I am delighted to share another beautiful submission to the Monk in the World guest post series from the community. Read on for Laurie Klein’s reflection, A Portable Eden.
When the doctor diagnoses my husband’s cognitive loss, I try not to panic.
Along come four crucial words. They shimmer for me in The Road to Daybreak, an intimate diary of priest, professor, and writer Henri Nouwen. He’s prayerfully poised to forsake his academic career to become a caregiver, and the words, spoken by a fellow priest, illumine his thoughts. And mine.
Picture a quartet of solar lights in a garden, at twilight. Be. Faithful. In. Adoration.
Will devotion overflow into caregiving? But how? I have less solitude now. Then again, might I already have a head start?
- Often beset by illness or broken bones, I discover new ways to simply be in God’s presence—especially when “doing” is off the table.
- Married 53 years, I know a thing or two about being faithful.
- Caregiving? I’m in . . . 150% (though still a rookie in the School of Love).
- I long to deepen in true adoration.
But some days, I can only sip from ephemeral wellsprings. Will this be enough?
When Dreamer, my beloved, stops driving, our world contracts, largely to ER visits and medical appointments, often in another state.
I ache for oasis. Leisure. Longer reprieves.
Then . . . is it whim, or a nudge of the Spirit? While he naps one day, I forsake my lists to update my large terrarium. It already holds a Norfolk pine and asparagus fern. A little stone cottage (long-ago gift from Dreamer) nestles under a frond. Dollar store finds go in next: a weathervane, a thumb-high arch bearing a lantern, a mirror for a pond. The miniature world stirs my childhood love of little things. Housebound as we often are, it reminds me God’s sheltering us.
Amid daily misting, a prayer evolves:
As I tend these plants around us,
Dear Spirit, please reground us.
And may every pore absorb
Your living presence, tender Lord.
The daily prayer and plant care refreshes enchantment, re-paces me, and ushers in a storied, palpable hush.
Healing may be different from curing.
When Dreamer and I explore alternative health protocols, a specialized team discovers toxic mold proliferating inside our home’s walls. We jettison two-thirds of our belongings, then relocate while the house undergoes remediation. It takes time to say, and truly mean, Blessed be the Lord, who giveth and taketh away.
Painful curation prompts questions: Redeemer of All, what in me needs to go? And: What will your redesign look like?
Sometimes we wake up with ideas not our own. Resettled back home, I strip down Great-grandma’s Victorian loveseat. Upholstery, padding, springs, straps, a gazillion tacks—into the trash they go. And into the gutted, beautifully carved frame? Houseplants.
The loveseat evolves from ruins to verdant wonder. I love you, Merciful Maker.
“Looks like a forest,” our grandson says.
Placed near the big west window, it’s a thriving, portable Eden. Acrobatic Black-eyed Susan vines bloom like constellations, vivid orange and yellow, as they swarm ornamental trellis. Solar lights small as earring studs collect sunlight, then radiate a magical glow as night comes on.
Despite Dreamer’s awful symptoms, ever in flux, the ancient loveseat teems with life, breathing out heavenly peace. O come, let us adore him.
Time passes, and Dreamer’s health flags. No more gorgeous lathe creations, another loss.
I tie on his work apron to tend our indoor Eden, a reminder to clothe myself in the grace gifts of Spirit: compassion, kindness, humility, patience.
When my lavender topiary dies, I can’t bear to throw one more thing away. It stands in a bedroom corner in bristling, silvery solitude.
Sometime later, I waken with a quirky image: Someone bedecked my poor little tree with dangly earrings. Lord of Laughter, is this your idea? The notion feels 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 banish dread.
I’ll do it!
Oh bother. I tossed the earrings during the household mold purge.
Now what?
O my soul, be faithful in adoration.
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 ribcage! Rather than breathless awe, knee-buckling reverence, I sense a caregiving God’s holy, happy-go-lucky benevolence.
And this: “Child, all your times are in my hands: your hearts, your hopes, your hurts.”
In The Geography of Memory: A pilgrimage through Alzheimer’s, 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.*”
I’m learning adoration can be playful, fearless, even exuberant, as well as intimate, speechless, yielding. It can be a two-way embrace, one quiet center, an inner Eden we carry with us. Maybe we move toward what beckons, no matter how unlikely: take the topiary—dead, but still shapely—brittle arms, up-stretched.
What will they hold?
*from Henri-Frédéric Amiel
Laurie Klein is the author of the classic praise song “I Love You, Lord” and two poetry collections. She blogs monthly at lauriekleinscribe.com. She and Dreamer live in a cedar house amid piney woods, a meadow, and pond. Out walking or housebound, it seems leftover atoms from Eden can show up anywhere.
