Immersions Archives - Laurie Klein, Scribe

Grit, Stardust, Healing Rigor

Grit? Hardly. I awake, dismayed. Another day cranks into gear with exercises from my physical therapist, designed to get this body up and running. Dogged compliance? Vital. I agreed, months ago, to his regimen: healing rigor.

If I want to jog again — and I do — I gotta.

Today? Don’t wanna.

Last January a common runner’s injury waylaid me — a stress fracture, undiagnosed for three months, exacerbated by new bone spurs and acute arthritis.

“Don’t fall,” my doctor said, after reviewing my latest bone scan.

“Wear this boot,” the specialist said, after reviewing my MRI.

Oh, these bodies, part stardust, part grit, mostly water: vibrant one moment, frail the next.

Once the bone re-knit, I worked hard to regain strength, endurance, and range of motion.

Then . . . a sprain. More time out. More P.T.

As of now, my ongoing nemesis? The one-legged bridge:

Lie on back
Bend one knee
Raise body 15 times (twice daily)

Ooof. Floor joists creak beneath me, their weakening structure only perceived when called upon to bear weight. Kinda like me.

Resolutely, I muscle up — 1, 2, 3 — pant — 9, 10 — then muster that last vertical heave . . . 15!

Progress?

Zip. It doesn’t get easier. How can this be? I’ve been so faithful!

My favorite C. S. Lewis poem — with a bridge in it — comes to mind: “As the Ruin Falls.”

Peace, re-assurance, pleasure, are the goals I seek . . .

Oh yeah. This girl wants what she wants.

Only that now you have taught me (but how late) my lack.
I see the chasm. And everything you are was making
My heart into a bridge by which I might get back
From exile . . .

I feel the nudge. Exiled from running late in life, this ole heart feels aerobic as well as emotional loss.

. . . And now the bridge is breaking.

Lewis is writing about his conversion. Human grit, intellect, and resolve proving insufficient, his broken heart gives way to God.

A secondary, physical application startles me as I consider Paul’s charge to believers: “Work out your salvation with fear and trembling.”

Work. Out.

God sure has a sense of humor.

The name Jehovah-Jireh, “The Lord will provide,” appears in my reading for the day. I picture a mighty hand upholding me — despite my dubious one-legged bridge . . .

For this I bless you as the ruin falls. The pains
You give me are more precious than all other gains.

Amen.

Friends, what helps you say yes to routine demands—those things you dodge despite know they’re good for you?

https://allpoetry.com/As-the-Ruin-Falls

Hear Phil Keaggy’s musical setting and performance of “As the Ruin Falls” here.

Photo by Aleksandr Barsukov on Unsplash

My Christmas in Asia

by Laurie Klein 16 Chiming In

Christmas is coming . . . amid epic humidity. Über-hot spices. Unusual plumbing.

Dreamer and I feel like aliens in this small Thai village. They call us farangs: big noses, ghosts, white people. It’s December 2000, and we’re here with a short-term mission team. There’s so much to unlearn!

Culture shock flattens me. Think fallen arches of the soul.

Plus . . . deadly fire ants. Spiders big as hands. And roadside cobras.

I spent my entire 50th birthday getting here, crossing the international date line where time hiccoughs, then replays itself.

“Good thing we’re headed east,” Dreamer said. “Or you’d be 100.”

Friends, GodSpaceLight published this true story of mine last year. Pour yourself a tea or coffee and join me?

Today, wandering the winding, red-dirt village lanes, my feet feel a century old. Everyone else wears flip flops or sandals. Am I the only one wearing socks? Chronic nerve pain afflicts one foot, so I wear tennis shoes for support and micro crews for cushioning warmth. No shoes are allowed indoors, and red dust stains my socks — despite nightly scrubs in the tiny sink.

We’re here to assist the resident missionary. I secretly call her the Advocate. She mediates questions, cultural quagmires, and occasional quarrels, so she’s often unavailable to translate for us.

We all hone our pantomime skills.

Party

An all-day Christmas celebration to honor Jesus — that’s what the Advocate envisions. We have three weeks to prepare. And no budget.

In addition to Western games and prizes and goodies, our event will include an evening performance. For Buddhists. Who don’t speak English.

