prayer 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

Sketchy Directions

by Laurie Klein 33 Chiming In

I follow the GPS cues
exactly (leaving home
early, just in case).

I’ve enrolled in an evening workshop: “Reflections and Intentions.” En route, I’m haunted by a Jan Richardson poem.

Travel the most ancient way of all, Richardson writes.
. . .
No map
but the one
you make yourself.

“Your destination,”
my GPS voice intones
(digitally confident and
almost smug),
“is on your left.”

Actually, no. It is not there.

Nor is it kitty-corner, adjacent, or around the back.

I cruise nearby alleys. Now what?

Welcome detours as doors deeper in.

Well, the most promising building in the vicinity contains numerous offices.

Once inside the building, I wander down halls seeking the combined classroom, Suites 101 and 102.

And there they are: on the other side of a windowed door with a keypad lock.

You have looked
at so many doors
with longing,
wondering if your life
lay on the other side.

How easily the door swings open.

Six doors flank the new hallway. I head for Suites 101-102. Then, an ominous click as the door I just came through, now one way only, automatically locks behind me.

I turn the handles of Suite 101, then 102—then give them each a hard shake. Locked. So, right room numbers, wrong building. Unless class is cancelled?

Even the outside Exit is locked.

Help, I’m trapped in a Metaphor for Life.

Wait, one door’s slightly ajar. A restroom.

Oh, please. Would YOU feel like resting?

A person can leave home in good faith.
You’ve done this, haven’t you?
You allow ample travel time,
follow directions, and end up . . . stranded.

And there you are, praying. I recently learned the most ancient prayer of all.

Richard Rohr reminded me that the Hebrew consonants used to spell God’s name—so sacred it is never to be spoken aloud—are visually rendered “YHWH.”

When correctly pronounced, Rohr adds, these consonants do not require movement of the tongue and lips. The gentle sounds replicate breath: (YH) inhalation, then (WH) exhalation. Each breath, lightly sketched. A different, deeper kind of direction.

“The first name you spoke, upon birth, was God’s name,” Rohr declares.

“The last breath you take will be the name of God. It’s the one thing you’ve done constantly.” (See video clip, below)

Friends, this is the most calming prayer I know. And every in-between, stuck place seems an ideal setting for it.

For today, choose the door
that opens to the inside.

Not too long afterward, a barista engaged in after-hours clean-up discovers me. She ushers me through the closed coffee shop. She Googles a map on her phone, then kindly points me in the right direction, not far after all.

Once again, the way forward proves unexpected. And, ultimately, timely.

What calms and re-centers you when you’re surrounded by closed doors?

Friends, last week I shared the YHWH prayer with our daughter, Kristin, who was hospitalized for acute, undiagnosed pain. I’ll be praying it again this coming week, Monday, January 20th, as she undergoes yet another surgery.

We’d be grateful for your prayers.

Let me know how I can pray for you?

“The Map You Make Yourself,” Jan Richardson, Circle of Grace

Listen to Richard Rohr here: “Becoming Stillness” (begin at 45:52 on videotape)

Photo: Mark Cruz on Unsplash

Going Deeper: And Everything Eddying into Light

by Laurie Klein 36 Chiming In

Floor-to-ceiling windows frame acres of light.

The walls showcase B&W close-ups of architectural details: poems in stone. The photographer with the impeccable eye will also perform my root canal.

Scared and fretful yesterday, I memorized part of an old prayer. It’s still with me now, as I leaf through a glossy magazine, where posh Londoners show off their new home. One bathroom features a pschedelic paisley-on-steroids toilet. As you’ll know from previous posts, I’m acutely attuned to plumbing. I show Dreamer, then the receptionist, and we all laugh.

I turn the page. “Oh look. They also installed a personal pole dance room.”

More laughter.

Comic relief helps. A friend died under general anesthesia, a freak allergic reaction. I try to imagine her larking about heaven.

When the Anesthetist arrives, he’s witty, direct, and unhurried. A man I can trust. I tell him about my friend.

“I’ll watch over you,” he says.

Down comes the mask:

claustrophobia
soupy air
aroma of magic markers

“Hold my hand,” he says. “Squeeze as hard as you want.”

I summon the prayer, but it fragments: From this little room and this short hour . . .

“You’re doing great, Laurie.”

. . . I can lift up my mind beyond all time and space . . .

“You haven’t squeezed once.”

. . . unto Thee, the uncreated One . . .

“Just float.”

The mind shrugs. A bodily sigh. All is serene, surreal. Hypnotic. I’m a kite, riding a chemical thermal.

. . . until the light of Thy countenance illumines all my life.

Beneath the crown and dentin my diseased molar holds four canals, each one different. For over two hours Dr. T. wields drill and file. He rasps and reshapes, routing out wider routes, clear to the roots.

Then the bleaching. The final sealing. Like every painstaking work of God: artful, thorough, radically cleansing.

