grace Archives - Laurie Klein, Scribe

Oases

SAY YOU WAKE UP HAPPY, inwardly fizzing. Almost effervescent with quirky ideas . . .

BUT someone depends on you. What to do?

“Spend the afternoon,” author Annie Dillard says. “You can’t take it with you.”

In other words: Despite life’s erratic side winds, seek out (or create) mini oases — no matter how fleeting. Once there, bend a knee to the Creator.

Or, summon curiosity, directed by love. You could explore that languishing stack of books. Make something. Unfold a lawn chair and daydream.

“Don’t you know God enjoys giving rest to those he loves?” (Ps. 127, The Message).

STILL, can there really be daily, guilt-free reprieves?

Dreamer and I recently spent half a day in the Emergency Room, his upper body in spasms — at times, well over 300 per hour. New diagnosis: Myoclonic Jerking.

So far, no solutions.

So, there’s that.

AND YET . . . today I surge out of bed, pumped.

Dreamer says, “Go for it!”

Then he returns to bed, muscles seizing.

I pray for him, open windows, rearrange his pillows, refill the fountain. Then pray again.

No visible change. Faced with physical urgency, maybe I should stay by his side.

But no. If he needs help, he’ll ask.

WHY IS IT SO HARD sometimes to receive a blessing, tenderly blow a kiss, then ease a door closed?

Mercifully, with a few vigorous stretches, worry ebbs. Along with the need to feel needed.

Eased, energized, I tamp begonias into flowerbeds. Then a pause, to survey my container plantings.

SOMETIMES we wake up with ideas that aren’t ours. I’d forgotten, but first thing this morning I imagined my lavender topiary bedecked with dangly earrings. The notion felt wonderfully playful. Then . . . too frivolous.

BUT WAIT, when Dreamer wakes from his nap and sees it, he might enjoy my goofy delight. Shared laughter can neutralize dread.

I’ll do it!

Oops. Those earrings were tossed during the household mold purge.

NOW WHAT?

In The Geography of Memory, poet and playwright Jeanne Murray Walker quotes her priest. “Life is SHORT, and we do not have much time to gladden the hearts of those who travel with us. So be swift to love, make haste to be kind, live without fear.”

A shiver sharpens my awareness . . . an echoing, boundless chuckle, the sense of an unseen hand cupping my elbow. Then a wise, whimsical voice: “You could plant cocktail umbrellas among the boughs.” Oh, racing heart, too big for a rib cage . . . I feel buoyant, sensing God’s joyous, fun-loving benevolence.

And this: “Child, all your times are in my hands: your hearts, your hopes, your hurts.”

Someone once said the divine moment is the present moment. We can move toward what beckons, no matter how unlikely: take the topiary — dead, but still shapely — brittle arms upstretched.

What will they hold?

FRIENDS, an oasis can save your life.

Adapting on the fly — could this be an answer?

You might also enjoy Oases: Between Noels, Part II
Packing Light: 9 Ways to Reclaim Joy

Bubbles Photo by Alex Alvarez on Unsplash

Dead topiary with cocktail umbrellas and tiny light bulbs, L.K.

Act IV

by Laurie Klein 23 Chiming In

Act IV

Why is it that once we dare hope we’ve embodied the role of a lifetime . . . the scenery shifts?

Those once-trusty props? Whisked away during intermission. Our favorite costumes, removed; our former entrance lines, cut.

Even the set changes. For the story-in-progress at our place, think healing as boot camp.

Perhaps I’ve been auditioning all along for my current role—daily domestic triage—despite no discernible training, no talent for research, no medical skills.

You might be nodding in empathy, your life, or that of a loved one, re-cast in an unscripted Act IV.

It’s all-out improv.

Feeling alone onstage, you suspect the Director is occupied elsewhere. Singled out by the spotlight’s glare, you are exposed, reduced to mumbled ad-libbing.

Drop the curtain, somebody! Douse the lights!

