To Hash Out Life, and then Re-Hash it, is to Live.

This past weekend found me bundled onto a bus, bulleting its way to NYC and to L & G.  With open arms they received me, and dumped me out at one of our favorites, for some of our favorite treats.

The nature of HOL is, after all, made up of favorites:

Eclectic scenery,

delicious drinks,

[Was it coincidence that the opening night of our HOL weekend was also dubbed National Margarita Day? Though we did not plan around 'National Margarita Day', it found out we consider HOL to be its unofficial spokesperson, and so it planned around us.]

brunch at Henri,

 walks about town,

Sweetleaf.

HOL by its very nature is also a weekend of dwelling.  Hence, Saturday afternoon found me wiped out and fast asleep on the couch while L & G read and a woman fell off her balcony.

[Yes. Near-death-experiences are not HOL by its very nature, but I did indeed awake to a woman screaming for help across the way, and spectators scrambling to figure out what to do.  Combined with my dreaming, it was a bizarre experience and--thanks to the fact that the balcony was not on a top floor--one that resolved simply and well.]

Rested and recovered [from shock],
the Saturday night of Winter HOL unfolds into a night of extravagance, where we make a point to celebrate, 

where dinner consists of ridiculousness,

and where conversation spins back over years together.

And though most HOL's involve a bit of Re-Hashing of past events, this year in particular was particularly poignant.  We spoke out loud about the HOL's shadowed by difficult realities. We laid them on the table with love, the kind of love that comes from walking through all seasons of life together.  We looked gently at each other, grateful that here we are, past the dark ones.  

And then, we ate dessert.

And were ridiculously happy.

[Have I mentioned that HOL is made up of food? Did I have to?]

Winter HOL is also a weekend of music, but this year we changed the scene from jazz clubs to Broadway,

 where we took part in the phenomenon that is Once,

and were charmed beyond words.

We returned home to a bit more music, a bit more dwelling, a bit more charm that does not need to be spoken, but which holds us, in our hearts.

Grateful kids, we are grateful.  [I, kids, am grateful.]

And so, the next morning we went to church to continue our gratitude, and to worship the God who holds us together, who keeps us during the dark seasons and rescues us with His Light.

And then we went in search of more light,

and found it at the Guggenheim,

where we delighted in yet another HOL favorite: 

reveling in genius and creative expression.

Then, aware that our time was drawing to a close,

 we finished out our hashing over Jackson Hole fare, 

and held on to what we could.

We need you HOL, to Hash and Re-hash this thing called life...

we'll see you again soon!

There's a dissertation rolling around in my head.

We're really in it now: The final chapter of the dissertation season.

The data is in, it's organized.  The proposal is back out, the notebook is full of sketches, the kitchen is full of treats.

Wait, what?

Yep, treats.

It turns out that my kitchen is a dissertation breeding ground,

as thoughts roll through my head and bread rolls out of my oven.

Eventually those thoughts make their way to the dining room table [along with the treats...] and then:

My brain gets tired.

But, at least my tummy is full....

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.