Thursday, March 14, 2024

The Strong

 

The Strong

Mr. Harmsen, a member of my congregation, is a man of substance. He belongs to the category mentioned in the newspaper with the statement: “Among those present, we noticed . . . .”

Harmsen is perpetually occupied and rarely at home. This should be no surprise, considering he serves as the director of a large business with multiple branches, and the entire management rests squarely on his shoulders.

During the war, he dutifully fulfilled his obligations and had many nail-biting experiences. However, now that the war is over, all the pent-up energy within him has been unleashed, and he remains busy day and night.

His wife has voiced her complaints on several occasions during our infrequent visits. We are friends, though our encounters are rare. She is a reserved woman and a devoted mother to their lone son. Yet, lately, she appears increasingly fatigued and withdrawn.

Despite ample assistance at her disposal, including the convenience of a car and chauffeur for shopping and appointments, she wears an air of weariness.

I doubt she can match her husband’s relentless pace. When tempests rage around him, the wind blows fiercely against her.

Some time ago, I went to see him at his office. The scene was chaotic: telephones incessantly ringing, doors swinging open and shut, typewriters clattering, and a clerk placing before him drafts for his approval. Meanwhile, five people waited impatiently to speak with him.

Yet, Brother Harmsen remained unflustered. His eyes were vigilant behind horn-rimmed glasses, his ears attuned like those of a hound, and his voice unwavering—like someone who holds the reins firmly in his hands.

Such is Harmsen’s existence. His strength sustains him—strength of body, nerves, and character.

But last week. . . .

Sadly, accidents are frequent. Perhaps the war has rendered people somewhat indifferent to individual lives.

Young Gerard Harmsen suffered a blow from the rear of a hefty delivery truck—a force that fractured his leg and left him concussed.

It occurred right in front of the house, and I happened to pass by moments later. An ambulance came, and he was whisked away. His mother accompanied him, but before she left she said, “Of course, my husband doesn’t know yet.”

Her voice wavered, her fatigued features etched with fear, and her pale throat nervously swallowed.

“As long as he doesn’t hear it from someone else. . . . I cannot bear to break the news over the phone. Gerard means the world to him.”

I volunteered to shoulder that responsibility and drove to his office.

“Please, have a seat,” he said, motioning me toward a chair.

The incessant ringing of the phone filled the room. However, as he reached for the receiver, I placed my hand on it.

“You must listen to me first,” I insisted.

He listened, his silence growing more profound.

“My son?” he finally asked. I said, “Yes. There has been an accident, and he is at the hospital.”

His voice remained soft, devoid of trembling, yet his eyes flickered and blinked several times.

Together, we drove to the hospital, where his wife anxiously awaited us. Standing around the bed, we beheld little Gerard—unconscious and pallid. I hesitated to meet Harmsen’s gaze; I cannot explain why. Instead, I exchanged a few words with his wife.

She wept softly; the nurse had stepped out of the room.

Finally, Harmsen stirred. He circled the bed, placing his hand on his wife’s shoulder. Her tear-streaked cheek rested against it.

And then he sat down. His features betrayed no emotion—neither sadness nor fear. The usual tension that gripped his face had dissipated; instead, it bore an emptiness, akin to a startled child.

He perched on the hospital chair, which seemed too small for his robust frame.

His eyes met mine, and I observed him fold his hands—two white, powerful hands. He didn’t utter a word; his silent plea emanated through his eyes and clasped fingers.

I understood, nodded, and together we prayed.

Thankfully, little Gerard is now on the path to recovery.

Mr. Harmsen is a man of substance. He's incredibly busy. Harmsen is hardly ever at home and his wife sometimes complains about it.

Harmsen is not a man who quickly arouses pity, because he is so strong.

Strong of body; strong in nerves and strong in character.

But sometimes one can feel a strange kind of compassion for him, perhaps precisely because he is so strong.

