Here, is Good.15

[It's winter. Sometimes in winter, one needs to re-instate the series of Here is Good, 

 in order to remind oneself:  Here, [thank you] is Good.]

When your friend feels strongly Led to make a batch of scones, 

specifically because she thinks you'll need one

and she's coming to your house that afternoon,

you nibble because: Delicious.

But when the last child is out the door just 10 minutes before you yourself need to get out the door to go host a talk for that other job you have, and you realize that you have no time to eat dinner?

You eat the scone.

And when the night is over and you're not even craving food?

You reflect on: Your Heavenly Father knows what you need,

before you even need it.

And when you text her to thank her and to tell her,
and she tells you about the song she's been listening to all day,
you listen to it.

And you revel in the Truth He's been showing you
and showing you and helping you see,
and which you are not surprised the song to sing:

"When I taste Your Goodness,
I shall not want."

I shall not want, indeed.

And listen, He's already spoken so many things into your life and into your day, so why did He see the need for this sweetly extra thing?

It's because He's Good.

And listen:
Here, thank you, is Good.

Here, is Good.14

[It's winter. Sometimes in winter, one needs to re-instate the series of Here is Good, 

in order to remind oneself:  Here, [thank you] is Good.]

When being no longer a grad student,

one can go to a conference and share a hotel room...

with no one.

Here, is Good.13

[It's winter. Sometimes in winter, one needs to re-instate the series of Here is Good, 

 in order to remind oneself:  Here, [thank you] is Good.]

To go to a show with a new dear friend. 

To listen to her heart, to ache with her in her hurt. 

To be amazed at the set design and 

warmed by the faces we know on the stage. 

To laugh at the antics and to smile at sweet dances; 

to cry when the themes run too close to home.

Here, is Good.12

[It's winter. Sometimes in winter, one needs to re-instate the series of Here is Good, 

 in order to remind oneself:  Here, [thank you] is Good.]

To sit in my cozy cave of an office on a piercingly cloudy day,

to do the planning and the emailing and the application reading, 

and to dig into the writing,

like a nerd.

Here, is Good.11

[It's winter. Sometimes in winter, one needs to re-instate the series of Here is Good, 

 in order to remind oneself:  Here, [thank you] is Good.]

When she was little, she was a piece of work.

 Yesterday I sat next to her, and just laughed:
She's learned and matured and grown and aged, but really?

Nothing at all has changed.

Here, is Good.10

[It's winter. Sometimes in winter, one needs to re-instate the series of Here is Good, 

 in order to remind oneself:  Here, [thank you] is Good.]

A few years ago now, I led the worship in the church, and then I sat--as the sermon began--toward the front, over to the left. It was a Mother's Day, and my heart felt strong but tender and sad.

As the sermon moved forward in the quiet of that darkened space, suddenly my friend--who always sat in the back, on the right--appeared at my side, holding her small child. The child leaned over, and hugged me. My friend whispered: She's been bugging me and bugging me to come say hello to you. She wouldn't leave me alone, until I finally said ok.

They left then, but those little arms around my neck stayed with me. Her little insistent arms reminded me: there are children whom I know and love, and whom I am loved by, even if they are not my own. And I thought: What a gift, from this babe. How did she know, that I needed that gesture of her love on this particular day? 

Yesterday, that same child, a few years older now, left me this sweet note, while her sisters played drums with joyful abandon, while I sat at my table and talked with my friend about the mundane things of everyday life.

I thought of the gift it is to watch a child grow, and to see in her the consistent things that make her who she is. This little heart is sensitive and caring, and her eyes see deep heart need. Would I see it in quite the same way, if my own children were thrown into the mix? Would I be so blessed?

I don't know that I would. 

And as I sit in a season of reflecting on all that has been and all that is to come, with tender heart gratitude to the God who knows my name, I just say: I am blessed among women. Thank you.

Here, is Good.9

[It's winter. Sometimes in winter, one needs to re-instate the series of Here is Good, 

 in order to remind oneself:  Here, [thank you] is Good.]

When the furniture movers arrive at your building,

and happen to have a bookcase on their truck that matches 

the type of bookcase you have always wanted, 

and everyone around you says: Lauren, you can have it!

That is when you decide that you can cancel the trip to Jamaica you were planning in response to everything that was making you grumpy. That is when you decide it just might be the best day of your life!

Here, is Good.8

[It's winter. Sometimes in winter, one needs to re-instate the series of Here is Good, 

 in order to remind oneself:  Here, [thank you] is Good.]

Sometimes, a beautifully sunshine day means: 

Get outside and feel it on your face.

But, sometimes, 

it means it's time for a dead-to-the-world Sunday nap,

curled up in the glow of it with your best old pal.

Here, is Good.7

[It's winter. Sometimes in winter, one needs to re-instate the series of Here is Good, 

 in order to remind oneself:  Here, [thank you] is Good.]

When February throws you a 63 degree Saturday, 

you take advantage of it.

