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Lilt: Stepping Gently toward Easter via Lent

Lilt: Stepping Gently toward Easter via Lent

“Lilt” in Lent? Well yes, the word’s synonyms suggest faith on the upswing: spirited, buoyant, springy.

How on earth can I consider those words next to these concerns from the friend of my friend? She’s scared sleepless over her cousins in Ukraine, young mothers whose husbands must enlist. Do they need money? How can she send it? How will grandparents and nieces and nephews safely escape with banks closed, airports occupied, gas stations emptied?

How can I allow weightiness once again to enlarge my heart, carve room for deepening mercy? Those wiser than I claim prayers of lament will, in time, bring transfiguration: glint by glimmer, a luminous trail, the sparks flying upward.

But what in heaven’s name can “lilt” mean in relation to war? I am fed, sheltered, privileged. I am safe. For now.

When the heart is wracked, how do we navigate dissonance?

Faith, we know, watches for holy rescues. Keeps vigils. Fasts and prays. Celebrates God’s provisions, seen and unseen.

This Lent especially calls me to lament and repentance. Can this also invite me toward heart-lightening remembrance?

Here’s what I say to my soul:

Spend time on those knees—in between time spent listening, at His.
Offer up small surrenders in sober reverence and quiet joy.
Engage more deeply with the reality of the Passion so as to embody compassion.
Grab the children and tell them the truest stories—that we are made for God. That we are called toward binding up wounds as well as abounding in grace. Help them understand this:

Dear Lent, you are ashes and daffodils,
fasting and feasting,
foot washing and footloose, resurrection-bound praise cutting a rug.

Here is my Lenten List (I hope you’ll add to it):

Write yourself a note. Tuck it inside your fridge, silverware drawer, medicine cabinet—wherever you’ll come upon it: Hello there, you agent of whimsy. What will you and Perfect Love do next?

Peel a tangerine. Pray over a different country as you savor each segment. Lick your fingers to say Amen.

Talk things over with a local bird, or use this captivating video close-up of a mourning dove: And may the dove who descended upon Christ at the Jordan alight near you and those you love today.

Make a lap. Now remember the lap of someone who held you. Let your Bible fall open, right there on your knees. Read out a fitting word, phrase, or verse(s) in blessing. Then improvise, perhaps sensing you and your someone welcomed anew into God’s embrace.

Do you collect quotes? If not, you could start here: “During the night everything has been remade for you. Merely to breathe is a happy adventure.” —J. B. Priestly, Delight

When rampant darkness between people overwhelms you, browse Photo Ark Wonders, by the “Modern-day Noah,” Joel Sartore, for National Geographic.

I consider “lilt” a relative term. This morning I hobbled around waving a long scarf over my head, like one of those small but undaunted gymnasts armed with banners. In Christ, my soul is a secret Olympian.

Bet yours is too.

What would you add to the list?

P.S. Invite scent to trigger memory. Before making your bed, mist your pillowcase with a scent you enjoy (or tuck a dryer sheet inside it). Anticipate Spirit-led time travel when you tuck yourself in tonight. Then again, the fact of shelter, the bed, and a warm room is already grace, and more than enough.

You might also enjoy Kyrie Eleison: Seeking Mercy

Lilt is a song, a movement, a stance of the spirit — Mourning Dove

Mourning Dove Photo by Joshua J. Cotten on Unsplash

OY Days

by Laurie Klein 38 Chiming In

Oy, not again! After submitting to x-rays a week ago, I hobbled homeward armed with instructions. No broken bones, but for two weeks, amid my escalating stress levels and widening fissures of all kinds worldwide, I have to . . . Totally. Baby. My. Dumb. Foot.

Turns out the great, grey seize of arthritis (think Attila the Hun, on an inside job) chose me for a rampage. Look out, small yet ingenious bones, formerly broken. Meds and rubs, heat and ice, elevation and rest, day after day — Oy, I miss running. And snowshoeing. And walking.

How to reshape a sidelined life? Begin with laughter. (Note leftover “Joy” candle from Christmas.)

Oy is a long-used Jewish word for “woe,” also meaning exasperation or regret, warning, annoyance, pain or dismay. “Oy, my feet are killing me.”

According to Google, “OY,” used as an abbreviation, can signify Oh Yeah or Only Yours. Even Listen Up.

So I do. As of today, I’ve been laid up for a week. Today my recovery coincides with an ancient celebration known as Candlemas. During this annual ritual, people bless candles to be used over the coming year. The custom dates back to AD 496, and the prayers still spoken over wax and wick are lovingly offered by many, including Anglican, Catholic, and Orthodox believers.

Goodness, why not consecrate one’s tools? I pray over my hands and keyboard whenever I write. And a candle usually flickers beside me, on the desk: a quiet way to honor the Light of the World among us.

Hope impels the match — a simple spark, struck against the gloom.

Thankfully, since I’m extra grumpy, a small prayer has evolved. It launches and rounds off an Oy Day. I say it, mentally, when lighting a three-wick candle (Would you believe it, $3.33 at Walmart?). But it works equally well for the lone votive. Or no candle at all.