If I ask you to complete this line, what would you add? “Lord, why can’t I . . .”

I am increasingly aware I can serve my loved one, try to salve all the sorrows. But God alone saves.

According to Paul, the Great Physician counts this work in us a pleasure.

Meanwhile, sidelined in the wings awaiting my next cue, I wonder . . . amid the pressure, can I dare enjoy small delights—without guilt?

Imagine this: a walk-on cameo role, perhaps in a garden at twilight. Nothing to memorize, no need to perform.

Ahhh. Moonrise. A few early stars. Hear that occasional drowsy cheep as birds settle into stillness? The splash of a fountain. Breathe in, absorb the tapestried atmosphere: perhaps threads of reverence surface, while running unseen (beneath a network of small knots), measured, orderly strands hold it all together. Not a sampler, but a story. Not a stage, but a sanctuary: the very air seemingly woven with prayers uttered, over time, layered here and there with a trill of merriment . . .

“Beauty tells us that we were created for joy and summoned to healing,” author Sarah Clarkson writes.

She urges us to embrace how healing it can be to savor the small and hidden—a surprising medicine amid brokenness.

“The way I tend and cultivate [small] things,” she adds, “which belong intimately to me in my ordinary sphere—home, body, friend, child, spouse, garden, table . . .” not only matters but becomes “more potent than we often imagine.”

Friends, no matter what role
you might be currently learning
or leaving,
Dreamer and I wish you
peace in the midst of longing,
abounding grace to lean into it, waiting,
and aerobic faith
for the leaping . . .

Father of Lights, may we
wake to your presence,
watch for your gifts,
wait on your grace,
walk in your ways.

Friends, in what ways are you praying for your own unexpected Act IV? Or, that of another?

“Let the loveliness of the Lord, our God, rest on us.” —Psalm 90: The Message

Unfinished tapestry photo by Birmingham Museums Trust on Unsplash

Hands cupping spotlight Photo by max im on Unsplash

Listening to You Breathe

by Laurie Klein 26 Chiming In

“Found a dog . . . on Craigslist,” Dreamer said. “But the ad’s a month old.”

A month ago, I couldn’t imagine initiating a rescue.

But things changed with Dreamer’s diagnosis.

Might a loyal, eloquent-if-non-speaking, waggery companion shadowing our steps help us face the future?

We emailed the owners, somehow won their hearts, then drove to Rosalia, Idaho, for the hand-off.

Within the first minute, “Vinnie” licked Dreamer’s face. Think power wash.

Then, tail thumping, he leapt into our car, and he snuggled my beloved all the way home.

Vinnie is a tawny, 4-year-old Husky/Rottweiler. He’s sweet-tempered, patient, and well-trained. After a worrisome three-day hunger strike—despite our elderly charm campaign and wheedling dog-dish charades (plus a dear friend’s prayers)—hunger won out.

The Vinster consented to eat.

Consent denotes willingness to embrace change: You seem nice; sure, I’ll sleep by your bed—while also maintaining a measure of control—Kibbles? I can snarf ‘em or leave ‘em. Watch me.

Consent, even canine, can be withheld. Given. Withdrawn.

Assent, on the other hand, cedes power differently. Factual circumstances may not change—in our case, despite fervent pleading with God.

Like Vinnie, re-homed, Dreamer and I can’t change where we find ourselves now. But God’s grace can change us in profound, unforeseen ways.

Moment by lurching moment, we are learning to say yes to this new chapter unfolding before us.

“Be it unto me according to your word,” Mary told the angel Gabriel. Her willing, wholehearted assent embraced a life radically reshaped, from that moment, forward.

Author Sarah Clarkson writes, “You don’t have to assent or agree with what is before you, and often you ought not to; but if you do, [your assent] is something offered, a yielding to a story you perhaps didn’t choose and don’t yet fully understand.”

Which sounds really spiritual.

Yet often, we’re sad and scared. Or mercifully distracted. There are also moments we struggle to breathe through the sneaker wave of desolation.

