Immersions Archives - Laurie Klein, Scribe

Memo from the Wild

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 . . .

Welcome, new subscribers! If you’re curious about our story, please check out the last few blog posts.

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

Ambushed

by Laurie Klein 18 Chiming In

“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.

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