Living Our Best Lives

Well, I gave the shoal fair warning.

We came, we swam and we conquered.

And so begins an entirely different way of being at the cottage. I will no doubt struggle in the next few weeks, to find the moments to write down any of the thousands of thoughts and feelings that beg to be described, which naturally happen in the presence of children who delight you.

Just the number of people to feed alone makes for a completely kitchen-oriented, cottage-appetite enhanced daily routine.

Plus, there's the true fact that in the time I've sat down to type these words, I've been interrupted several times to engage in conversations about ideal kayaking conditions, who eats bears, how many deck boards can be straddled, and the best place to put the peanut shells being eaten by someone other than the chipmunk. So there's that.

And there's exactly that. And triumphant poses on the shoal, and the energy of life they represent. We're getting filled up with joy and love and wonder and each other, and really, family cottage weeks are the best of living in so many ways.

Getting here was a thing, as always.
Today's been full with church and one other thing.
Tomorrow the sun is supposed to shine bright and summery and all cottage-like again.
So let the games and the fun and the filling begin.

"So even to old age and gray hairs, O God, do not forsake me,
until I proclaim your might to another generation,
your power to all those who come."
Psalm 71:18

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.

The Cascade Effect

Driving home I feel more alive somehow.

This does not surprise me, since it's a common afterglow kind of experience whenever I have lunch with John.

The overflow of joy at a Waterfall in Thailand. 

I call him John now, as if he was a peer.  But inside, in every way respect and admiration and deep appreciation and the wonder of being in the presence of someone 'greater than' vibrates in my heart, he is and always be my beloved "Pastor Bersche".

We were all so much more formal in those days.  I think my Dad would have had a fit if I'd ever dared be so cheeky to refer to him as simply John, or even Pastor John back then.  It was the suit and tie generation of church, where that was godly.  We showed respect.  Especially to those 20 years our senior.  Especially those those who held office in the church.

Being baptized by Pastor Bersche circa 1972, age 15

Except John was anything but formal.  Back then it was the early 70s and we were just figuring out that Jesus was fun.  At least in my neck of the denominational woods we were.  This new pastor brought life and energy and joy to Sundays, to our community of faith, like we'd never seen before, even though former pastors were revered and dearly loved.  But with John, Jesus was fun, the Word of God was fascinating, the Holy Spirit was a real interactive Person of the Godhead, and services were never the same.

It's impossible to overstate the influence all of this had on my own spiritual formation and ministry calling; how this inspired me and modeled for me who I would become as a pastor myself.  Not that this was on the radar back then.  Back then we were breaking the rules by having his gifted wife, Jan, speak on Mother's Day.  That was really pushing the envelope.  But I remember it.  I remember being emboldened by it, just 11 years old and seeing for the first time that a woman had something to say about God.

And it took seed in me then, I am sure of it now.

We remember this together at lunch today.  It is something of a needful remembering, since both of us, at this point in our ministry lives, are looking back on full time pastoring, as if it was something from our past, which is it.  And we lament this for a while.

It gets in your blood, this calling.  It stays with you.  When you've loved a congregation at a molecular level and for any length of time, you don't just 'fall out of love' on the day they say goodbye.  You don't just stop being a pastor just because people stop calling you that.   So we grieve together a little today, the way two people suffering the same kind of loss tend to do. And we acknowledge together that sense of disorientation of having a pastor's heart beating in your chest, but with no congregation to incorrectly (because they never belong to us) call your own.

But then there was this.  The realization, almost at the same time for both of us, of the Cascade Effect.  It was when he said he was so proud of who I had grown into.  Of how awesome and life-giving it was for him to have seen Ken and I (he officiated our wedding) turn our life together into an enduring ministry.  Of how exciting it was to realize how the kingdom had been nourished and become un-bordered on both sides of the planet; of the lives being impacted.

But I just had to turn us both backwards to see where this Cascade between us had first come.  And I thanked him again (because I've said it so many times) for showing me that Jesus was fun and that the Word of God was so incredibly fascinating and that the Holy Spirit was a real interactive Person of the Godhead and that Worship could be such an intimate, hilarious experience, and that a woman might have something to say about God.

Then we turned around together and looked forward, a little dimly because who knows, to where the Cascade would go.  And just prayed to be worthy of it the rest of our days, however long God chose to leave us here to pour it out on His behalf.

And the Cascade of it gave me life again, on a day following a deep low in this journey towards the new things, the new ways of pouring out God's life for future generations to revel in.

Once again I am poured into by my beloved Pastor,
whom I now call John,
as if he was a peer.