Will I please oversee the whole shebang, she asks.

I’d rather clear rocks from her field for the games. Then I think of the Virgin Mary’s willingness to shoulder what seemed overwhelming.

“Yes,” I say. Reluctantly.

The Advocate also asks me to mentor an Earnest Young Convert (I’ll call him Eyc). He doesn’t speak much English, but she tells me he wants an open mic session, ceremonial dances, and a children’s sign language choir complete with white gloves and spotlight. He’ll also write a play.

Days go by. Eyc declines to discuss the script with me. Or anything else.

I should not take this personally. But I am (supposedly) in charge. Stateside, I have directed numerous performances. Here, amid impossible circumstances, I feel painfully responsible for the event’s outcome.

But Eyc, independent and buzzing with ideas, keeps dodging me. I probably seem 100 years old to him.

One day, he makes an effort to connect. Or is it a dare? He hands me a stick crowned with a steaming knob of meat. Mmm-Mmm, barbecued rat.

I tell myself it tastes like chicken. Might he trust me now?

I begin to understand the three Wise Men braving foreign cuisine, day after day. Did they endure heartburn? Anxiety? Nausea?

Lord, show me the way forward here. And help me tread gently.

Into the jungle

Mary endured the donkey’s lurching gait. Despite increasing discomfort, she sallied forth.

Today, map-less, I roam the jungle. I’ve been sent to ask a stranger to make traditional costumes for the mystery play. If only I had a translator. How dare I impose? It feels like white entitlement. I dread being misunderstood, resented, judged. The errand gnaws at my pride.

But I keep walking. I’m toting yards of colorful cloth. Once I find the seamstress, I’ll resort to charades. But how does one act out, “Please, you don’t know me but will you make traditional costumes, for free, so that children you don’t know can dramatize a Western story you probably don’t want to hear?”

The wind kicks up. All the palm trees look the same. If I get lost, who will point me back to the village?

I think of Joseph trudging mile after mile among strangers.

Breathe, I tell myself. Pray. And watch for snakes.

The clearing . . .

At last! I find the seamstress. I smile and act out my errand — several times.

She studies the fabric. Then me. A level, assessing gaze, which feels weightier every second. But she nods. I give her all the colors I’m holding. I wish I could pay her.

As if sensing my discomfort she smiles, and it’s dazzling as well as contagious. God has preceded me here, preparing each of us for this exchange. I tent my hands, in grateful respect. She returns the gesture.

Then she points out another red dirt path. I hope it’s a shortcut.

The show must go on

Daily, Eyc rehearses his program. Nightly, I wash his youth choir’s white gloves. Ah, the irony. Leader demoted to laundress: socks and gloves, socks and gloves.

My ego rankles. Chagrined, I ask Dreamer and my friends for prayer.

“We love you,” they say.

“All is grace,” the Advocate adds. “Nothing to earn. Nothing to prove.”

I try to absorb this. Jesus, the ultimate leader, served God by serving others, with love, no matter what. Born in obscurity, he not only survived, he flourished — despite the struggling economy, local politics, and limited resources. Much like this village.

I begin to understand Nazareth.

“Aha!”

I feel less forsaken, but still displaced until . . . an idea arrives. Eyc prefers working on his Christmas play with the Advocate. Fine. I’ll create a life-size creche.

I scavenge scrap lumber for a stable. A teammate builds walls and roof line, guy-wires them to the Advocate’s house.

I raid her Lost and Found. A pillowcase crammed with straw and mounted atop upended bricks makes a fine swine. “Marry a man who owns a pig,” the village grandmothers advise.

Orphaned tube socks become winsome doves, with stray-button eyes.

If I can find black gloves, I’ll stuff them with sand, whisker them with dental floss: voila, two worshipful rats.

My creche will be amazing. Culturally relevant. Or I’ll eat my socks.

I LOVE repurposing castoffs. Surrounded by palm fronds, stick-figures with coconut heads stand in for the holy family. They wear traditional Thai costumes, sewn by the woman I met in the clearing.

Finally, something I can control!

