behold Archives - Laurie Klein, Scribe

Holding Fast

If I were to paint my friend
B_, tallish, silvery, bike-tanned
and toned, you might perceive
hope wafting off the canvas,
lifelong rigor as well as riff:
musician, instructor, composer,
arranger, photographer — plus,
a DIY flair with espresso, lavishing
swirled foam atop steaming crema.

WHAT A GIFT TO GATHER TODAY . . .

. . . in the kitchen of B_’s new home! Post-tour, he offers lattes.

Dreamer and I last shared coffee with him and his beloved wife shortly before they moved here. A few months later, they were urgently evacuated as our drought-plagued city and countryside erupted in flames.

Think, inferno: demon winds, smoke-roil, three vast raging wildfires. For eight days. Like the 65,000 other evacuees, our friends wondered, would they have a home to return to?

We too were packed to leave if fire encroached any nearer.

And now, here we are. Reunited.

Lattes? Bring on the heat — the healing kind, almost holy. With a big fat yes to whole milk!

B_, our celebrant, faces sleek, state-of-the-art machinery, his reverent flair for ceremony laced, as ever, with quiet joy.

Picture unerring care. Unhurried hovering. He bows, over his work.

PACK BEANS. PULVERIZE. BREW AND POUR.

STEAM MILK UNTIL GLOSSY, WITH PARTIAL FROTH.

NOW BEHOLD THE HOLDING . . .

an angled cup
as well as the pitcher
tilted to pour — an eddy
of swirls, first, then
the lowered spout,
the wrist’s rhythmic
jiggle gradually slowing
as creamy petals unfurl
beneath his gaze:
a small dip, a pause,
one delicate seam
drawn back to the rim.
Cue the dripless rise
of the pitcher, set aside,
the poured “rosetta”
so at home on the surface
it lingers, intact.
Now the hand off: rich,
nutty aroma, extended.

Ahh, the seeping warmth as one palm cradles the vessel.

The at-rest feel of the opposite thumb in the handle, fingers curved.

Taste and see.

LAYER BY SILKEN LAYER, I am drinking the depths of the cup entrusted to me, the designer’s image unmarred.

I peer over the rim at Dreamer. Please, God, may I see your image linger in him, no matter what.

Because, how parched, at times, the fiery ordeal.

How troubling, my thirst to be served.

In the ancient desert of Ziph, David’s friend Jonathan “helped him find strength in God. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said” (1 Sam. 23:15-16).

Steadfast, he held out his belief that no matter what befell them, God’s gift of replenishing wholeness awaited.

Holding certainty on behalf of another somehow elicits a divine reciprocity. “He who refreshes others will himself be refreshed” (Prov. 11:25).

The maker
shapes each stage, grounds
to liquid, a waft of vapor,
the final blend taking on
body, richly layered:
love, made delectable.

A KIND OF COMMUNION?

Afterward, cups emptied, we pray together. And we who thirst are doubly filled.

Need I mention a few beautiful tears? The weightless grace of shared gratitude?

Author Gunilla Norris writes, “How we hold the simplest of our tasks speaks loudly about how we hold life itself.”

Whatever our favorite beverage when temperatures drop, with every sip may we love well. Live, awash. Holding on and being held.

And, after drinking deeply, perhaps this:

Timebound though we are, O Delicious Nearness, how may we serve you?

a marvel: the image still holding, until the final swallow

Friends, how are you holding as well as extending weightless grace?

Quote: Gunilla Norris, Being Home

coffee poured into blue cup Photo by Julien Labelle on Unsplash

steaming the milk in pitcher Photo by Kaylee Stoll on Unsplash

espresso grounds Photo by Daniel on Unsplash

rosetta in blue cup Photo by B_

From the archives, you might also enjoy the act of holding in this post.

EPIPHANY, January 6, 2025:

Enter Dreamer, one daughter, three grandkids, and yours truly . . .

PLUS . . . a visitation. No, not the Magi.

We began our day scouting Christmas Eve treats the children left out, last month, for the neighborhood wildlings. The leftovers were re-scattered close to the house.

Then we shivered our way to the front stoop where Dreamer, by turns, hoisted each child high. Following an ancient custom, they chalked the door lintel with the new year’s numerals and three letters: 20 + C + M + B + 25.

The letters represent three wise strangers from afar, traditionally named Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar. They also coincide with the Latin phrase meaning “Christ, bless this house: Christus Mansionem Benedicat.

Our grandkids, ages eight and nine, must miss being carried. Grasping the chalk, they sure took their time writing. Who wouldn’t, held safely aloft by a gentle giant?

C + M + B . . . Dreamer might have thought “Courage, my biceps.”

Afterward, we made Star Cake for tea time. While it baked, the kids rushed to the bay window, hopping and chirping like sparrows.

A wild turkey! Eating their leftover seeds!

Looking up, I clattered a pan.

“Aanie,” they hissed, “SHHH!”

So I tiptoed over to join them.

It was Gladys, the Stalker. (So named by Dreamer.) The homely hen, seemingly exiled from her group, had lately been foraging solo.

Or was she a scout? A rafter of twenty-pounders can damage a house and yard. Should we have chased her away? We still had mixed feelings.

“Aanie, she LOVES my seeds!”

Sure enough, beak in overdrive, Gladys scratched and gobbled. Bark chips flew.

Bird-struck, the kiddos leaned closer, fogging the glass.

I witnessed the kind of rapt “celebration that roots us moment by moment in [a] deep watchful quiet that ushers us into the presence of God.” Sarah Clarkson wrote that, and her words capture the moment, a seeming fulfillment of our chalked prayer: Christ, bless this house.

Then the timer beeped.

Why didn’t I linger at the window? Too focused on icing and slicing. “Martha, Martha”—there I stood, messing with details, missing the true feast.

I love wholehearted celebrations, gladly embrace each fiddly, trivial detail. Post-party that day, our newly blessed home showed the chaos of a happy invasion. As well as the avian visitation.

During cleanup . . . another epiphany. So I made a decision. Next time, the cake can wait. As the old saying goes, What we behold . . . we become.

Why curtail magical moments with those I love?

Sometimes, I’m the turkey; sometimes, a child, surprised into breathless stillness.

Can we sustain wholehearted readiness to experience God’s love for the quirky? The potentially troublesome? If so, how?

And, in view of current events, how do we embody God’s love for those who are not like us?

Reclaiming Quiet, Sarah Clarkson.

Chalking the Door: “An Epiphany Tradition”

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Unsplash

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