 You set the bread dough to rising 

in the gleam of the glorious sun,

and you load cookies into your oven,

tray by abundant tray.

While the baking happens, you step outside to
take down the lights that you never had a moment for

[a moment that would have been 

raw-through-your-gloves cold, by the way]

and you haul out the rugs in order to mop all the 

boot prints that have collected over 

weeks and weeks of snowy salty slushy piano babies

dredging everything inside.

And when your neighbor calls for you,

and you happen to have just taken off your shoes?

You step out onto the porch,

barefoot.

Here, Is Good.6

[It's winter. Sometimes in winter, one needs to re-instate the series of Here is Good, 

 in order to remind oneself:  Here, [thank you] is Good.]

Sometimes,

a pickle and a bagel are just the thing you need.

Here, is Good.5

[It's winter. Sometimes in winter, one needs to re-instate the series of Here is Good, 

 in order to remind oneself:  Here, [thank you] is Good.]

Attending a smart, engaging, and highly informed talk on the work of Frank Lloyd Wright, where you understand the content more deeply because you were there just this summer.

Plus, you're sitting in between your uncle and a good old friend,

and you're wearing your new favorite coat that is more like a big soft blanket.

Oh, and it's your job.

Here, is Good.4

[It's winter. Sometimes in winter, one needs to re-instate the series of Here is Good, 

 in order to remind oneself:  Here, [thank you] is Good.]

To have a morning of:

 Worship Together.

To have a morning where you cannot help but notice: 

Look what God has done.

And then watch Him apply the Things that you taught

to your own self throughout your week.

To walk and breathe in Love.

Here, is Good.3

[It's winter. Sometimes in winter, one needs to re-instate the series of Here is Good, 

 in order to remind oneself:  Here, [thank you] is Good.]

Sometimes,

church-in-my-bed
is just the Treat I need.

Here, is Good.2

[It's winter. Sometimes in winter, one needs to re-instate the series of Here is Good, 

 in order to remind oneself:  Here, [thank you] is Good.]

After a Beautifully long day,

to laugh and to create

and to sit down together,

and to be loved even when I can barely 

keep it together enough to keep my head out of my plate...

Here, is Good.1

[It's winter. Sometimes in winter, one needs to re-instate the series of Here is Good, 

 in order to remind oneself:  Here, [thank you] is Good.]

Texts to say:

Good morning!

Here, Is Good.

[It's winter. Sometimes in winter, one needs to re-instate the series of Here is Good, 

 in order to remind oneself:  Here, [thank you] is Good.]

G-chats with my sweet sis-in-law that in one second are delving into the deep deep of the work of the Lord, and the next second, 

erupt into the goofy of this:

To Live the Community Living

In recent times, I have been walking out a path of obedience, simplifying the scatteredness of my interesting-but-unsustainable life.

One such piece of that interesting life is my little piano studio, and the simplifying has involved the realization that I am not interested or able to just teach any child (even though my heart dies a little bit every time I turn someone away, because--who am I kidding?--I think that I should teach every child...).

But listen, my time is precious and my creative energy is limited. And so, the deciding factor has become: Is there a potential for community relationship with not only this child but his or her family as well?  Because if there's not, my answer to their query is, simply--no.

The result has been this very beautiful communally life-giving thing. Every Monday and Tuesday, my little cottage sings with little ones bopping around, comfortably lounging in my chair, sprawled across the floor, running back and forth to the bathroom, or spreading all their work out over my kitchen table. And I just wonder how much of their comfort comes from the fact that their mothers hug me and set up dinner dates with me before the lessons begin, and that I sprawl across their living room floors on occasion as well?

And every Wednesday, I leave my office and swing around to one side of town, to pick one getting-older one up. I bring her to her lesson, yes...but it's really just an excuse for quality car-time and the sharing of all our thoughts and hopes and realities-of-today and I-think-these-are-my-dreams.

To live the community living with my piano families means I get texts in the afternoon like this:

"Snack and piano workbooks."

It means that the littlest member of one family jumps around my house and into my arms for a "squeeeeeze!" after we have 'family band' time...even though I only technically teach her siblings. It means that her mother searches through my closets for a broom when goldfish crackers spill and I am otherwise engaged at the piano.

It means that I am on the list of approved adults when little ones get their first email accounts, and it means I receive emails from said little ones signed "from your student and friend", asking for coffee dates to talk about things.

It means that when a little one is laid out by a concussion, I go hang out with her for an afternoon while her family does things she can't do. We color and talk, and I teach her how to latch-hook a rug as she leans against my knee.

When her mother comes for her own lesson one morning, it means that I send her to work with a container of soup out of the excess I made the night before.

And it means that this morning, my lunchbox changed for the best when I was delivered half of a quiche and some beautiful muffins,

all before handing over a jar of apple oatmeal culled to life in my slow-cooker over night.

To live the community living means that we are holistically becoming more unto each other, and more unto ourselves. Musically, and otherwise.

There's a New Kooistra Among Us!

Welcome to us,

Mikaela Elizabeth.

We are so glad you're here.