Curious, bedazzled, the village kids handle everything. In their delight, they topple my birds and beasts and figures. Best to zip-tie and guy-wire all of them to the stable. The props, not the children.

Christmas Showtime

Party food and games enliven the day. At dusk, our makeshift stage glows beneath a rented light tree. Open mic begins. The temperature drops. A shivering kid lights a nest of gathered twigs — too close to the crowd. Pals bring armloads of straw; the blaze ignites. What are they thinking? I corral two youngsters, steer them toward safety.

More little arsonists take their place.

Why don’t my teammates intervene? Smoke billows. Flames crackle and leap.

Meanwhile, the gloved sign language choir captivates the crowd. Rapt, they applaud, oblivious to encroaching fire . . .

Luckily, nobody’s hair or clothing goes up in flames. No one suffers burns. The brief inferno peters out when the rascally kids abandon it, to watch Eyc’s play.

And what an opening act! Child actors stagger, feigning drug highs and drunkenness. A sham fight ensues. Good Lord. Is that a hooker, crooking her finger, stage left?

I can’t watch. I escape to the Advocate’s kitchen, toe off my shoes, then stand at the sink in my wretched socks, washing dishes. A teammate enters, her face troubled.

“I think you should know the kids are dismantling —”

Oh no. The creche? My creche? I fling my dishtowel and hurry outside.

They’re tossing my cherished sock doves back and forth. Fighting over the holy family’s attire.

Turns out my teammate cut the guy wires for them.

I have no words. Choked by hurt and fury, I turn away.

An hour later, only a few guests remain. As our team debriefs, a Thai woman seeks out the Advocate. The villager wants the farangs to come to her house and explain Christmas to her husband.

We are amazed. The sole car in the village, the Advocate’s station wagon, can hold nine people.

“Who wants to come?” she asks.

I just want to go home. Instead, I’m stranded among jubilant friends, unable to shag a ride to the place I sleep. Call me the prodigal’s elder brother, but I want no part in the Christmas celebration.

Nor do I want to examine why.

Christmas Eve, an hour later

The team returns, all talking at once. When they’d arrived at the woman’s home, villagers crammed her front room, curious about Jesus. Eyc’s play must have presented the gospel, after all. The Advocate retold the Christmas story and led them in prayer.

Each person there had pledged to follow Jesus.

Luminous now, my teammates turn to me. Isn’t it awesome? How do I feel, they want to know.

Well, for starters, bewildered by news beyond my imagining. And something darker I can’t name. I nod and smile, but I’m saving face. I want out. Dreamer and I head for our nightly commute to the place we live. As if sensing my angst, he gives me space.

Creche, sounds like crush

Dreamer falls asleep smiling. I lie awake, confused. Offended. Which makes me feel guilty and even more left out. I should be ecstatic. But after weeks of feeling dismissed and mistrusted, now I’m ashamed about my fury over the ruined creche.

I groan, place the cool side of the pillow over my face. I begin to understand Herod. Jealous for my private kingdom — and wanting adulation for what I built — I have blinded myself to the reason behind it all: Christmas. God with us.

In my mind’s eye, I kneel, grasp the imagined hem of his robe, picturing traditional Thai cloth in vivid colors. And somewhere in the background, the Buddhist who’d sewn it. For free. Simply because I’d asked.

Lord, forgive me.

And something like relief flows in, leaving my soul “sore amazed.” I begin to understand the shepherds.

Then, I taste Mary’s hushed bliss.

I am 50. I could be 100. I feel newly reborn, broken open by grace. By Story. By Christmas in Asia. Tenderly. Thoroughly. What a strange and wondrous world, where we can briefly take steps in the shoes of others.

All is adventure.

All is grace.

Friends, which character in the Christmas story resonates with you this year?

Poet Mary Oliver asks:

Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

Photo by Kenny Eliason on Unsplash

You might also enjoy this Christmas post from the archives

Soul Mimosa — Photos, Music

Sustain

by Laurie Klein 27 Chiming In

Sustain

Beeline with me to the solarium: weathered brick, hardwood. An echo chamber.

One whole room for a lonesome grand piano.

And you.

(Not musical? Immaterial. Welcome to Daydream Central.)

