Small Wonders Archives - Laurie Klein, Scribe

“When you read this . . .”

When you read this . . .

It’s 102 degrees in the empty parking lot. The mouse shoots past me, silent, alone, nosing pavement that almost sizzles. Lurch right, veer left, double back. Poor thing. My toes bunch in commiseration.

I can’t unsee this.

It’s the outsize proportions, the cruel exposure daunting a creature at home with small spaces, shadows, the familiar path along a wall.

I see you, little one. Displaced. Afraid. No clear way forward.

Insight arrives on an intake of breath: God is here. Now. Companioning me in harsh circumstances.

Several months ago, we moved out of our home. Mold issues. Dreamer’s declining health. Turns out remediation as well as restoration professionals advise widely varying options for treatment. Inspection results may disagree. Wildly. Feeling dwarfed by potential repercussions if we choose the wrong path, it’s hard to read the terrain. Whom to believe? Which data is true?

Am I a project manager now? Hand me a fetching sunhat, a slouch beanie. Not a hard hat.

Dreamer and I have yet to sign a contract. Possibly this weekend . . .

And for this we thank you, dear friends. You have prayed, called, sent emails and meals, cards, affirmations, puzzles, new books to read, mail-order fruit, gift cards, and texts. You have shared resources, research, counsel. Shelter. You’ve shared your faith with gentle empathy. And how we have needed your care!

On the morning the Waste Management truck was scheduled to pick up Darlene the Dumpster (holding 2/3 of our worldly goods), I made a final trip bearing a long narrow sculpture I’d made to honor my mother. Created from paper I’d made in a blender, then shaped, using clay molds, the fragile elements were suspended within a vintage shutter, louvers removed. I loved it. But the risk of spore contamination outweighed sentiment.

Heeding a nudge, I paused to scan fragments of Mom’s letters, collaged around the frame.

“When you read this, I will be thinking of you.”

Friends, I don’t know your hard places, can only imagine the heat you may be enduring amid fears, decisions, relentless questions.

But I know the One who sees you.

And I know, in part, this community. Share in the comments, if you wish, ways we might pray alongside you?

Mouse Photo by Anton Lammert on Unsplash

Called by Name

by Laurie Klein 12 Chiming In

Called by Name

Sometimes a story comes my way. It’s not about me. And then, somehow, it is. When I pay attention, a personal longing or loss—often yet to be named—flickers. And sometimes, flares. Which gets me thinking. Maybe this marvelous tale will kindle something in you.

Called by Name

For Aiden
(noun, Irish, meaning “Little Fire”)

Baby Aiden sits on a rug the color of embers,
snapped into a onesie
gray as a mourning dove’s wing:
a blue-eyed boy with stones for ears.

What about lullabies
and Mother Goose? Or incoming surf?
Will he ever thrill to applause,
hear a footloose puppy’s joyous arf?

And Aiden’s people, after tears
and surgical tubes, after the draining
and praying and waiting: what then?
“Aiden,” his mama calls, yet again.

A slow-motion blink, his gaze
turning pure flame, wide
toothless grin—he’s hearing, hearing
his name, his bold, beautiful, blazing name.

***

I’ve watched Aiden’s moment on video, over and over: the palpable flash of revelation—the child’s face, pure wonder!—then his whole body responding, exuberant, knees and hands padding forward.

Consider, for a moment, our names, inscribed on the hands of Christ.

If you’ve been reading this blog as well as the comments over the past few years, you will have encountered Aiden’s grandpa, a man who memorably names what moves him. He recently told me the long months of waiting and praying for Aiden have been good—in part, for the empathy gained, and for the hope of comforting others who are suffering. This family truly understands being called by name.

“What’s in a name?” Shakespeare’s Juliet asked.

Picture a certain garden, on Easter. Among the risen Rabbi’s first recorded words, one noun stands out: “Mary.”

Chosen. Known. Named.

What if the Savior calls our name today, and we hear it as if for the first time?

From the archives: You might also enjoy Gaiety . . . to Go

And Open Sesame

Baby’s ear Photo by Laura Ohlman on Unsplash

Flaring match Photo by Elia Mazzaro on Unsplash

First-timer: Never too late

by Laurie Klein 10 Chiming In

First-timer?