---

("De Sterke," pp 50-53; Peper en Zout by M.E. Voila, Kok: Kampen; n.d. tr. George van Popta, 2024)

 

Wednesday, March 13, 2024

 ("Het Achtste Gebod," pp 71-74, Peper en Zout by M.E. Voila, Kok: Kampen; n.d. tr. George van Popta, 2024)

The Eighth Commandment

The Koopman family, also, is part of my congregation. The word “also” captures their status for they are regarded as somewhat peripheral members. This is both a literal and figurative assessment: geographically, they reside on the outskirts of the village; socially, Brother Koopman is reputed to be a poacher.

His possessions include a modest house, an expansive vegetable garden, and an orchard. Additionally, he has a plump, jovial wife and six children who, though barefoot, are the picture of robust health. Mr. Koopman himself bears a striking resemblance to Popeye the Sailor, or so I’ve been told by parishioners who frequent the cinema.

Occasionally, certain readers comment on how I might have better handled certain situations. Maybe one of them could offer me counsel, as I find myself in a quandary.

I recently visited the family to celebrate a new addition. I congratulated the mother and admired the new baby. Mr. Koopman, or “Popeye,” was present as well. He proudly showed me around the garden and orchard, and also his goats, the cow, pig, chickens, and particularly the rabbits. He boasted a pair of gigantic Flemish Giants, if one would pardon the redundancy. They were in a hutch between the house and the barn. We stood there for a few moments admiring the magnificent creatures. It then seemed that Mr. Koopman's paternal joy over the birth of the newborn just had to be expressed tangibly. Lucky for me—or at least, that’s what I thought.

“Pastor,” he said, “in just a few more weeks, they’ll be ready to be butchered. And you shall have one of them. Do you like rabbit stew?”

I must admit, I found the idea appealing, and I told him so.

Indeed, just yesterday, one of the Koopman boys came by the parsonage to deliver the majestic creature, nicely wrapped in brown paper.

It became a family affair, and we all gathered around as I unwrapped it. The beast had been slaughtered, its head removed—a truly impressive specimen.

“My, it has a strange scent,” remarked my wife, her nose wrinkling in distaste.

“It is so blue,” observed one of the children.

“That means it suffocated,” another concluded.

“And look at those hind legs!” exclaimed a third.

I disapprove of such critical commentary on a gift, so I quelled the discussion by asserting, “That’s typical for Flemish Giants!”

Accepting a tangible gift from a man with Koopman’s poaching notoriety is fraught with implications; however, in this instance, my conscience was clear.

This morning, I cycled over to express my gratitude. As I neared the house, I could see Brother Koopman busy at the barn, his wife and one of the boys also bustling about.

But upon my arrival, they had all retreated to the kitchen, Popeye puffing on his pipe, his wife wielding a dishcloth, and the children wearing guileless grins. They welcomed me warmly and offered coffee.

Koopman appeared immensely satisfied and would not accept my words of thanks.

“Pastor, do you often eat rabbit meat?”

I conceded, “Almost never.”

“Our Flemish Giants. . . .” began one of the children.

“Be quiet when adults are speaking,” the father interjected sternly.

Our dialogue meandered on this delightful topic before I took my leave. 

I hadn’t pedaled a hundred meters when I realized my rear tire was nearly flat. I circled back, intending to request the use of a bicycle pump. I went to the back of the house, and was surprised to find that the rabbit hutch had disappeared. I concluded that both Flemish Giants must have been butchered. 

Koopman emerged from the back door of the house as I explained my predicament. “I’ll fetch the pump,” he assured.

He walked to the barn, the door closing sharply behind him. As he took a few moments to return, curiosity got the better of me and I decided to go into the barn. Just as I was about to enter, Koopman came out and the door swung shut once again. Despite that, I had a brief glimpse inside the barn and I saw the rabbit hutch in which two enormous Flemish Giants were contentedly munching on carrots. Koopman cast a sidelong glance at me with a grin reminiscent of Popeye. He re-inflated my tire, and as I departed I was laden with questions, for which I seek the reader’s counsel:

a. If the creature with the peculiar scent, a bluish hue, and sizable hind legs isn’t a Flemish Giant, what could it be?

b. Is Koopman aware that I spotted the two Flemish Giants inside the barn?

c. Ought I to inquire about the source of the gift from Brother Koopman, ready to admonish him if it’s the result of poaching?

d. Should I retract my earlier statement to my family, “That’s typical for Flemish Giants!”?

