One night a cold wind rattled our trellis, blew down the abandoned bird’s nest. When I picked it up, twigs snapped, a little dried grass drifted over my shoe.

Picture the inner cup of dried mud, smoothed by a bird’s downy breast. A mother’s instinctive care creates sanctuary.

“Blessed are those who dwell in your house,” Psalm 84 says. “Even the sparrow has found a home, and the swallow a nest for herself . . . a place near your altar.”

Lucky birds.

I, however, ache to feel God’s nearness. NOT this scruffy nest, with its hairline crack. Somehow still holding together, fragile, earthen, it seems a brittle, metaphorical portrait—exposing what?

Do I want to know?

Ah. No wonder the deserted, once-lively nest pains me. Not that long ago we emptied our home for thorough mold remediation. I shelve the nest in the garage, power down the big door.

Displaced, disheartened, shaken—oh, how I miss the familiar.

Then along comes my turn to lead devotions for a women’s group. What to share? The battered nest comes to mind. Perhaps I could hand the participants small pieces of paper, invite them to write down what’s making their hearts ache.

I hatch a few plans. But I keep forgetting to bring the nest indoors.

When the day finally arrives, I tuck the loving, avian tangle into a clear container. Some of the women eye it curiously when I arrive. I pass out blue sticky notes and ask everyone to write down one of their woes.

“Now, crumple or roll your paper into an egg,” I say. “We’ll tuck each one into the nest. Then let’s pray over the needs represented, holding in mind an egg’s potential for life.”

I’m hoping for reverent stillness. Startled, the woman beside me exclaims, “A leaf!”

Bright green, small as the head of a straight pin, the leaf was not there earlier. Now, amid salvaged fibers of dead vegetation, a spindly, translucent stem, one tender green sprig.

I swallow back tears, feeling seen, loved, and re-heartened, by the Creator.

The God who loves to surprise us meets us wherever we are.

“. . . from the dry and deserted . . . a freshness multiplied by love?” Poet Pablo Neruda once asked.

Silently, the women pass the nest, each adding their paper egg.

Afterward, I notice a blue, intricately folded shape. The size of a thumbnail, it perches on the rim. Someone with nimble fingers made an origami crane, Japanese symbol of peace, longevity, and healing hope.

And that tiny sprig we saw? Gone.

Today, I keep the nest near my desk: a reminder to watch for surprises. Might another seed nestle within?

Small things hold immense power: an atom, a cell, a seed, a spore. A word in due season.

Amid the clamor and chaos rocking the globe, where will the next sprig of hope emerge?

At our house, recent test results show Dreamer’s insides are a toxic tangle of infinitesimal mold spores—five types. Truly daunting, hopefully, fixable. Detox could take a year, or longer.

How do we live without becoming chronically bitter or fearful, hopeless or numb?

We keep watch for the next green sprig . . .

. . . we remind ourselves to show up for each other throughout the day, however imperfectly.

We remember the body is a temple for God’s loving presence, ever-at-work within.

Friends, how do you welcome the hidden? Is something unlikely already stirring within you?

“Everything becomes a lesson in living,
growth
through hardship and sweetness
… divine hands shape.”

—Pablo Neruda

P.S. The above story occurred a few months ago, but Dreamer’s diagnosis is new. The little sprig is still teaching me . . .

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Quotes, in order of appearance: “Alstromeria” and “Ode to Angèl Cruchaga,” by Pablo Neruda, All the odes

You might enjoy this from the archive: How hope answers

empty nest Photo by Annie Lang on Unsplash