Even as I sit to write, it's difficult for me to believe it's true:
On January 5th, 2013,
my grandfather Richard Kooistra left the arms of those who love him here, and went to be with the God he built his life on.
Our patriarch,
he was a man who exuded peaceful depth
without giving up on ridiculous fun.
My favorite memory occurred one summer when we were visiting him and my grandmother in Wisconsin. He was wearing a pair of shorts that--for whatever reason--I decided to tease him about, saying that they looked funny. He pouted about it, in his typical goofy way, and then, the next thing I knew, he'd gotten a scissors and [you should pause to prepare yourself for this], cut them up. It's my favorite memory for the sheer silliness of it. But, as I've thought more about it since it was read at his funeral, I've realized how fully it exemplified his shepherding heart:
Making sure that his 8 year old granddaughter knew she had a voice that someone cared enough to listen to,
there was also a gentle lesson:
Your words have power, so be thoughtful in what you say.
there was also a gentle lesson:
Your words have power, so be thoughtful in what you say.
This man,
loving husband to 'Fonda' [will I ever forget the way he'd walk through a house yelling 'Fahn-da!' with so much love and respect in his joyful need of her?],
loving father to my father,
and to the rest of the children who came as the years went by;
this man led his family of 8 from a farm in Iowa
to as far away as one could get, in order to pastor
an African American church-plant in inner city Paterson, NJ.
In his courage and obedience, he taught them what it looks like to believe that God is worthy, and that God is faithful.
And he passed it onto his slew of grandchildren, who from the earliest age knew that faith was the legacy they were born to.
Somewhere around the time this photo was taken, my grandfather was tucking me into bed one night, listening to me say my prayers. In my childish praying, I said something flippantly; I do not remember what, and I do not remember exactly what he said in response. What I remember is that he was personally hurt at my disregard of the Person of God. And what I took away and kept in the memory I still have of his face in that moment is that he was a man who knew God to be someOne real, someOne he was deeply connected to.
What I remember is that when face to face with my grandfather, there was no disregarding the fullness of what it means to walk with God.
And so,
the memories that this man left us are more than just a good time,
though he was that.
It's more than the charm he displayed,
given any opportunity.
It's more than the youthfulness with which he approached life,
though he kept it all the way until the final months of his illness.
It's more than the games we played,
and the conversations we had.
It's more, because this is the man who taught us how to Live.
For this we mourn our loss,
but also for this, we rejoice in his Gain.
Because, if he were here right now, he would tell you the Truth:
'For to me, to live is Christ, and to die is indeed gain.'
Good-bye Grandpa, may the name of the Lord be praised.
Psalm 121
I lift up my eyes to the hills--where does my help come from? My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth. He will not let your foot slip--he who watches over you will not slumber; indeed, he who watches over Israel will neither slumber nor sleep. The LORD watches over you--the LORD is your shade at your right hand; the sun will not harm you by day, nor the moon by night. The LORD will keep you from all harm--he will watch over your life; the LORD will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore.
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