One certainty prevails: judgment should not be passed hastily nor without a hearing, even upon an animal. Hence, we shall reserve our verdict until after sampling the rabbit stew tomorrow.

 

Wednesday, March 06, 2024

Moriturus Te Salutat

(From Peper en Zout by M.E. Voila, Kok: Kampen; n.d. tr. George van Popta, 2024)

 

Moriturus Te Salutat 


Brother Grootveld was a venerable soldier, having served in the Dutch East Indies war of 1945 to 1949. His valor earned him a knighthood from the Queen. With a lively spirit and slender frame, he was easily recognized by his flowing mustache, straw hat in the summer, Palm Beach suit, and ever-present walking stick.

Years had passed since his wife’s demise and there had been no children. He resided in a room provided by a family who cared for him. In return, he meticulously tended their gardens, his straw hat a constant companion.

He was a well-known figure among the members of the community whose greetings were always met with a formal salute, a gesture of his esteemed status. Not even the mayor received a hat tip from him—only a salute.

As his life drew to a close, Brother Grootveld lay on his deathbed, fully aware of his fate. My visits were frequent, and his sparse words were always poignant.

The night of his passing remains etched in my memory.

We gathered around his bed, observing his frail form. Present were a nurse, his landlady, a cousin from out of province, and a young boy who often engaged him in evening conversations. Adorning the wall above him was his sabre, behind which was an Indonesian cloth. The Queen’s portrait was positioned below.

A soft moan escaped him, yet it seemed that he was not suffering pain. But clearly, his life was ebbing away.

“He’s beyond our reach,” the landlady whispered.

She, like many, believed the dying were deaf to our world. However, I discerned a flicker of awareness in his eyes.

Leaning close, I inquired, “Brother Grootveld, is there anything more we can do for you?”

His gaze shifted to the table where a glass of water stood. I brought it to his mouth, but he could no longer swallow; only his lips were dampened.

 “Are you afraid to die?” I inquired.

His eyes met mine, and a hint of a smile flickered across his mouth.

For an instant, my eyes were drawn to the sabre hanging above the bed.

I opened my Bible and read aloud several verses, concluding with, “For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.

The subtle movement of his lips suggested he was echoing the words.

A hush enveloped us, the kind that heralds death’s approach. He was engaged in his final struggle.

There he lay, so straight and dignified on his deathbed, his frame thin, small, and fragile, and yet the seasoned warrior honoured by the Queen for his service to the nation.

The end was near. His breaths grew shallow and faint, reminiscent of a child’s.

Then, a wondrous thing occurred. His eyes widened, alight with clarity, and for a brief moment his voice returned: “Jesus, Jesus. . . .”

The sound was faint, as though it came from a great distance.

Resting on his back, his gaze pierced the ceiling, as if peering into eternity, beholding his Lord.

With effort, he extracted his right arm from beneath the blanket. Gradually, he raised his hand to his forehead, bestowing the customary salute that had been his signature greeting.

His hand then dropped to rest beside his head.

The old soldier had breathed his last.

Tuesday, March 05, 2024

The Visitor

(From Peper en Zout by M.E. Voila, Kok: Kampen; n.d. Translation by George van Popta, 2024)

The Visitor

Some people of the congregation complain that we are not very good at making visitors to our worship services feel welcome. When you hear this repeatedly you begin to think that the criticism must have some validity.

I, myself, had begun to think this and found myself searching for reasons why this might be so among us. Why are we poor at welcoming visitors? In fact, I thought so deeply about this matter that I began to think that, perhaps, the problem might also lie in me.

However, that is all behind me now. I was completely disabused of the idea, and my confidence in us as a friendly and hospitable community has been completely restored.

