A Broken Hallelujah

It's been three years since the Nieuwsma family reunion last occured. But in the holidays and weddings and funerals in between, we have hugged briefly and cordially greeted each other. We always refresh what we last knew of our cousins, aunts and uncles. "You're im Milwauke right now? How are your kids?" but wherever we are and in whichever sitaion, it never takes long for us to bond all over again.

It's the Nieuwsma traits--the sisters sharing pictures and Grandma's old knickknacks; the uncles always up for a round of golf entertaining each other with dry humor; the guy cousins always up for a game of wet towel; the younger cousins and the older cousins laughing. Always laughing.

I've heard it said that we all have a distinct look about us. Deep inset eyes. A similar profile. A particular vocal tone. Aunt Marianne said it's the upper lip, whatever that means.

At weddings we are the same--joyful and excited. At Christmas gatherings (which my immediate family doesn't attend often enough) and at family dinners we continue our laughs. We are surrounded by a family who cares. Aunt Donna said it most recently: "I don't always like to deal with people in my daily life, but I come here, and there's not one of you that I can say that about. I love you all..."

And even at funerals--there have been two this year--we are still the same.

For a family we so often see laughing, our hearts break even more for our uncles and aunts and cousins and for Grandma, who names each of the nearing 100 of us before she goes to sleep at night. We mourn...deeply, because Uncle Darryl enjoyed seeing us all together, and because aside from Uncle Fred's humor, he was the king of dry humor. Because Brandon would have been playing wet towel with the guys and certainly would have been playing basketball. But deep within all of us, somewhere there is still so much joy, a deeply rooted understanding that we are not our own.

This reunion held a much more somber tone as much as we laughed and asked everyone about everyone and as much as we ate food and played games. We all knew. No Brandon. No Uncle Darryl. And maybe our cousin Missy would have been 8 months pregnant by now.

But imagine them in glory!I kept trying to remind myself.

Imagine Brandon cuddling with his beloved chinchillas. Imagine the jokes Uncle Darryl can make now. Imagine bigger and more caring arms that hold Missy's baby.

What broken sentences I'm writing right now, broken thoughts scattered in between. The greatness of God's love/will/profidence/reasoning/purpose/mind/strength is too much to fathom. So for now I think it's enough to offer a broken hallelujah.