Some nights, I distract myself with a crossword puzzle. Other nights, it’s enough to simply listen to Dreamer breathing beside me. Still here.

As well as the random snurffle from Vinnie, snoozing beside our bed.

Our days fill with prayers and research and learning the ways of our new companion. We are a threesome now. With a dog who just barfed, twice. Once on the carpet.

Didn’t see that coming.

Post-cleanup, barricaded in the kitchen, Vinnie somehow Houdini-es through one corner of the canvas folding screen. Turns out Velcro tabs do not deter 70 pounds of lonesome, panting, disoriented mind, muscle, and heart.

He misses his old life. As we miss ours.

Dementia can be erratic, unbearably cruel. Our Healer-Redeemer never sleeps, is ever-present, unchanging, compassionate. It is to God’s unending love we say yes, not to the disease—trusting that what tears us open is already, by grace, deeply at work within us, and will continue, ultimately forging a healing path forward.

“. . . Jesus is going ahead of you,” the angel at the tomb tells the women gathered there in sorrow, fear, and confusion.

Talk about a lifeline.

Perhaps you’re enduring events likely to unravel your heart or ravage the life of someone you love. Friends, let’s pray for each other, seeking the grace to surrender to God all we are and have and will one day be.

P.S.

Here’s a “5 – 5 – 8” breathwork stress-buster we find calming, a small, real-time rescue when panic looms:

five-count inhale
hold breath for five counts
exhale audibly for eight counts

I’ve added words and motion, which help dispel late-night anxiety spikes):

(inhale for 5) As if playing a keyboard, palms down, moving left pinky first, sequentially tap each finger, praying: “We trust you, Jesus.” (Or: “We love you, Jesus.”)
(hold breath for 5) Right thumb to pinky, sequentially tap each finger, praying: “Have mercy on us.”
(exhale for 8) Left pinky to right middle finger, one tap each: “All that we have and are is yours.”

Repeat, as needed.

You might also enjoy “Catch Your Breath Here” (from the archives.)

I highly recommend Sarah Clarkson’s book, Reclaiming Quiet.

Photo of Sleeper by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Which Way

by Laurie Klein 22 Chiming In

Which Way?

Picture a big hollow stump, underwater: flat rim, heart rotted out. Two barefoot girls can straddle the edge, toes curled. They must steady each other when fish eggs slime the surface, catch hold of each other when waves wash in.

Using the stump as a platform, my childhood friend and I invented a game: “Spur-of-the-Moments.”

Hold your breath
Submerge, jackknifing knees
Rocket skyward, striking multiple poses (points for the zaniest)
Ta-da! Splashdown

Failure to stick the landing meant flailing through milfoil, and muck, snootfuls of billowing silt, moments of sputtering.

Twisting, mid-leap, sometimes I lost my bearings. Which way was home?

Jump cut to current politics: nationwide waves of dismay, hope, anger, dread, triumph, loss. An old tongue twister comes to mind: A skunk sat on a stump. The skunk thunk the stump stunk; but the stump thunk the skunk stunk.

Which way is up?

My pastor reminds me, “What God builds will last.”

Despite urgency, transitory players, perceived obstacles. Despite hollow declarations and erosive backchat. Threats and reprisals. Fluid truth.

Generous God, give me the long view.

For me, yearning for what’s eternal means trust plus action:

eschew fear,
enact contagious kindness,
emulate bold hope.

In other words, align with the life and teachings of Christ, whose earthly days among friends and foes alike both inspire and challenge me. Sometimes hourly.

The old stump game was wildly impulsive: hasty, unthinking, rash. Also . . . fun. Somewhere between my best impulse and worst reactions there must be a potent, if precarious, balance point. A shot at delight. Freedom from feeling grieved, angry, jaded. Daily diminished by worry.

Perhaps a prayer for graced spontaneity?

Dear Maker and Lover of Trees, grow my integrity—minus distortion and irony. Grant me taproot faith when the figurative waters around me deepen and roil.