What a relief when sober self-reflection gives way to reality, when there is tangible proof that the pessimists are wrong. I witnessed a beautiful example of how hospitable we are last Sunday when I had the Sunday off. Because I was not preaching, I was in church ten minutes before the start of the service.

As people crowded in, I noticed Miss Groening waiting at the entrance of the auditorium. She is a young woman whom I had met the previous week at her sister’s funeral. She is from outside our circle and has not gone to church since childhood. The funeral had made a deep impression on her, and now she had come to church for the first time. She had some vague memories about the gospel from her youth.

She was standing in the foyer while the parishioners streamed past her to their regular pews. I believe that's how it should be: first the sheep, and then the goats. I have heard that there are other churches where such a person is quickly welcomed and offered a decent seat, a Bible, and a hymnal. Such churches have lost the first principles. It is only natural and proper that our own members take precedence. After all, they pay their regular voluntary contributions.

She was looking for a place to sit, but luckily the sexton was keeping an eye on her. You never know whether such a stranger might have the temerity to sit anywhere.

But there was no reason to worry as she just kept standing there.

Apparently, she did not know about the green light—that when the green light comes on, all the pews are free for the taking. The sexton sprang into action when the light came on and took her to Sister Van Dalen's place.

There she was seated, but not for long.

For, contrary to expectation, Sister Van Dalen had come to church that day after all. She was a few minutes late, but went straight to her pew as the green light had no relevance for her. She became indignant when she saw someone else in her pew.

There you see the beauty of it all. Others might have gone back to find another place to sit, but not Sister Van Dalen! She wasn’t like that. Things have to be done correctly. After all, there are rules.

She whispered loudly to those in the neighboring pews that a stranger was sitting in her spot, in the hope that the stranger would hear her, and move. When that didn't work, she directly, and emphatically, told the visitor that she was sitting in her spot.

That worked. Miss Groening blushed and quickly vacated the pew, whereupon Sister Van Dalen took her rightful place, still muttering and complaining to her neighbours.

And so, the visitor was, again, standing in the foyer.

And then? What could you expect but that this unashamed interloper should be forcibly escorted out of the church! She would only be getting her due reward!

But no, once again the sexton leaped into action and he gave the stranger a seat, this time on a collapsable stool. True enough, it had no back to it, and neither did she have a Bible and songbook—which really was too bad, because the first stanza was so appropriate: “Oh, come with us and do as we!”

But so it goes. You can’t control everything. After all, she will be able to sit in a normal chair at home and recover from her sore back. And she should be able to buy a Bible and hymnal at the bookstore.

The main point is this: she was under the preaching of the word, and she experienced the communion of saints.

And then, just imagine! Some say we are no good at welcoming the stranger! 



Thursday, February 29, 2024

Winter

Winter

Five o’clock. . . .

With a sigh, I place my knitting on the windowsill. The fading light makes it too challenging to work on the intricate pattern for my new sweater without making mistakes. Now, I’ll sit by the window and wait for my pastor husband Kees. It’s hardly worth turning on the light before he arrives. Earlier today, at one o’clock, Kees went into the countryside with Elder Groensma to bring some home visits. Such visits are customary in the afternoon, as people in the farming community retire early in the evening. Since half past one I’ve been knitting here, gazing out the window. After the schoolchildren clattered by on their wooden shoes at four o’clock, one man passed by with a sheep on a rope. But that’s been all—no one else.

Five o’clock. . . . Around this time of the day, I used to be on my bicycle stuck in a traffic jam at a traffic light in the busy city I grew up in. Sometimes it was with Kees, if he had a lecture scheduled then, or occasionally with colleagues from the office. Back home, Mother would wait by the fireplace, ready with tea and cookies, and stories about what had all happened that day. My brothers would noisily return from school, and my sister Riet would be back from a day of classes at the university. Cozy, warm, and filled with light—the house buzzed with life. The perfect Dutch word for it is “Gezellig!”