Think amateur: “one who ardently engages in something, for love.

Of course, it also means “skill set in progress.”

Do you remember Ted Mack’s mid-century “Amateur Hour?” If not, imagine “America’s Got Talent” meets “So You Think You Can Dance” — but in black and white, mono vs stereo, with minimal sets and lighting. Each hopeful celebrant steps up, giving their all despite first-timer heebie-jeebies. Jim-jams. Screaming meemies.

Love the lingo, if not the sensation. But public emergence? Me? Not so much. As you may have read in my last post, God seems to be coaxing me out of my cave. In the process, I get to practice learning to laugh at, about, and with myself. Sometimes, almost beside myself.

So maybe we should switch out “emergence” for effervescence. After all, we’re to rejoice in the Lord our God in everything we put our hand to (Deut. 12:18b).

In that spirit, I’m sharing the link to my first podcast — on camera: an interview with Riley Bounds, calm, genial, thoughtful editor of Solum.

The interview during which I discover . . .

a new soapbox sturdy enough, perhaps, to support the weight of a growing passion,

and

how to look 30 years younger for 38 minutes and 53 seconds (thank you, Zoom!).

The same interview after which I learn . . .

how vain I still am,

and

why a person must laugh over accidentally channeling a slo-mo, dashboard bobblehead (we all have a visual go-to-focus, while thinking: mine’s upward and to the left; what’s yours?).

I also learned when to exchange chairs minutes before going live (never!): your carefully rehearsed eye contact skews and you will earnestly address everyone’s hairline.

BUT: if you wonder how “I Love You, Lord” rolled into this world, then crossed and re-crossed it, multiple times, over 48 years,

or why every creature in my latest book speaks, including the house,

or c’mon, why poetry? . . .

. . . this one’s for you.

“It’s out there,” a beloved father figure once explained to me, “as long as there are electrons.”

First-timer, amateur effort notwithstanding.

Friends, much as I hope to stir your heart and meet your gaze . . . your hairline may tingle, ever so slightly.

Click here to listen only.

Friends, if you’re stepping up to, or into, something uncomfortable, how might I pray for you?

P.S. In the high-tech swirl of “algae-rithms,” a click or comment makes a difference, even if you only have time to watch part of the podcast. Fellow writers, my favorite moment? It’s Riley’s: time stamp 38:13.

Photo by Marcela Rogante on Unsplash

Author photo by Dean Davis Photography

525,600 Minutes

by Laurie Klein 16 Chiming In

525, 600 minutes. Friends, how will we measure life this year?

Every day I hear “Seasons of Love,” by songwriter Jonathan Larson, pose that question. Poignant theme, catchy tune.

The little earworm with a big heart.

Dreamer has it on loop, so he can rehearse it. He and our oldest daughter will be auditioning for an ensemble within the Whitworth Community Chorale. We’ll all sing this April at the swankiest venue in town.

To perform again with our girl . . . in our seventies — the so-called exit-lane, I mean, on-ramp years (because . . . heaven, right?) — bowls me over.

For now, my seasons of love are earthbound, and I hold these fleeting moments dear.

525,600 minutes . . . The musical groove replays. Caught up in the syncopation, I have a mini-epiphany: it’s Leap Year; we have 527, 000 minutes!

Remember that small discrepancy between global calendars and earth’s orbit around the sun? A measly quarter-hour difference, over decades, will throw off the seasons. Think crops. Holidays. Travel schedules. Nearly every four years, we have to adjust.

We are making up for lost time.

How? A full day: sheer windfall.

I’m planning a day-treat — more doable on short notice than a personal retreat. If I schedule it in the next couple weeks, I’ll join almost 5 million “leaplings” (those born on February 29) as they prepare for the quasi-rarified observance of their birth.

So much constellates around that idea: birth . . .

Why not re-sync with the heavens?

Choose an ordinary day to reenter the timeless, friends — one spacious enough to absorb the “awe behind the obvious” as Rick Rubin puts it.

I enjoy shifting artfully numbered wood blocks on my universal calendar. “All my times are in your hands,” I murmur, as the new numeral faces front. I’ll start my day-treat there.