Another severe mercy.

I awake in a different room, brimming with light, still feeling held; tooth saved, the deep work done.

From this little room
and this short hour
I can lift up my mind
beyond all time and space
to Thee, the uncreated One,
until the light of Thy countenance
illumines all my life.

—John Baillie

Tell me your favorite thought or prayer for difficult times.

Photo by Daniel Frank on Unsplash

Relax into the Impossible

by Laurie Klein 13 Chiming In

“Relax” — perhaps not your first title for this image.

How long has this homely garden gnome kissed the dirt? Someone seems pretty lax in their landscaping.

Re: Lax.

Lax can mean slipshod. Slapdash.

Lax also denotes loosened muscles and limbs. Deepened ease.

Perhaps it’s a continuum?

Test Case.

A dear friend is throwing a party. She wants my help.

Guests will retell their conversion experience, 3 minutes per person.

An artist assigned to each table will take notes on their stories.

~20 minutes for listening
~25 minutes to create something, in response
~5 minutes to present it … publicly

Large room, long guest list.

Her request—seemingly impossible—suggests … extraordinary possibility.

Can it be done?

Keen attention and presence must marry crunch-time spontaneity.

Seat-of-the-pants is not how I roll.

Relax … how?

The party-room vibrates with expectation.

Pacing, I roll my neck and shoulders. Must lighten up, loosen my mind, let the nerves go lax.

I’d drop right now like a jazz dancer, collapse face-down, if I could, like the garden gnome—preferably under a table—let everyone carry on without me.

Relax. Now.

Gnome comes from an ancient Greek word, meaning “to know.” Despite my fear, I know grace has my back.

I choose a table. Memorable stories unspool.

Afterward, we artists retreat with our notes to another room while the guests eat.

Help me help me help me

25 minutes evaporate.

Showtime.

I cradle my efforts: the distillation of 5 stories rich with surprise and hope, rife with my cross-outs, arrows, and asterisks. My version is slapdash, yet deeply felt.

I teach the crowd the refrain, and we speak it aloud between each section:

“You were born from God’s longing. And here you are.”

They hear it. I hear it. Together, we relax into the impossible.

GNOME

What is a face plant but a dance,
staged alongside possible ruin,
another garden-variety hero,
toppled, among the shrubs,
clownish, inept. Unarmed.
Face-down is one nosedive
prayer embodies: the sudden
gravity, slapstick’s kissing cousin.
Practice pratfalls. Lean into the spill,
each bruise an inside turn, toward grace.

+++

“Let the beauty we love be what we do. There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.” —Rumi

What helps you relax into the impossible?

Should you wish to create a similar celebration:
My friend’s O Holy Night Party gathered seasoned dancers, writers, artists, a table maven, and a musician; great food, beautifully presented; stunning stories, each teller newly-luminous in remembrance, which happens when we recount aloud moments that changed everything.

“You were born from God’s longing.” Peter G. van Breeman, God Who Won’t Let Go
“Relax into the impossible.” Susan Cowger

*No gnomes were harmed in the making of this post.

Sigh, Sigh, Sigh (& Stay Alive!)

by Laurie Klein 17 Chiming In

Sigh … audibly. Deeply. Frequently. (So says my fitness instructor)

Dreamer’s latest angiogram date looms. After 5 bypasses, why are we here again? Dismay feels substantive enough to mold—like river sludge between cupped palms.

Sigh. Empty the hands, lift them in trusting surrender.

An audible sigh re-inflates the vital, occasionally squashed alveoli within our lungs, keeping us alive.

So sigh some more.

A sigh alleviates stress. Research shows that 12 hourly sighs help us regroup, emotionally. Read more here.

Yes, bad news strikes, and fear makes us bristle, become thistle-y with those we love
Yes, sometimes even the air weighs on us, seemingly saturated with unshed tears
Yes, how easily we slide toward the sump of dread

Stalled out again,
going nowhere fast,
I remember “nowhere”
plus the addition
of one slender space
becomes “now here.”

Presence. One slender pause—a breath, a hum, a prayer—invites a sacred recalibration. The built-in reset for body and soul.

Inhale. Sigh aloud. Repeat.

“there is a changing of everything —
when breath becomes prayer.”*

Richard Rohr teaches a simple breath prayer. Using the name YAHWEH for God: inhale, audibly voicing the YAH; exhale, audibly voicing the WEH.

I also like Dr. Andrew’s Weil’s calming breath exercise:

Exhale as much air as possible with a big whoosh
Place tongue behind upper teeth, inhale for an easy count of 4
Hold breath for a count of 7
Exhale audibly for a count of 8

Do this four times. As it becomes easier, increase to eight repetitions, twice a day. Follow Dr. Weil in video clip, here.

I vary the 4-7-8 exercise by counting on my fingers, simultaneously humming or praying.

*Prayer, Ann Voskamp