grace Archives - Laurie Klein, Scribe

Lessons from a Moose

Heartsick and hunkered under a lap quilt, I light my prayer candle. The votive flickers within its chunky glass holder, a treasured, fire-in-ice gift from my lifelong friend. Yesterday, she was diagnosed with cancer.

Oh, friend. Oh shit. Merciful God, please intervene!

I yearn to help. And I want to bolt, escape to the woods, outrun heartbreak.

Beyond my window Indian Summer burnishes the aspen’s heart-shaped leaves to quavering gold.

Hold on. Those movements exceed a passing breeze. Branches thrash.

Camera in hand, I edge onto our deck: grunts … rustles … CRACK! — massive jaws are tearing off limbs.

I inch nearer. A dark, unblinking eye slues in its socket, meeting mine. Abashed, I shift my gaze. Behold, 800 swayback pounds of fur quixotically arranged atop legs like stilts: a moose.

AND her twins.

I study their commandeered buffet — this time, the crab apple.

Does the cow scent human? Have her calves ever seen one?

Stilling breath / bones / muscles … I try to communicate: No threat here and No greens for me today, thanks. After all, a mature moose weighs as much as a car, can charge at 35 miles per hour, and possesses front hooves designed to lash out in any direction.

So, I stay put, snapping breathless photos.

Then … simply watch, rapt. Only God could imagine into bone / joint / sinew-and-hide these stoic, browsing eccentrics. How effortlessly they radiate wildness.

Moose are focused. Adept. Insouciantly unafraid.

Moose: literally, “Eater of Twigs.” De-nuder of trees. And these three are thorough. The ornamentals will soon be whittled to nubs!

Stamping my feet, I shout. Flail. Make noises, mostly unintelligible.

It’s a lot like praying for someone with cancer.

Are such cries disrespectful? Do they communicate? Are they vacant gestures against a disease all-consuming in its hunger?

I mutter prayers anyway, writes author Brian Doyle.

Did they have any weight as they flew?

I don’t know.

But I believe with all my heart that they mattered because I was moved to make them. … believe that the impulse to pray is the prayer, and that the words we use are only envelopes in which to mail pain and joy …

It’s the urge that matters — the sudden Save us that rises against horror, the silent Thank you for joy.

Even the wrenched-out gutterals — ?!#%?&?! — all that is ornamental pared back to the raw shoot.

So, I pray for my friend with cancer. And for others I know, also gravely afflicted with different versions.

I pray for all of us. That we remain focused. Adept in grace. Insouciantly unafraid.

What’s staring you down, eyeball-to-eyeball? I’d gladly add my prayers to yours.

Brian Doyle, Leaping: Revelations and Epiphanies

Felicity, Schmogg & Roofless Minds

by Laurie Klein 22 Chiming In

Felicity: lately, it’s mostly a memory. For the eighth day running . . . I can’t run. Endorphin-deprived, this grounded-for-now body feels logy. Wistful. S-l-a-c-k.

A run leavens my day; it boosts the spirits as well as the heart rate.

However, we in the West are beset by hazardous air quality due to wildfires. Step outside and nose-wrinkling, eye-blinking, mood-sinking schmogg assaults the senses. Headache ensues.

Housebound, a wonder junkie may forgo her knack for awe, even overlook nature’s wordless felicity.

And while I’m deeply grateful for the roof overhead and walls that keep bad air out, how does one batten down for safety . . . yet keep the soul propped open, the mind and spirit ajar?

These days, seems most everything—most everywhere—is being turned upside down.

Remember the old Sunday School fingerplay?

Here is the church;
here is the steeple;
open the doors to see all the people.

Motion-wise, unlatching thumbs and spreading the hands inverts the building: interlaced “roof fingers” and palms become floor—complete with life line.

Ergo: one steeple-free, miniature open-air temple.

Ancient Greeks designed temples with an uncovered space that housed an image of deity. This required a new adjective: Hypaethral (hī-ˈpē-thrəl: quasi-rhymes with “Hi C thrill,” for all you dear sopranos, reading this post).

Hypo-, means “under or beneath,” and aithēr, “air or heaven.”

So, fellow homebodies under heaven, with our blessedly non-leaking roofs clamped overhead, how do we as living temples—each of us quietly housing the image of God—proceed?

As the runner’s sole hitting pavement depends on friction, so we embrace the chafe of severe mercy. Hard grace. The whole of this whacked-out world is still a house for us all. A house for God. A roofless marvel of intricate connectivity. Delight, blessedness, eloquence, bliss—felicity still abounds.

Perhaps roofless is a state of mind . . .