Here’s how The Message voices the Savior’s concern for us:

“Are you tired? Worn out? . . .
Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it.
“Learn the unforced rhythms of grace” (Matt. 11:28-29).

Harder times ahead seem inevitable. How I appreciate upbeat friends like you! Your comments and presence buoy my spirits—no matter what fellow voters decide or who wins public office.

Sediment happens. Amid the campaign muckraking, let’s point each other toward calm waters. No need to be sucked under. Let’s seek wisdom. Love well. Then, take the next leap.

“And let us consider how we may spur one another on
toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together,
as some are in the habit of doing,
but encouraging one another—and all the more
as you see the Day approaching” (Hebrews 10:24-25 NIV).

Amid candidates out stumping and hair-trigger tensions smoldering, which way is home? What helps you, en route, to sustain balance?

Chrysalis

by Laurie Klein 38 Chiming In

Chrysalis

Every so often God lovingly summons me to spin myself a figurative chrysalis, a timeout from the rhythms of normal life.

“In soul-making we can’t bypass the cocoon,” author Sue Monk Kidd says. “There’s always the husk of waiting somewhere in the corner.”

In other words, we’re invited to both embrace and endure a season of claustrophobic dark where transformation occurs — sometimes atom by atom.

To weather being set apart “involves weaving an environment of prayer,” Kidd adds. “It’s not about talking and doing and thinking. It’s about postures of the Spirit . . . turning oneself upside down so that everything is emptied out and God can flow in.”

Some will equate this process with conversion. Others believe it’s a recurring experience meant to enhance a new stage of faith, not a onetime event.

Me? I’m a serial cocoon-ist.

Regardless of where you land, here are a few secrets I find heartening.

For instance, the physical anchoring point of the butterfly pupa to the twig is a tiny, built-in hook. It’s called the “cremaster.” The creature relies on this attachment to survive the cold as well as the winter winds.

I’m thinking spiritual velcro.

CHRYSALIS PRAYER . . . IS WAITING PRAYER — aka dis-assemble-ment. Nobody’s favorite.

But how awesome that grace, at every turn, meets our expectant, if feeble, vigilance. And how sobering that this same grace may reduce us to goo.

God reconfigures us while we wait . . . in the dark . . . often clueless.

Waiting prayer is a thorny yet sacred wonder: wrenching as that ambush of tears we can’t explain; alarming as finding ourselves in fetal position; raw as our candid “Who cares? I’m outta here.”

THESE, TOO, ARE PRAYERS.

Still, don’t we fear that those we love may turn away, dismayed by how changed we are?

“Where there’s no risk, there’s no becoming. And where there’s no becoming, there’s no real life.
So we give people time, accept their resistance by listening to their fears, speak honestly of our path, and go on quietly finding our new wingspan.” —Sue Monk Kidd

Saying Yes multiple times to a life newly curtailed? This is courage, resolutely embodied.

I’m thinking of Jesus . . .

“Afterward, taking his body, Joseph and Nicodemus wrapped it in strips of linen, then laid him in the garden tomb.

Sounds cocoon-ish to me.

“The third day, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene saw that the stone had been removed.”

At the right time the cremaster, or seal, gives way to resurrection energy.

“Who is it you are looking for?” Jesus asks Mary. For she does not recognize him. Resurrection is transformation.

“I have seen the Lord!” Mary tells the others.

Our Savior — “for the joy set before him” — embraced separation, transformation, and emergence. Now, he intercedes for us.

ARE WE BORN TO SOAR?

In Hope for the Flowers, by Tricia Paulus, a caterpillar tells its curious pal, “I’m making a cocoon. It looks like I’m hiding, I know, but a cocoon is no escape. It’s an in-between house where the change takes place . . . the becoming . . . takes time.”

But did you know some caterpillars resist the chrysalis? Preferring larval life, they suspend their development, cling to what is known and familiar. Scientists call this the “diapause.”