Paced for the cadence of a relaxed breath, pray the first half of each line on the inhale; the second half on the exhale. I call it my Trinity-Wick prayer, and I watch for what kindles within me afterward. Try it with me . . .

(inhale) Holy God: (exhale) commune with me
Perfect Love: suffuse me
Light of the World: illumine me

(extinguish match to the following words)

Three-in-One . . . I, in Thee
Here am I, use me

“The very act of lighting the candle is prayer,” writes David Steindl-Rast. “I enter into it as one enters a room.”

Fired afresh by an inner expectancy, my foot duly propped on a pillow, frayed nerves settle. The mind clears. The stress within calms.

Despite being laid up, I experience the pleasure of going somewhere by holding still.

What helps when you feel sidelined?

Belated Epiphany

by Laurie Klein 43 Chiming In

Belated Epiphany . . .

Belated because, so often, words only come when they’re ready. Or is it when we’re ready?

Shadowing the Magi

Tingling, needy, marked
by the long quest—the divining,
then hope, my superstitions
giving way yet again
before anxious relief—this is how
I enter. Taking a knee,

it seems you scarcely breathe.
Does each intake feel
like your first? Maybe
we both look struck, luminous
as the baby’s skin,
starlight still pulsing there. Hush,

friend, the holy has come
so gently we dare approach.

Dear ones, I hope your days are unfolding gently.

Each January I seek a word or phrase expansive enough to guide me throughout the year. Then I line up my lettering pens, print out my theme. Mirror, journal, dashboard, fridge; a pocket, a purse—I spread my reminders around.

But last year, nothing. Several months passed. When would the words come?

Although belated, I chose a single letter, instead. There’s a story, of course: “Alphabet of Presence.” (I hope you’ll read it here: Abbey of the Arts.)

So, amid last year’s viral mayhem, cutthroat opinions, and global grief, I became a disciple of “B.”

Oh, I hope you’ll try it! Once you settle on a letter, you’ll find invitational words pop up everywhere: media, billboards, conversations. Surprise livens the day. Sometimes, it’s downright heady, like sipping chilled champagne, little stars among your teeth, on your tongue, all down your throat.

A word is a launch pad. Are you game? For starters, borrow a few of mine that start with “B.”

Watch the classic movie, “Babette’s Feast” (free here).

Listen to “Be Thou My Vision,” sung by Audrey Assad, or Selah, respectively,
here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Optrm7lF16s
and here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UKByTfiHOFE

Bestow a kindness. This passage has inspired many a prayer, email, and letter:
“The Spirit of the sovereign Lord is on me, because he has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted … to comfort all who mourn … to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes” (Isaiah 61:1-3).

Create a collage. Repurpose images beginning with your letter of choice, using old photos, magazines, junk mail.

Compose lyrics for a tune you love. I piggybacked mine on “Morning Has Broken”:

Beauty before me, Beauty behind me,
bridging our spirits, bountiful Lord;
Brimming within me, moving beside me,
timelessly guide me, forevermore.

Practice breath prayers. Are you grieving? This one helps me:
(on the inhale) Alone, yes, (exhale) but never abandoned.

Ponder questions like these:

What blessed me today?
Who blindsided me?
Where am I broken?
What might yet be born, and what must I bury?

Whether my idea was belated or perfectly timed, I found choosing a letter provided spontaneous, small epiphanies throughout a long, difficult year. And whenever I get bored, there are 25 more.

But . . . I’ve yet to exhaust the beauties of “B.”

There is always a journey. Sometimes, a cave. Often, a star.

In closing, here’s what I hope I’d have said, had I joined the Magi that day:

Take my coat, little one,
you’re shivering. How new,

this now we share, the first
of many yet to be known—by you,

by me—slowly, slowly going
home, by a different way.

Friends, if you choose a letter, I’d love to hear about your experience.

And please, if you’d enjoy more posts similar to this one (ideas, resources, links), let me know . . .

Explore “Alphabet of Presence” here: Abbey of the Arts

You might also enjoy Epiphany and the Epic Icicle

Lastly, welcome, new subscribers! I’m so glad you’re here.
And thank you to all who’ve journeyed with me for so many years.

Magi Photo by Michael Payne on Unsplash

Apologies for the incorrect citation of scripture, and thank you, Lynn, for alerting me!
Collage and “B” photo, by yours truly :>)

Oh Dear

by Laurie Klein 27 Chiming In

Oh, dear Author of All,
here is my page.

These spontaneous words of prayer anchor me. I sync them with each inhale and exhale as Dreamer and I drive into town. We’re headed for my beloved mentor’s home. She’s 95. For nearly 40 years she has guided me in the ever-compelling, never-mastered art of reading aloud. Shared love of the craft increases our love for words and for each other.

Today will be golden. I’ve written a tandem script for an ongoing audio program that Dreamer and I produce. She’ll give voice to Sonnet 73, by Shakespeare, in response to Sonnet 18, read by yours truly.

I’m so jazzed!

We unload recording equipment, then ring the bell. Oh dear. Turns out she’s leaving for an appointment: a schedule snafu.