Amid wildfires and COVID-19, riots and politics, global suffering and local schmogg, it’s still occurring out there, beyond the glass . . . PRAISE, I mean . . .

As Frederick Buechner says:

“The way Psalm 148 describes it, praising God … is about as measured as a volcanic eruption. … The whole of creation is in on the act—the sun and moon, the sea, fire and snow, Holstein cows and white-throated sparrows, old men in walkers and children who still haven’t taken their first step.

“Their praise is not chiefly a matter of saying anything, because most of creation doesn’t deal in words. Instead, the snow whirls, the fire roars, the Holstein bellows, the old man watches the moon rise.

“Their praise is not something that at their most complimentary they say, but something that at their truest they are.

“Watch how the trees exult when the wind is in them. … Learn how to say ‘Hallelujah’ from the ones who say it right.”

Day or night, barefoot or shod, kneeling or running, may we do no less.

What is the gift being offered us now?

Tell me, what metaphorical footwear might you lace on, in preparation?

P.S. If you enjoyed my earlier post on racial reconciliation (found here), here’s an excellent book currently furthering my education. White Awake: An Honest Look at What It Means to Be White, by Daniel Hill.

Daytime low-angle tree shot by Veronica Gomez Ibarra, on Unsplash; Nighttime low-angle tree shot by Dave Hoefler, on Unsplash

Exclamation Points in a Story, a Season, a Life

by Laurie Klein 20 Chiming In

Slight as a cat’s eyelash,
one black mark
graces the page,
piquing my curiosity. O
how it pulses, as if
rendered in neon—
this exclamation point
humans assigned
to an angel,
in the gospel of Luke.

Printers call these marks gaspers, screamers, startlers. Many editors view them as lazy shortcuts. Or overkill. “Never expect punctuation to animate flabby prose.”

As a writer, this is my world. Render passion, yes; but ration those exclamation points. Say, one every six months. (Or every book and a half, as Elmore Leonard advises.)

In the NIV translation, Gabriel gets one—but not where we might expect it.

“Greetings,” he says.

This salutation alone—from a celestial being—seems worthy of emphasis. However, rigorous scholars inserted a comma, then continued the sentence: “. . . you who are highly favored!”

For Mary, a knee-quaking moment.

For you and me, millennia later,
it’s breathtaking,
soul-shaking,
hope-making news.

That’s because highly favored means “to make graceful, to endow with grace.”

Mary embodied in-the-moment receptiveness to God.

As we welcome God, we too become highly favored, our lives affirmed. Transformed. Made grace-full.

Exclamation points, over time . . .

First used in English in the 15th century, they were considered “notes or signs of admiration,” perhaps from the Latin root for wonderment.

In the Greek word for joy, io, the “i” is written above the “o.” The forerunner, perhaps?

In our day exclamation points proliferate in online communications and may indicate surprise, excitement, anger, and other strong emotions. Peruse Luke (in the NIV version) and you’ll find them accentuating promises, warnings, complaints, interjections, exhortations, chastisements, praises, and pleas.

I counted 36 in all—again, not always where I expected them. Surprisingly, the humble period appears when Jesus cleanses the temple. And when the entire heavenly host sings “Glory to God in the highest.”

To this day, consulting scholars, clergy, and other professionals continue to translate the Bible. They peer into, and pore over, the original Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek manuscripts.

They parse grammar. Argue semantics. Assign emphasis.

No matter how we punctuate
this story, older than our world
yet still fresh as the rain,
how radically Love arrives, to upend,
upset, even overturn
our sense of self,
our hopes, and
our flawed expectations.

Where are the living exclamation points appearing in your life this month? Wonderment is contagious. I hope you’ll share one . . .

You might also enjoy the Smithsonian’s take on the exclamation mark

And speaking of strong emotions: Holidays, Saying Yes to Unexpected Gifts!

There’s even a blog about them: Excessive Exclamation!!

“Yes” Photo: John Tyson on Unsplash.

Change: Brought to You Today by the Letter “R”

by Laurie Klein 50 Chiming In

Two vases, cast off
by their owners,
stand side by side
in my greenhouse window.

My Jack Sprat-and-wife of the pottery world.

Both came from yard sales, several years apart, and I enjoy them every day. But this morning … I see them a-fresh.

Last year, you could say my life resembled the tall vase: shapely and capacious, with an easy, upward outlook. Familiar, much-loved dimensions.

Then I got scary sick.

Talk about crushing. It was like being squashed into the squat, bulbous vase: squeezed, compressed, diminished. My personal soundtrack underwent change, too, from carefree humming to yelps, groans, the occasional whimper.

