The Mother of Expectation

Today is my fiftieth birthday and this was my devotion here in Hawaii, by Henri J.M. Nouwen from the book Mornings with Henri J.M. Nouwen. (Page 14)

     The Mother of expectation is patience. . . Patience comes from the work "patior" which means to suffer.
     Joy and sadness are as close to each other as the splendid colored leaves of a New England fall to the soberness of the barren trees. When you touch the hand of a returning friend, you already know that he will have to leave you again. When you are moved by the quiet vastness of the sun-covered ocean, you miss the friend who cannot see the same. Joy and sadness are born at the same time, both arising from such deep places in our heart that you can't find words to capture your complex emotions.
     But this intimate experience in which every bit of life is touched by a bit of death can point us beyond the limits of our existence. It can do so by making us look forward in expectation to the day when our hearts will be filled with perfect joy, a joy that no one shall take away from us. 

My joy today is almost perfect. . . there are only friends and family I'm missing. And on Saturday we will have to leave. Back in 2009 Mary said, "Daddy why don't we live here?" I don't know dear. Minnesota is character building and somehow I think today's devotion has some connection to returning home after every earthly glimpse of heaven. Joy and sadness. Worth every moment of both.

My Happy Place

We are in Hawaii. We got here Saturday and today is Monday. Yesterday was beach day number one.
My mind is both active and lazy. Nostalgia is thicker than the salt in the air. This is my ninth trip to KoOlina on Oahu. It turns out I've spent more time in this hotel than almost anywhere else except home and the cabin and I guess my mom's house in Iowa. It's one of my places. Happy places. Holy places.

I thought God was mostly in the mountains. I thought Hawaii was for tourists--not lovers of nature and solitude. I didn't know that the ocean and the mountains are just two difference displays of majesty. And here we are on the ninth trip.

Bill and I came alone the first year. And like most parents on a long weekend away from the kids we spent the whole time thinking how we could bring them back and how safe and wonderful it would be to have them swimming in the lagoons and seeing the ocean. Oh--and it turns out Hawaii has mountains too. Who would have thought.

Then we brought the kids and then we brought my mom and then we brought my sister and her family. . . . in the days when we could all fly for free and Marriott points paid for mostly everything.

In 2009 on Calvin and Mary's first trip, during the final decent into Oahu, Calvin turned green and lost an eight hours' flight worth of gummy bears and oreos. My heart sunk. He's got the flu on vacation. But, he looked up from the sickness bag and out the window toward the runway and exclaimed in full voice--I wonder what airline Honolulu is a hub for? All's well that ends well. We got Mary's hair braided and got them suited up and headed for the beach, where Bill took this famous photo:

They swam until dark and we went to get a bite to eat in the restaurant.

Back at the room, we tucked them into bed. They were asleep at hallowed be thy name.

The juxtaposition of years is as remarkable as the juxtaposition of last week to this week. The history books will sit in judgment of the wisdom of the working mom. Each day is a work of art--balancing piano practice, getting lunches made, rides, housework, teaching, practicing, choir and the myriad SAM emails pinging my inbox throughout the day. Try to take care of yourself a little and also be a supportive wife. It takes more hours than are in an average day. Add a couple concerts and extra meetings or heaven forbid an eye doctor appointment and the whole thing implodes upon itself.

My kids are spoiled in many ways. We are here across the ocean. But in many other ways the decisions I have made keep them pretty off center from the middle of the universe. We share our home with the piano kids. Everyday their stuff has to be picked up out of "my office." Everything they want to do has to be planned ahead and in the planner because I can't drop everything and give them a ride during those after school hours. There is no margin for spontaneity. Not everything we do earns money and we do it anyway. Things we do for church and music teacher organizations are just because this is what we do. We give back, sometimes to excess but always something. Mom's main purpose is not to make your life easier. The family is a team all working together to try to make sure everyone gets mostly what they need.

And part of what we need is a break. So here we are across the ocean in my happy place.

When I wake up in the middle of the night worrying about the SAM graduation trophies, this is the pillow I try to imagine my head is resting against. Sometimes it works.

We have routines here. Routines for the day, and routines for the week. I guess I am addicted to routines. Routines make me happy. Routines are holy.

Here's a few more photos and you can see why I'm nostalgic. This place stays the same, but we don't.
Tomorrow is my fiftieth birthday. It just worked out that way. I think we will drive to the north shore and be the Minnesota people on the rugged beach. The lifeguard knows us. He doesn't let us go in the water where the professional surfers are. We will dip our toes safely in the waters edge and hold the hands of the kids even though they are teens now and not likely to be washed away.

It's eighty degrees. It's always eighty degrees. We left Minnesota at fourteen below and I hear a couple feet of snow has fallen.

I wish you were here. Here in my happy place. My holy place.

The Extravagant Days of Christmas

Kotrba Piano Studio Ringing in the Season

Santa Loves one more arena show before college. . . 

A new Glenn Miller book. . . are you kidding me? What could be new?

Kotrba brunch. . . . waffles!

Homemade gifts

Plaid is the new black or pink (Wink)

The gift of music

Magic

Waiting his turn for the feast

Another jellycat bunny? I thought we had them all. 

Cheerful kid

Josie will never fill Katie's shoes but she tries hard

Cousins forever

Winter walk

Grandaddy's message lives on

The twelve days of Christmas.
They were bookended by meals with treasured friends. Huge meals.
In the middle? More meals. Two whole bottles of champagne. Ham balls. Lasagna. A metric ton of Christmas cookies and caramels. Raclette. Homemade ice cream with homemade hot fudge. Five cows worth of cheese.

Twelve days of feasting.
And giving gifts.
Homemade gifts.
Gifts of music.
Stocking stuffers.
Simple gifts.
Extravagant gifts.

My love of all things Christmas lives on even as I contemplate the millennial trend for less materialism and simplification and minimalism and all things less and less. Virtuous? Yes. I can go there, especially on New Year's Day, with my overwhelming urge to have my socks lined up in their drawer and when everyone gets a spinach smoothie for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Less is virtuous. Self control is virtuous.
But I still believe in extravagant grace. Extravagant celebration of God with us.
Extravagant Christmas.

My husband gave me an extravagant gift. For Christmas. For my fiftieth birthday in two weeks. For our 20th wedding anniversary. He said, we have a lot to celebrate.

There have been, and there will be again, seasons of grief. The young become the old. Sam came home from college and soon it will be Calvin. The future will bring it's own set of blessings and losses, challenges and change. I spent half my childhood Christmases worrying about what would happen when my sister left for college--when my grandparents would pass away. Okay, more than half. Yes, I was that kind of child. Those things did happen. And boyfriends came and went with broken hearts. But also. . marriage proposals were made and accepted, babies were born and new friends were made. Years and years of late night arrivals and tearful goodbyes. Snowy roads. Candlelight church services. Rounds of stomach bugs. Traditions are kept and broken, all punctuated by the twelve days of Christmas each year.

Last night Calvin donated over $1000 to Feed My Starving Children, with Mary, Annika and Amelia looking over his shoulder. We drove over to the warehouse but they were closed--so although handing over a huge stack of cash and counting it out next to the FMSC cash register is very satisfying, we typed in a credit card number online, so we could get the matching gift that expired yesterday. We are still accepting donations and still have a couple CDs left! Thank you to O'Briens too, who graciously contributed their time, energy and love into the project.

Extravagant donations. To whom much is given much will be expected.

Twelve extravagant days.
An acceptable level of ecstasy.
I'll not apologize even as I return to semi-normal levels of discipline and self-control.
We have a lot to celebrate, God is with us, friends and family are with us, love is with us.