The lid, when raised, tilts like a raven’s wing. Ivories glow. Go on, ease onto the bench. Limber your hands. Now . . .

Pick a note, any note. And depress the sustain—that rightmost pedal‚ outlined in gold.

Sustain captures the sound of each key we touch, moving the dampers away from the strings, letting them ring and ring until the final vibration recedes into silence. With each struck note all the strings sympathetically vibrate.

Sustain blends and extends sound (and time) beyond what fingers can humanly reach in a given moment.

And sustain responds to our singular touch.

George Bernard Shaw once said, “Most people go to their grave with their music inside them.”

BUT you—yes you—are already a psalm of water that shivers with light.

“Notes all, we ring, sustained, vibrating forever.
All of everything is a symphony,
and no created thing has ever heard the fullness of it.”*

Poet/theologian Paul J. Pastor wrote those words. Creating a litany of evidence in response seems fitting.

Maestro of All, I have heard You . . .

… in the riff of a robin, the bubbling anthems of quail

… in autumn wind, and the patter of leaves

… in the faithful hum as the furnace kicks on in the dark

… in the welcoming mirth of dogs

… in my granddaughter’s version of “God Bless America” . . . dad that I love; stand beside her, in a diaper . . .

… in my father’s “Well done”; my mother’s “You’re home!”; my quiet sibling’s “I forgive you”

… in the poems of Susan Cowger

… in that hollow, answering thump of a warm, yeasty loaf

… in the predawn gargle of roosters in rural Thailand

… in the holy hush of former East Germans, after sharing aloud in a group without fear of reprisal

Dear Maestro, we listen as numberless sounds blend, sustained by grace, underscoring our lives.

The litany never ends. How will you sustain it?

Friends, will you chime in with a new line?

You might also like this from the archives: Shelf Life: First Edition

Photo by Denny Müller on Unsplash

Photo by Ebuen Clemente Jr on Unsplash

*Paul J. Pastor’s book, The Face of the Deep, inspired this post. He enumerated places he has seen glimpses of God. What if we list inspiring instances of taste? Touch? Scent? Will you try your own litany?

To Gather Paradise

by Laurie Klein 28 Chiming In

Paradise emerges around us in hints and glimpses.

For half my life,
with all my heart
and mind, I have cherished
being schooled, guided,
and loved, in return, by
an incomparable mentor.

In mid-March Associate Professor Emerita of Theatre, Pat Stien, and I celebrated St. Pat’s Day with buttery scones and Irish poems. In her ninth decade, her mastery as an oral interpreter of literature still shone.

A knock interrupted.

Two well-meaning young women, one dressed as a leprechaun, pushed through the door with a rolling cart bearing little sacks of candy. And . . . a very yellow, giant, inflatable, rubber duck.

Are you kidding? I wanted to shout. Do you have any idea who this is?

Pat, however, smiled. Listened carefully. No need to defend or assert her fine intelligence. No desire to establish her reputation or myriad credentials. She may have eyed The Duck but made no comment.

Mildly, she took the sweets they offered. “Thank you so much,” she said, with her trademark chuckle. “My favorites.”

The leprechaun and the keeper of the duck, noticeably calmed by Pat’s gratitude and luminous presence, left.

I remained. Gently instructed, yet again.

This week I read poems and scripture to Pat in Hospice House as she slept. I longed to connect one last time, to meet that clear gaze, to feel the answering squeeze of her narrow hand.

She slept on, peacefully, for which I give thanks. Sometimes we have to trust that the words we speak and the little songs we offer during a vigil register in our loved one’s spirit.

I’ve savored a long, vibrant relationship with Pat. But a role model’s influence on us may be fleeting in actual time — and inspiring, lifelong.

A mentor is a God-given largesse, often many-layered, always divinely timed. In my case, a second mother. Colleague. Friend. Director. Teacher. Sister in Christ.

“When the peaks of our sky come together
my house will have a roof.”

So wrote French poet, Paul Éluard, in Dignes de vivre (lit. “worthy of life”).

Am I a sheltering house of wisdom and encouragement for others? Are you, dear readers?

Pat Stien indelibly communicated God’s love. Every place and time we met, over almost four decades, brimmed with laughter, music, stories, prayers, and the communion of like-minded souls.

