Glimpse

     In 2010 a dear friend who is also a court reporter sat down with me and my mom, and we interviewed her, recording stories of her life.  One memory she shared was my parents'  having international students from our church to their home twice a year.  She said in the summer over 100 people would gather in their home and back yard for homemade ice cream.  But, she said, in December everyone would have to be inside, so they had only 60 over for dinner -- emphasis on the words 

"only 60"!  

     My mom was a gatherer of people -- and a party animal.  The past few years she invited friends over for themed parties.  For example, she gave a chocolate-themed party, where the film "Chocolat" was shown,  followed by a Bible lesson about grace.  A luscious dessert was shared while everyone sat at a table decorated in all things chocolate.  Each guest went home with chocolate cake mixes, frosting and wooden spoons as a party gift.  Before she died, she was planning a "Frozen" party and was quite excited about it.

     One day in February I stopped by her home while she was preparing for a "Breakfast at Tiffany's" party.  I was taken to see the joy and focus my mom had as she set her beautiful table.  It was a holy moment as I looked on, observing her living from who and how God made her to be.  I took this picture when I was there.

     "Mom," I said,  "surely you will be a table setter in heaven!"  And I've thought since then that she can't visit sick people in heaven, as she loved to do, so surely this will be one way she serves God there.

     This past week, living through the shock and pain of my mom's death, I've realized just like life is the opposite of death, gathering is the opposite of separation.  For now we are separated from the ones we so deeply love who have died.  But one day we will be called to gather at a huge feast given by Jesus, around a table where there's room for everyone.  We will look at each other across the table with no defenses, no grudges, no tears, no pain -- only joy, food and drink, a time where we will be truly free to give love as generously as God gives it to us.

And if there is sparkly confetti on the table, I'm pretty sure God let my mom put it there.

Diane Mann

October, 2015  

Early Morning Reflection on a Life Well-Loved -- Keith Korstjens

My church's old sanctuary with its beautiful, strong pillars

When I think of a "godly man" I initially picture someone who walks into a room and the crowd separates, making a way for him, all standing in awe.  I see someone to be looked up to.

But a godly man -- one we at my church called a pillar, in fact -- died last night.  And as I reflect on his life in this very early morning hour, I'm remembering Keith Korstjens, considering who and how he was.  Not someone to be admired, pedastaled high above the less righteous, rather he was a man who "dwelt among us," as it were.  Keith walked alongside, sat alongside people in pain, people who doubted, who cried, "Where is God in all of this?"

His words were wisely thought out, and  he was not eager to put the bandage of a pat answer on people's struggles.   I do have a few Keith-and-Mary sayings jotted down in my journals.  And I bring them to mind often.   My husband and I still say, "Remember what Keith taught in our engagement class," and reflect on the useful information he gave. Yes, a handful of quotes are forever in me to be recalled when needed.

But with Keith it was more about the presence.

As he visited with, grieved with, listened to, sat with others -- with me, with my family, we had a sense that we were with Jesus.  Keith and Mary came to Loma Linda late one evening, along with many others who loved my family, because we had been told we were going to lose my dad that night.  Twenty-plus people all sitting really closely in a tiny waiting room, being present to God, to the moment, to each other.  I noticed Keith in the doorway (they couldn't fit into the jam-packed room) starting to tell people goodbye, pushing Mary away in her wheelchair.  I ran up to them to thank them, to get one last hug.  "I can't go through my life without my dad," I said.

Again, listening, again, loving.  Tenderly one of them said, "Oh, sweetie, God will give you enough faith for today.  You cannot borrow faith from tomorrow."   Mary shared as they departed, "We're leaving you in very capable hands, the hands of Jesus."  And they entrusted us to Him.

 I read something recently challenging me to set aside a few minutes while in a public place and to look for God in every face I see.  This was new to me.  I've often asked God to help me see others through His loving, merciful lens, but to look for Jesus in the face of people I encounter was different.  I tried it while in line at the post office.   Looking critically, harshly at the postal workers as I waited, wondering whether any of them washed their hair that day, noting the ways each was using time inefficiently -- you know, those days when you just see what's wrong with everyone around you -- when God brought to mind what I'd read that morning.  "Getting a hint from what the psalmist wrote -- 'Come,' my heart says, 'seek his face' -- practice looking for God in every face you see."

This practice had immediate, transforming effects!  My gaze softened while seeking reflections of Jesus Himself in others' eyes.  And you know what?  I saw Him there!

I guess it's this thought that compelled sleepy me out of bed early this chilly, wet morning.  Often it's said of Keith that we saw Jesus in his eyes, felt the heartbeat of Jesus as Keith hurt with us, heard Jesus in the things he said.  But today I close my eyes and picture times with Keith and know undoubtedly he was looking for Christ in my face, in my pain, listening for Him in my tears, sensing His presence the times I thought God was surely absent.

We saw Jesus in Keith's life, while He was looking and listening for Jesus in ours.

This is so going to be one of those funerals that could never, ever be long enough to fit in the stories of memories -- memories of Keith, of Mary, of "KeithandMary."

Thank you for listening to just one reflection of mine.