Now, in this little country village, life is quiet and slow. In the twilight of the street, someone approaches. Is it Kees? No, it’s a man in a blue coat, striding on toward his home. He sees me peering out the window and raises his index finger in greeting. “Hey!” Then he leans into the wind, which gusts freely at this corner. On this side of the village, the land is flat, devoid of trees or bushes, stretching to the seawall.

Dark early, cold, raining. That’s what it's like in Holland in December. How different everything seemed in June, when Kees and I visited after he had received the call to serve as pastor of the village church! I remember girls with red headscarves working in the fields, wagons piled high with hay, and shouting schoolchildren. A vivid picture indeed!

Two figures emerge from the misty twilight. Kees and Brother Groensma, finally! For a moment, they continue their conversation beneath the glow of the street lamp—the old man in his duffel coat and Kees in his light raincoat. One more handshake, and then Groensma heads off toward his home walking briskly on his stubby legs.

Am I feeling sentimental this afternoon? Kees suddenly looks hopelessly young, and it tugs at my heart! I know he finds home visits challenging. The elders often remain almost completely silent. They assume Kees will handle it all. After all, he’s the minister! But Kees just turned twenty-five—he was ordained as a pastor only six months ago. It all happened so swiftly: final exams at the seminary, several calls, classis exams, marriage—perhaps too swiftly. Being an assistant preacher for a few years wouldn’t have been so bad.

We sit down for a sandwich. Kees looks tired; his face wears an absent expression. It has indeed been a difficult afternoon.

“You pray, Frans,” he says. “I’ve prayed six times today: four home visits and two visits to the sick. Three cups of coffee and two cups of tea. And I suspect that old sister De Zwart is miffed that I refused her offer of tea.”

I’m relieved I saved a bowl of soup for Kees. I know better than to bring up the subject of tea or coffee after all those home visits.

After fifteen minutes of silent eating, Kees’s face relaxes. This is when he starts acting a bit silly. The nonsensical chatter he utters is meant only for the ears of his wife, who must be quiet and just listen. Afterward, I may recount my own experiences from the afternoon—namely, nothing!

After dinner, we take a leisurely walk up the road. I haven’t stepped outside all afternoon, and the fresh air is invigorating. The twinge of homesickness I felt earlier has disappeared.

In the twilight’s darkness, Kees unburdens himself. “Do you grasp how challenging it is, Frans?” he asks. “Imagine bringing a visit to old Brother Berkman—such a seasoned pioneer, well into his eighties. He has served as an elder, altogether, for over thirty years. And there I am, expected to pray. Let me tell you, I broke into a cold sweat. It would have been far better if he had prayed for me.”

“But he does, Kees,” I interject. “Yes,” Kees replies with a sigh. “He should recognize how much I need it.”

Back home, I receive a detailed account of Kees’s visit to Brother Geert Petrolie’s. Geert proudly displayed the new long johns and undershirt he received from the Sister Association. “Like a mannequin, he posed for me, stretching his arms in every direction to demonstrate the perfect fit. We must visit him again next week, Frans,” Kees suggests. “He’s a lonely old soul. Perhaps you could prepare some soup for him. But don’t forget to put on your stockings,” Kees adds with a grin.

Ah, my soup-splattered stockings—a source of amusement for Kees! During a recent visit to an elderly woman, who lives several kilometres from the parsonage, the soup I was bringing her ended up all over my stockings. I had hung the soup pan on my bicycle handlebars, and with each bump in the road, a little splash escaped. By the time I reached my destination, only the meatballs and a few noodles remained at the bottom of the pot.

And so we labour on in the task to which God has called us. We earnestly pray that our work may bear fruit.

 -----------

From Fransje en haar dominee (Fransje and her pastor), 1953, by Margaretha Elisabeth Gilhuis-Smitskamp (1908-2008). The book is made up of 25 short stories about life in the village parsonage in the 1930’s and ‘40’s. Mrs. Gilhuis-Smitskamp was a pastor’s wife and writes from that perspective. Tr. George van Popta, 2024.