We book a new date, then climb into our car — which won’t start. Despite countless attempts. She waves goodbye as we pull out the manual. Next, we try the gear shift override. Multiple times.

Prayer seemingly budges nothing, including the locked steering wheel.

Happy are those with cellphones and insurance. Alas, our towing option is invalid. More calls. Various chains of command. The sky darkens. Flurries commence. Seeking the helpful, we feel less and less hopeful.

Another hour passes. Snow falls harder, and cold seeps through the car and our clothing. We feel powerless.

Finally, a tow truck is promised—sometime within the next hour. We’re hungry. Frustrated. Chilled. A long way from home.

We need, ahem, certain facilities. Swallowing pride, I knock on a neighbor’s door, brush snow from my shoulders. Considering the latest pandemic protocols, will anyone answer? Who opens the door to a stranger these days?

The homeowner not only ushers us in, she offers both bathrooms. Then bottles of water. Or would we prefer soda? Coffee or tea?

“Please,” she says, “Sit. Wait inside where it’s warm. Oh dear, you’re shivering. Blanket?”

She even proposes various snacks.

I recall my earlier prayer, that God would author my day. Taken in, sheltered, cushioned and cared for, I am embarrassed by her spontaneous kindness. She is both stable and manger, an opened door amid the storm.

Today’s fleeting brush with Eternity.

In the fourth century, St. Jerome wrote, “Blessed are they who possess Bethlehem in their hearts and in whose hearts, Christ is born daily.”

Here’s to welcomes—those we give and those we receive—and to room being made, again and again, within the unexpected wayside inns of our common hours.

Emmanuel, you come. You beckon. You shelter us with nourishing care. Oh dear God, thank you. May we do likewise, amen.

Epilogue: The tow truck guy knew a trick. Under his capable hands the engine kicked over. Having parked on a slope, I’d cranked the front wheels toward the curb. More strength on my part would have loosed the steering, allowing ignition.

But we would have missed meeting a neighborhood saint.

Dear friends, in whatever ways you feel stalled or stranded this season, we wish you kindly strangers, revels and reverence, mercies and mirth and healing hope.

Image by Wolfgang Krzemien from Pixabay

Heartspring

by Laurie Klein 18 Chiming In

Hark! the Cricket

Let the cricket wind his heartspring
And draw the night by like a child’s toy . . .

Sounds gentle, doesn’t it. Almost idyllic.

But night falls. Sometimes, crushingly. Which feels worse during holidays.

And who initiates the winding that changes the scene? In the above quote, it’s the lowly cricket at work, back legs cocked like hinges — rubbing, rubbing — its muscular song a vocation: dispelling darkness.

It’s Advent again. For my husband, Dreamer, and I, this year it’s a hard one.

Crèche, sounds like crush

Or kibosh. A long-term dream, just coming into fruition, abruptly ends. With a phone call. The person in charge will be “going a different direction.”

Plans are scrapped. Tickets, cancelled. Months of labor — and now, nowhere to invest it.

Dreamer and I try to lighten our mood. Like the scene-changing cricket, we emulate stage hands. Our living room, awaiting tree and toys for the grandkids, becomes the stage.

We surround our buffet on three sides with a wooden folding screen. Intricately pierced, the eight panels reflect light from the mirror behind the buffet. Glancingly.

The u-shaped walls will shelter our crèche.

Dreamer leaves me to it. “Call if you need me.”

Paging Jiminy Cricket

As a kid, I knew the wishing star was real. Sky’s the limit, my parents said. “Makes no difference who you are,” Disney’s Jiminy sang, “Dreams come true.”

Alone now, leaning into the screen’s hinged embrace, I position the stable. The beasts and the figures. Angels, lights, miniature grasses and date palms.

Greenery blurs the gape of angled joints, a sprung hinge. Dowels placed across the top suggest rafters. A crude dwelling.

Suspended

I enter the hush. Since childhood, this little world poised within the noisy, everyday realm has gathered me in, an irresistible attraction.

Soon little stars made of straw dance on black threads at the merest breath. I stand back, marvel that staggered heights create depth of field.

Then I summon Dreamer.

Yes

We survey our modest act of Advent. The screen shelters the Story like a murmured yes. Like the arms of a mother. Glancingly, wonder percolates. Sadness abates.

Yes bristles around us, chafing our tender places. But as author Brian Doyle once prayed:

… your gentle hand … has sustained me. Thank you for saying yes not once thousands of years ago but all day every day in ways far beyond my ken. Thank you for … the star-furnace of your love.

… Thank you for this moment. Thank you for being in it with me.

Hark! The cricket winding the heartspring — like the Child, himself — both dispelling the darkness: each embodies grace. Within the crux of the cell, the deep core of gristle and bone, the pulse of blood …

… one small, throbbing Noel — newly perceived — at the soul’s hearth.

Any crickets (or their equivalent) at your place?

You might also enjoy: Sometimes, the Gift Tears You Open

* Cricket quote, Robert Siegel, “Rinsed with Gold, Endless, Walking the Fields”

Brian Doyle, “Prayer to the Madonna,” A Book of Uncommon Prayer

Photo: Bill Klein