Good gifts, from a Good Giver

I've written before on the gift of fasting, how it opens space to experience the fullness of God, how it is a means of communicating the desire of my heart for no other thing than Him.  

What I didn't write then is how fasting also refines my listening, and strengthens the subtle call to obey the intimate directions of a God who sees and knows the innermost workings of my heart, my life, the path He is guarding for me. 

I was reminded of this truth regarding fasting recently, when my church went on a 21 day fast, asking God for more of Himself.  

I sat in the initiating service, with my little 'what will you fast from?' card, and asked God: What do you want me to do?

I was thinking 'It's probably food, most surely it is very holy to fast from food for 21 days, most surely this is what God wants from me.'

What I heard was:  COFFEE.

And I thought, 'Seriously God?  Coffee? Surely you can't be suggesting I fast from my very favorite warm beverage of coffee.'

And He assured me: Surely, I am very serious.

So the next day, I started my daily routine without my coffee.  [I tried to start it without food too, thinking surely God must have made a mistake when He left that off the list.  I discovered quite quickly: Girl, I'm not asking you for this--you need to EAT.]

Fast forward through 21 days, during which I pined for that coffee.  I missed it.  I couldn't believe  how even the replacement of very yummy coconut chai tea with honey and milk that I felt allowed to indulge in did not replace my deep desire for coffee.  Oh, how my heart ached.

And, oh, how I realized: My quiet moments with God that I start every day with had become more like 'Quiet moments with my coffee, during which I talk to God'.  

Oh.

Now, pause for a moment in your fast forwarding on Saturday, the 20th day of the fast.  The day where God blew open my heart, and held me in deep awareness of my humbleness, and of His greatness.  The day where my only response was to just weep before Him.  The day where:

I convinced myself that the lack of coffee in my life was a symbol for something else God was asking me to sacrifice, the truest deepest desire of my heart:  Marriage and family.

[Pause for a moment to understand that this is something I do not talk about; as my deepest desire, the lack of it is also my deepest hurt, and my inclination to protect myself here is strong. Pause for a moment to understand: Writing about this is one of those refined acts of obedience to the giant heart of God.]

I sat with God in the hurt of such a sacrifice.  I said 'Are you really asking this of me?'  I said 'Please don't ask this of me.'  I said: If you are asking it of me, I will willingly go, and offer you my tears.

And my day moved on, in the arms of good friends.

The next morning I drove 30 minutes, to lead worship at one of my favorite gatherings.  I prayed on my way with a quieter heart, with tears just below the surface [without, I might add, my coffee resting in the cupholder...].  I said 'Be my hope; give me hope; give me something from You if you want me to have hope'. 

Because here's the interesting thing: Over the past year or so, God has been systematically and thoroughly teaching me, very clearly: 'This is what marriage is, this is what it isn't'.  And when I've fallen down in abject hopelessness that this is something He is never going to provide, He has systematically and thoroughly gone out of His way to pick me up, brush me off, and say: 

I want you to have hope.

So in my praying, I said: I will continue to ask you for a partner, for children.  I believe that you are a giver of good gifts, and that you have a Father's heart.  I will appeal to that heart, with open hands if you choose an answer other than yes.

As I listened on my drive, I felt quite strongly that my coffee fast was not going to end with the official end of 21 days.  I felt quite strongly that I needed the continued removal of coffee to remind me to listen, deeply, for Him, for direction, for hope.

I went to bed last night then, feeling the definite restraint of God's hand on the question of the coffee.

But this morning? I woke up, I rolled over, I opened my eyes.  I was hit with a sudden and immediate awareness of: Release.

An immediate awareness of God saying: Go get your coffee, because I am  a giver of good gifts, and I delight in giving you the desire of your heart.

An immediate and acute knowledge of God's heart for me, 

as He responded to the 'something' that I had asked Him for.

The fullness of His hope, the reality of His extravagant love,

demonstrated in the smallest of things.

For those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. 
They will soar on wings like eagles; 
they will run and not grow weary, 
they will walk and not be faint.
[Is. 40:31]
Enough; Amen.

To remember, to celebrate, to say good-bye

Though I had traveled to Iowa over the summer in order to be with my grandfather while he was still here [with the thought that I might not be able to then go again for his funeral], when I found out that members of my immediate family were driving cross country to be with our extended family for the funeral, I knew there was no other place for me to be than with them.  Hence, late on Monday evening, my parents and brothers converged at my house for a brief rest, my brothers camped out on the couches, and my parents tucked away in the basement.  The next morning we got up early, and Operation Drive Straight Through to Iowa commenced.

 We spent our 19 hours talking, playing games, reading, [in my case] doing a little work, cozy within the confines of the Kooistra mini-van.  [It has been 10 years since last we were all within those confines, just we 5...] We arrived at the house of our hosts late in the night, and sent ourselves straight to bed.

The next morning we awoke, got ready, and went out to the car to find these guys hanging out nearby.  Then, we climbed in and went to the funeral home, for our first meeting with the family, and for the private viewing.  We hugged, we cried. We sat there together, and shared stories.  We remembered the ways he loved us, and how we loved him.  And we reminded ourselves of the legacy he had left us.

The rest of the day was spent being together,
getting re-acquainted,

eating the food generously provided for us, playing games, and making final preparations for the funeral.

When the public viewing occurred at night, we watched as people streamed in to visit us, to tell us how much he meant to them, to share their own stories.  We listened, and we were grateful.

The next morning found us back at the church for the funeral.  We shared and listened to more stories.   We were reminded of God's great heart for us in our time of sorrow.  We reflected on the life our patriarch had lived, and celebrated it,

in word and in song.

And then we escorted his body to the place where it will rest,

and then returned to the church,

to share in a meal, and to establish that though we will miss him, we will move forward.

It's difficult to describe the feeling in that room, the love, the support, the peace, so let me see if this will do:

Even after the food was cleared away, we stayed there,
to dwell in the comfort of it.

And then, as the crowd thinned out,
we stayed there more, grateful for the rest.

Eventually, we rearranged ourselves,
only the close family groups remaining.

And later on,

 we gathered into games,

 and comfy clothes.

We took joy in just being us, a little longer.

 We closed out the night with pizza, 

and then began to say good-bye.

Some of us found our way over to Grandma's for a bit more visiting, before the final good-byes were made. We hugged, we smiled.  We were glad for these moments, the time to be.

The next morning the boys, my mother and I got back into that mini-van, leaving our father behind to help with the things that needed taking care of.

We began the long journey,

 stopping along the way at the antique place
belonging to the show 'American Pickers',

which made Keith happy in his heart. 

 We played more games [which also makes our Keith happy],

we stopped for [surprisingly really good!!] fast food.

We arrived at my house late and exhausted, ready for a nap, until a few hours later when our own good-byes were said.

And when all was said and done, we were grateful for the trip;

to remember, to celebrate, to say good-bye.

Patriarchal Legacy

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.

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.