Here’s the last poem I read to her, one she loved, by Emily Dickinson. I hope it speaks to you as well.

“I dwell in Possibility –
A fairer House than Prose –
More numerous of Windows –
Superior – for Doors –

Of Chambers as the Cedars –
Impregnable of eye –
And for an everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky –

Of Visitors – the fairest –
For Occupation – This –
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise – ”

Friends, have you flourished under the rich oversight of a teacher/mentor? The mention of their names and expertise in the comments below would allow us all to thank God with you for their influence in your life.

You might also enjoy my tribute to Pat’s husband, Howard Stien.

Photo by Suzanne Foust

“The Food of Love …”

by Laurie Klein 28 Chiming In

The food of love? Well, we are making cookies today . . .

My granddaughter perches on the kitchen stool, one loose-cannon leg kicking the rungs. She’s chatty, a tad restive. She waves the baby chick cookie cutter above her head. Then, surprisingly, she falls silent, pointing to the decal that spans the soffit. With a five-year-old’s zest she proclaims, “If music be the food of Love, pla-a-ay on.”

“Keira,” I marvel, “you’re reading!”

She grins briefly, then returns to cutting birdies from dough. Keira, aka Kiki, was once a hypersensitive infant we carried around on a pillow. She suffered acute sensory issues. Traumatized in utero by her birth mother’s drug habit, our little fledgling now reads Shakespeare.

Oh, the ageless effervescence of wonder — it tingles all over my body. I’m older than the average grandma, eager to savor each stage of growth while I still can.

As my friend Judi Carlson says, “What piece of our heart did God create to receive this kind of miracle? We adopt fragile children. And those children adopt us.”

Kiki, our impish dynamo, seldom sits long enough to hear a story through to the end. So when did the skill to read click? She’s a girl with places to go, faces to make, boundaries to test.

“All done,” she sings out. “Now what?”

I slide her tray of ginger-bird cutouts into the oven. “Eight minutes,” I say. “Want to see the baby robins?”

We tiptoe to my bedroom window to watch the ramshackle nest on our deck.

Three fledglings yeep and chirr, jostling each other. Then, like harrumphing uncles, they rotate positions.

She wants to know why they are fighting.

“They’re getting too big for the nest,” I say. “And maybe they’re itchy. Look, they’re taking beak-baths.”

[Click & watch] IMG_0548

Chirping, Mama Robin swoops to the lawn, nabs a worm, heads for the nest. She embodies music, the food of Love — countless times each day.

I’ve watched her spread wings and tail over the nest during two hailstorms, her quivering pinions jeweled with ice. She’s giving her young every chance in a world where statistics show only 25% survive their first year.

The oven timer goes off, and we head for the kitchen, Kiki bouncing ahead of me — and off a wall or two. The thought comes to me, she’ll be okay, despite her rough start in life and her madcap ways. The cherishing God who knows when a sparrow falls is with her, and will be, long after I’m gone.

Whoever wrote Psalm 91 knew a thing or two about love: “[God] will cover you with his feathers. He will shelter you with his wings. His faithful promises are your armor and protection.” For now, I’m grateful the Deity shares part of that privilege with me.

Kiki and I frost the cookies and top them with sprinkles. Another gift. The robins, too, seem sent. Vulnerability dressed in feathers chooses my deck. My time. Me. From the nest’s inception to sky-blue eggs to scruffy hatchlings, I’ve eavesdropped on this family-in-progress day after day, for weeks. A living psalm.

Kiki takes bird cookies home to her mama. A few hours later I find the nest empty. Abandoned. I’m surprised by the ache in my chest. And how it spreads.

I would have loved to watch them fly.

Since then, I’ve used this breath prayer throughout the day, the one that’s been singing itself in my head lately, helping me let go.

(inhale) Lord of every     (exhale) quickening,
Watching over     egg and wing,
How you cherish     everything!
Taking flight     or nestling,
I live     to sing
All that you are,     my King.

What helps you release a cherished hope or a beloved being already in flux?

You might also enjoy this one about Kiki

And this one, if you missed it, about the nest