Loss and the Living of Life

[I tread carefully with these words lest I step on the fresh grief of those more affected.  Husbands and Moms and Dads, Nanas and Grans and Grandads and Grampas are so hard to say goodbye to. 

Every one.

So, dear grieving friends, I will speak my words gently into that space with you.]

Over the past eight weeks I have said goodbye to five enduring friends.

All of them lived long and passionate lives, full of imperfect but prevailing love, and faith most admirable.

I will speak their names here with great affection.

Joan Duff, such a spunky lady, always giving all praise and credit to our good God, speaking her mind and being 'everyone's Nana'.  May 30.

John Bersche, childhood pastor, officiated at our wedding, HUGELY shaped my spiritual life and provided an indelible example of what it means to shepherd.  Encouraged and inspired me right up to the end.  June 14.

David Ogilvie, steady, godly, full of integrity, intelligence and generosity, living a life consistent and faithful all the way through.  Helped support my very first trip to Thailand.  July 15.

Nena Ogilvie, David's wife of 68 years, known to countless children-now-grown simply as Mrs. O.  Tireless, earnest, faithful, and a mentor-friend to me in those early, uncertain first years as a new bride in a new town.  She joined her husband just days after his departure.  July 28.

Harvey Fretz, our first pastor as a newly married couple, and taught me everything I know about people-first leading.  Story after story on this.  Ask me sometime.  July 29.

And I don't know what to do with all of this.  Not all at once like this.

Except to let these losses and the pain of their absence accentuate what these souls brought and taught while they still had bodies here on earth.  And to be unspeakably grateful for lessons, inspirations, sermons spoken and lived, and the life-giving encouragement they each provided in their unique ways at just the right times.  

Joan, John, David, Nena, Harvey, thank you.  I love you.  I miss you.  Goodbye.

One day there will be dancing.

Right now there is just....a lot.

A Messy Reclamation

 Ladies and gentlemen.....may I present to you....our big fat mess.

In direct contrast to the idyllic shots of glass-flat water and breath-snatching sunsets and the wildflowers and blueberries that adorn our cottage property, in this meditation I will reveal the not-so-pretty spots we're contending with here at the cottage.

Yes, there are all those beautiful things.  But also, we are in the midst of a re-claiming project of family heritage property that now has come under our stewardship.  This is the current chapter of a rather long and at times convoluted story that, once everyone who could recognize themselves is dead, and with the addition of a few embellishments, could make for a 'based on a true story" epic novel.  (Don't worry.  I'm not going to attempt it.  For one thing, I'd recognize myself.)

So here it is.  The piles of lumber, the shingles growing moss, and the buildings barely standing. 

These things take time, and the big fat messy parts are on a list, believe me.  I particularly wish I could reassure some local folks who make comments as they go by in their boat (I can hear you above the sound of your motor by the way).  

But our decision to 'reclaim' as much of the older buildings as possible, requires a slower and more meticulous process.  We can't just hire some deconstruction crew or junk removal company to tear it all down and haul it all away indiscriminately.  Not until we prioritize, assess, measure and properly assign still-good wood, windows and frames, locks and hinges and antique hardware.  Like I said, this is heritage property, and there's a lot of value in the details.  

And in the process.  And how that process needs to include all of us.  Earlier this month we yanked down the old boathouse, which, considering the trapezoid nature of its leanings for several seasons already, was harder to do that we expected.  But everyone was here to witness this historic event.  The older kids even had the chance to click a few notches on the block and tackle that was employed to pull out the final supporting structures.  It was important to us that the whole family be part of this.  It belongs to us all.  And this chapter in the story features us in the leading roles.  And to include us all, at various stages, will take time.

Rebuilding.

That's the vision.

To reclaim, restore, rebuild up from the mess into something more fitting for a legacy.  A place for future generations to be family together and worship by the water.

And while it's a tedious and messy thing, we are convinced it's worth it.  We know it is.  Because we've done this before.  Not with property and buildings, but with life and family and relationships.  And every child pictured above, in front of the collapsed roof of the boathouse, is brilliant evidence of the outcome of that effort.

