over and under Archives - Laurie Klein, Scribe

Statio: Latin, noun . . .

Wait, let me begin again, in English. And let’s take the scenic route.

Take that mystery B&B bedding—last week, on our anniversary. No, it wasn’t flannel or linen. Ditto T-shirty jersey. Not to mention slide-right-off-the-side satin.

I’d never felt anything like it: sleek, lightweight warmth, yet cool to the touch, deliciously crisp. An all-over caress.

Sometimes what passes through our fingertips or settles over our skin affects more than the body.

“If I only touch his cloak, I will be healed,” a desperately ill woman said of Jesus (Matt. 9:21). And she was.
Acts 9 recounts aprons and handkerchiefs touched by Paul, then draped over invalids. Result? Long-distance recovery.
In ancient Joppa, Dorcas wove beautiful robes for widows—until her death. Peter prayed, and God brought her to life again (Acts 9:36-42). Imagine her new designs after glimpsing paradise!

In our times of industrial looms, stories like these offer a fresh twist on “material witness.”

Might there be a spiritual parallel to modern factory thread counts?

The number of threads per square inch indicates quality. Fibers closely woven in a “criss-cross, over-under pattern” known as “percale” create breathable lightness, surprisingly durable. Like the sheets at the B&B.

Like the qualities of a yielded life.

Which brings us to statio, an ancient monastic practice still lovingly observed today. Imagine a small devotional segue between activities: “the time between times,” as Sister Joan Chittister, O.S.B., says. “If I am present to a child before I dress her, then the dressing becomes an act of creation. If I am present to my spouse in the living room, then marriage becomes an act of divine communion. If I am present to the flower before I cut it, then life becomes precious.”

Statio prayer is a mesh we weave: invisible, real, often wordless.

**Any given moment will do—time offered to God even as we receive it from God.**

How? Well, pause invites repose. Eyes closed, I focus on deepening breath (rather than headlong thoughts). Then . . .
Criss-cross, over and under . . .

I might add an audible sigh of surrender; receive an intake of grace
Or I physicalize yielding: cross hands over heart, then extend top hand, palm down, cradle it with bottom hand, palm up
A whisper works, too: “Here am I, great I AM.”

Disrupting momentum’s urgency, we can practice reset between one task and the next. The more often we pause, the closer our “threads of connection” align. We live more consciously.

Clearing the mind, even briefly, calms the soul, clothes us in peace.

Half a century ago, I wove Dreamer’s wedding shirt: cotton warp, twisted linen and silk strands, with raw wool feathered into select rows, as accents. Distinctive texture. Terrible snags! Fragile silk went full bedhead: knots, static, split ends—triggering my temper—stupid snarl! I wanted to hack everything off the loom.

Forget blessing my beloved.

Likewise, when a physical fever afflicts us, we fling off the sheets. Then, chilled, we scramble back into them knowing they’ll hold us; rewarm us; an all-over caress.

Can statio happen here, in the hard places—in that fractional moment before our next action? Perhaps it’s as basic as gratefulness we can do something, anything . . . or not . . . at peace either way.

Is this how we “criss-cross, over and under, percale” a day? What stops us from realigning with God’s presence before reaching outward?

Lord, you inhabit every fractional space,
the time between times,
betwixt words,
amid each inhale and exhale,
one foot’s lift and the other’s step . . .

Friends, will you join me? We could start small: a statio prayer before we rise, as we dress, after making the bed.

How else might you proceed . . . now, as the season turns?