In the words of Jeremiah the prophet, I was being emptied from vessel to vessel.

Without my permission.

“The people of Moab,” Jeremiah said, “are like wine left to settle; they have never been emptied from one jar to another.”

Dregs are so repulsive.

And no one wants to be forced into shape-shifting change. So we pray, rebel, scout silver linings. We whine, rage, then pray some more.

Panicky at being out of control, we pursue compulsions. (Why yes, I did solve 31 jigsaw puzzles and 413 crosswords.)

Sometimes we make lists: Things I Can Still Do.

We binge. Then pay. Grieve. Pray harder.

And all the while, friends—like you!—keep showing up. You pray, send cards, emails, puzzles, and gifts. You prepare healing foods and assist with errands.

The goodness of God shown through loving, practical grace has kept me hopeful, tensile. Malleable.

Little by little, I’ve found peace in the awkward new shape of my days.

“Through love all pain will turn to medicine” (Rumi).

Friends, after five long months my new favorite word begins with the letter “R.” I am officially in Remission. End. Of. Siege. No more Abominable Abdominal C. diff!

Now begins the slow, stretching efforts of trial-and-error diet, to heal the interior damage.

Perhaps I need a third vase.

Have you been disrupted, too? Emptied from vessel to vessel?

I would love to pray for you.

You might also like Kissing — Actual, Metaphorical — Changes All

Thank you to Cris DiNoto for Railroad Crossing photo (on Unsplash)

Reset: Notes from a Backward Sabbatical

by Laurie Klein 50 Chiming In

Reset: A fresh start. A return to zero.

We humans reset our clocks & lottery jackpots,
bowling pins & broken bones,
odometers, iPhones & circuit breakers,
alarms, passwords & user names,
devices & diamonds & letterpress type.

I’ve been sick for 100 days. I am undergoing a reset. Disease has streamlined my life. Food, elimination, exercise, rest—I feel pared down to the basics. Vulnerable as a newborn.

Painfully aware of Self.

Self-interest
Self-pity
Self-deception

To name a few.

God seems to be tinkering with my innermost clockwork.

A God who is beyond great, must, by definition, work in ways that are beyond our understanding.

So says Ann Voskamp.

I believe I’ll recover—perhaps with a new normal. But for now grace meets me, again and again, despite my ailing body’s fussy demands and dismal, unending commentary. Grace inches open a door.

Like the evening I’m ladling out soup. Yet another bowl of bone broth. And the phone rings. My friend Robert must rush his wife to E.R. It’s 3:00 a.m. in England and all their friends are asleep. Will I pray?

Love and compassion ignite. Purpose courses through me. I’m needed—by someone a continent away. God moves in their lives and in mine as well. Hope shimmers, a devotional reset.

O I could tell you so many 100-day stories!

Instead, fresh off the altar, here’s a new song, fitting for resurrection week. My gifted friend Bryan Bogue composed the music, and I wrote the lyrics.

NO MORE SORROW

Another night is gone, and nothing like the dawn seems to be breaking.
You lie in bed and pray, just aching for that final day of waking
light years from here, beyond all fear.
Faith used to be so clear; now it’s elusive as a cure.
Nothing feels sure.

When clouds look like a bruise, and early morning news inflames your spirit,
the steep and winding Way feels more remote each day, and still you choose it.
Bodies grow frail, and memories fail.
Passions wax cold and stale. Ready your mind, your soul, your core.
Here’s what’s in store . . .

No more sorrow. No If onlys. Lonely nights will cease.
No more weeping. Grieving wanes as pain gives way to peace.

The world looks on and jeers, the fleeting gift of years can be deceiving.
Our pipe dreams run aground and don’t always rebound. We stop believing.
Vanities pall, as empires sprawl,
prey on the weak and small.
Call to mind promises foretold. Rise and take hold . . .

No more sorrow. No If onlys. Lonely nights will cease.
No more weeping. Grieving wanes as pain gives way to peace.

No more sorrow. No tomorrow cancels grace today.
God will stroke each lifted face and wipe each tear away.

No more sorrow, Solace calls. Lift your face as mercy falls . . .

Clockworks photo: Zoltan Tasi on Unsplash
Watch reset photo: Luke Chesser on Unsplash
Song credits: Bryan Bogue (keyboard, composer/arranger/conductor), Scotty Ingersoll (lead vocal), Gage Homburg (back-up vocals), Ted Swenson (bass), Tana Bachman-Bland (violin, viola), Cheryl Carney (cello), and Keith Thomas (oboe)