I might page through old albums. Lately, God is reviving my past (a kind of retrofitting, perhaps?), bringing the trusted model up to date.

I’ll lean into my favorite breath prayer throughout the day (see below).

Turns out the word “inspiration,” from the Latin inspirare, means “to breathe life into.” Notice that last syllable: rare? A definition far older than I am translates inspirare as “the immediate influence of the divine.”

Time is more layered than we think. Unresolved questions lurk there, often skewing our current worldview. I could write a book about that. And did (update below).

Plan your day-treat or, if you prefer, wake up and be deliciously spontaneous each given hour.

Grab a candle. Strike a match. Allow that brief singe and flare to usher you somewhere.

Friends, share one thing you’d love to do on your day-treat . . .

Trinity Wick Breath Prayer: from the archives.

Paced for the cadence of a relaxed breath, pray the first half of each line on the inhale; the second half on the exhale. watch for what kindles within.

(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

“Seasons of Love,” by Jonathan Larson (525,600 minutes), from the musical Rent

Rick Rubin: The Creative Act: a Way of Being

Photo by Rachael Crowe on Unsplash

Sneak preview, back cover. Might have books in mid-March!

Stealth: Is There a Good Kind?

by Laurie Klein 20 Chiming In

Stealth

Within our valiant pines
bark beetles
gnaw the inner life. Left
unaddressed, they will
riddle the heartwood.
Their labyrinths glisten
with eggs that hatch
and hatch—over time,
the infiltration, fatal.

Here on the ground, among our kind, a similar fate looms. Chronic negativity may infect our sense of self, our family members, even our projects; it eats away at our moods, impairing growth.

In a heartbeat, online interactions veer into all-cap shouting. Name calling. Threats.

Who will soothe the raveled temper with a cheeky bon mot?

One dictionary translates the French expression to mean a “good word”; another defines it as “a message whose ingenuity or verbal skill or incongruity has the power to evoke laughter.”

Think charm.

Generosity.

Genial wit.

Do you, like me, long to somehow counter the chronic, insidious sowing of doubt—the kind that kills rather than spurs constructive debate?

I often miss the moment. During heated conversations, I retreat. Hours later the sparkling comeback arrives. No matter. I can still make a call, send an email or text, perhaps mail that droll card I’ve been saving. Or write a blog post.

In increasingly uncivil settings, at work or at church, in the family or in the public square, we can still alter an atmosphere—one word, one byte—at a time.

Call it a disarming enactment of upbeat stealth.

“A word spoken in due season, how good it is!” Proverbs 15:23

A joke won’t save an infested tree. An invitation to shared laughter just might defuse a human standoff—perhaps preserve a relationship.

But . . . it’s harder than this, right? We must also challenge today’s fractious culture that vetoes extending respect. A listening ear.

The beleaguered tree—consumed from within—seems a fitting metaphor. What about metamorphic bias we already harbor? Meta, means “change” and morphe, “form.”

When shocked or frightened or wounded by others, or just plain bugged, sometimes I want to lash out. Might a good word from God’s Word alter my stance by several degrees?

Or will I succumb to a hardening mindset?

Take obsidian: rapidly cooled magma transformed by volcanic heat and pressure becomes natural glass. It’s black. Hard. Glossy and sharp enough to cut someone.

Volatile human interactions lacking respect tend to consume or even calcify hearts and minds.

Hear both sides, I tell myself. Especially when it chafes.
Learn by observing those who can converse with enemies.
Go gently among those with a half-glass outlook, their alter Eeyore expecting the worst.

Pause. Lean into the small silence. Is this the moment to speak?

Perhaps the Spirit will reveal a comic incongruity. Shared laughter reestablishes common ground.

You might also feel nudged to offer a bon mot. Or trust grace amid the shared silence to work in ways beyond comprehension.

Either way, in the moment or afterward, offer a stealth prayer.

Friends, have you overheard a quote or a bon mot that dispelled angst? Do you have one of your own?

Please share in the comments!

Photo by Estée Janssens on Unsplash

You might also enjoy this one from the archive: Own a Better View

When you read this . . .

Called by Name

For Aiden (noun, Irish, meaning “Little Fire”)

For Aiden
(noun, Irish, meaning “Little Fire”)