You likely have done it too.  Taken the time to sift through the rubble to see what's still good and meaningful and useful towards a vision of something stronger and better and more lovely.   Ignoring the comments of folks floating by who offer their thoughts and opinions without knowing your whole story or the enormity of what you're trying to attempt.  Writing out a new chapter in an epic novel that perhaps has had more than its fair share of tragedy and trauma, yet holding on with everything you've got for that better ending.  Not happily-ever-after, but true.

So that's our mess, more or less, and some of what's rising from the rubble these days.

For anything you're reclaiming, I wish you strength and tenacity and peace.  Take your time.  

The Unexpected Advantage of Having The Cottage Overrun With Offspring

This quiet, ridiculously pleasant and civilized afternoon I'm in the middle of right now, could not be more in contrast to what was happening on this very deck, and in this very cottage for the past two weeks.

One word.  Family.  And by extension, this means grandchildren.

At the moment, ours range between the ages of almost-two and just-turned-sixteen.  This makes for a full-spectrum kind of cottage experience.  Think of toddlers and preschoolers up as soon as the sun, and teenagers with the lights on way past midnight working on their fifth cottage novel.  Think of breakfasts that consist of eggs 'that look like people running away from each other' (Jayden's description of scrambled), and bagels and fruit, and pancakes from scratch that Gramma didn't have to even supervise let alone prepare.  Think of 'going on a lion hunt', and scouting out the best place for a new swing tire, and installing it mostly without Grandad's help (just a little).  Think of carefully supervised swimming with life jackets, and kids being out on the shoal on their own for a very long time on a very hot day. Think of some of us staying well back from the final on-purpose collapse of the old boathouse, and some of us right there, still safely back enough, to be part of this historical moment in our family.

Full spectrum.  And very little of it is civilized, or quiet.  And while hilariously fun and deeply fulfilling, it's not 'pleasant' the way being on the deck uninterrupted is 'pleasant'.

I'm finding these pleasant moments right now extremely so, as the sheer amount of domestic tasks required for a cottage full of kids is rather demanding for a Gramma, even when she enlists good and age-appropriate help from everyone.  They're all gone, and it was a good time, and I'm very tired.

And in reflecting back on our robust cottage time with family this year, I am surprised to acknowledge that one of the advantages of it all that I'm appreciating the most is that we didn't do it perfectly.  By this I mean that the somewhat cramped sleeping arrangements necessary, and us all sharing a bathroom, and our smallish kitchen provides ample opportunity to be in each other's way.  The out-of-sync sleep schedules and the more-than-she's-used-to work for Gramma, provided enough impetus to be grumpy from time to time.  

Don't get me wrong.  Given all of the above, I actually am quite impressed with how well we all did.  But there were times.

And the perefectionist in me that unrealistically wants to create idyllic memories for the next generation, would rather us just all be getting along splendidly every moment of the day.  But, as I've said, we're not perfect.  We're human.  Especially me.

And here is  the advantage in that.  Our grandkids can see the real us.  They can watch us make mistakes, get tired, be grumpy....and....how we manage ourselves in that moment to self-correct and make amends and be big enough to apologize.  They can learn to be imperfect family members sharing a sacred albeit sometimes cramped space, and how we make that work.  How we come to consensus, how we give and take, how we give each other space, come alongside and encourage each other, how we show our appreciation for each other, and how we accept each other where we're at on any given day.

As we were all saying goodbye and loading up on the boat, all of them said that this was one of the best cottage stays ever.  Music to my Gramma's ears.  And perhaps confirmation that it's more than just okay for us all to be just really who we are and figure ourselves out as we go along together.  

Isn't that what family is anyways?

These are just a small sampling of all the great shots we took to remind us of this year.

And just in case the older boys complain one day, I'll just say here that the ratio of pictures taken of each individual is in direct proportion to their willingness to allow their image to be captured.  Just sayin.

And now...back to the civilized pleasantness of this day.