The Gift

 

Can a person possess too many virtues?

This question often crosses my mind when I contemplate Brother Van de Lugt. He is a man brimming with admirable qualities: he’s kind-hearted, diligent, loyal, meticulous, an exemplary family man, and more. Moreover, he possesses an extraordinary memory.

Mr. Van de Lugt is an accountant and also serves as the clerk of the church council, adding two more virtues to his list.

His household runs like clockwork, a testament to his wife’s efficiency. But the credit for choosing such a woman goes to him, highlighting his thoughtfulness and thoroughness.

However, his most striking trait is his prodigious memory, which he often emphasizes with the irksome phrase: “Don’t you remember?”

I’m certain many of my colleagues know whereof I speak. We all know a Van de Lugt, don’t we? Someone who recalls your sermon themes and divisions from five years ago and remembers precisely when Jan Jansma married Betsy Pieterse (“Pastor, you used that text from I Corinthians for Dirk Theunissen and Grietje Meinders’ wedding last year, don’t you remember?”).

When I crack a joke, he remembers a slightly different version I told months ago, or he even recalls an event his father experienced in 1929, “. . . or was it 1928?”

You can imagine my delight when the publisher of the Church Bulletin called to inform me that the clerk had apparently forgotten to send in the announcements. Almost skipping with joy, and schadenfreude, I hurried to Brother Van de Lugt’s. He has nine children, and one of them opened the door.

“May I speak with your father for a moment?” 

“Come in,” came Van de Lugt’s friendly voice. The poor man had no idea what was coming.

“You see, Brother Van de Lugt, the publisher of the Bulletin called me about the announcements.”

“The announcements?”

“Yes, it seems you forgot to send them in.”

I smiled insincerely, but he didn’t. He simply said, “I already gave you all the information on Sunday. You were going to take care of it yourself because the groom’s full name still had to be filled in, don’t you remember?”

He was right. Of course, he was. If anyone is correct, then Van de Lugt is.

After a few feeble attempts to save face, I stood up. My joy had turned into gall, and the urge to skip had evaporated.

“Shall I take care of the groom’s name?” he asked.

“Oh, no,” I said stiffly, “I’ll ensure it is correct in the bulletin.”

“Now that I’m speaking to you, Reverend, have you sent in the information for classis? The convening church needs it before the fifteenth, don’t you remember?”

“Right. I’ll ensure it is mailed on time,” I said lamely.

“I’m sorry my wife isn’t home; she’s just gone to Mrs. Laatsman’s. We talked about her at the consistory meeting and you were going to bring her a visit, don’t you remember?”

He was right. Because. . .  well, see above.

Afraid that more of my shortcomings would be revealed, I hurried out.

At the door: “Oh, Reverend, I hope you don’t mind, but do you still have my pen? I lent it to you last Sunday, don’t you remember?”

With the feeling of an apprehended pickpocket, I handed over the pen.

“You remember everything,” I said with just a bit of bitterness.

“Well,” he said innocently, as the voices of the nine children echoed happily from within the house, “perhaps I do have the gift of memory.”

Well, I left it at that.

Yes, that Van de Lugt, he is indeed as I have portrayed him above.

But the distressing thing is that when I re-read what I wrote, I wondered: have I actually described his virtues or my flaws?

From “De Gave,” pp 96-98, Peper en Zout, M. E. Voilà: Kok, Kampen, n.d.; tr. George van Popta, 2024

 

 Baby visit

 

Nijsterweerd is a bustling Dutch village teeming with children. The lone school is bursting at the seams, and maternity visits are a near-weekly occurrence. Initially, my husband, Pastor Kees, and I would attend these together. However, Kees found that these visits often devolved into too much “women’s talk.” Consequently, we decided to make these visits separately. Kees had hoped to avoid the detailed birth stories this way, but alas! Few women in Nijsterweerd can resist sharing their dramatic birth experiences, even with their 25-year old newlywed pastor. “I should have become a baker,” Kees would quip; “at least bakers don’t have to listen to such stories. But Fransje, when are you going to visit Griet?”

That question puts me squarely in the middle of a dilemma. “I’m apprehensive,” I admit. “What if she thinks I’m visiting out of mere curiosity, Kees? She might not appreciate it.”

“You must, Fransje,” insists Kees. “Your absence would not be seen as tactful, but rather as if you’re looking down on her, just like the other women. Just be yourself,” he advises. “Follow your heart.”

Poor Griet. A year ago, she moved from the southeastern corner of Friesland to our village of Nijsterweerd in response to a housekeeper advertisement. She found herself in the remote area of Bergwier, a village down the road from ours, a place seemingly near the end of the world. Her only company was her employer, Meindert, a deaf, inflexible, bachelor farmer in his fifties. Griet married him three months ago, and they welcomed a baby last week.

I’ve never met Griet, but I feel like I know her through Kees’s  stories. Griet is an unfortunate soul, somewhat of a social outcast who has never had anyone care for her. She lost her parents at a young age and has never had a place to call home. Kees has spent a lot of time talking to her and has grown fond of Griet. However, Nijsterweerd can be harsh, even towards those who have admitted their mistakes. It will take time for the village to accept Griet.

As I stand in front of my dressing table drawer, I ponder over the gifts for the newborns. I need to choose something for Griet. They’re just small, homemade items—a terry cloth bib, a knitted cap, a pair of baby socks. If I had known Nijsterweerd would have so many babies, I might have reconsidered. I chose something special, a little outfit I had sewn.

The road to Bergwier is barren and exposed, with a biting sea breeze. Despite my apprehension, I know I must bring the visit. In my bicycle basket, I carry the little package. I had sewn the outfit as a gift for Kees’s sister Ina, who is expecting her fourth child. But Ina will receive plenty of gifts, and Griet has no one.

Meindert is chopping wood outside. He mumbles under his breath and gestures towards the door of the house. I carefully navigate my way past the dog frantically barking and pulling at its chain.

The small room is stifling. Diapers are drying around the wood-burning stove, and a coffee pot is simmering on it. Griet lies in the bedstead, the bed built into the kitchen wall, her gaunt, yellowish face hidden among the checkered cushions.

“Ma’am,” Griet says, visibly distressed. She sits up halfway, tucking her dark hair behind her ears. “Ma’am, please excuse the messy kitchen. Geertsje from Minke, our neighbor, is coming to help this afternoon.”

I take a seat by the bedstead. Griet nervously fiddles with the sheets, chattering incessantly in an unfamiliar dialect. I can only comprehend half of what she’s saying. Eventually, she leans back into the cushions, exhausted. 

“Could you please pick up the baby? My husband won’t hear me if I call.”

Relieved that the intimidating Meindert will stay outside, I lift the sleeping child from its crib. Griet tucks the baby under the covers next to her with shy pride, and I get a glimpse of the wrinkled little head through a gap in the shawl.

I place my package on the blankets. Griet picks it up and unwraps the paper with trembling fingers. She holds up the outfit and looks at it in silence. Then, unexpectedly, she bursts into sobs.

Startled, I sit on the bench next to the bed. “But Griet,” I stammer, “why are you crying?”

“Oh,” Griet sobs, “such a beautiful gift! And the women said: ‘You probably won’t get anything from the pastor’s wife.’”

When I return home, Kees has tea prepared. My chair is by the stove, the table lamp is lit, and my slippers are warming on the hearth. I almost feel guilty for enjoying such comfort and coziness, such care and love. I think of Griet in her cramped bedstead, with a deaf, gruff man as her only company, and a neighbor’s child as her only help.

When I recount my visit, Kees has only one comment: “That's cruel.”

----

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.

 

 Mr. Sticky

His name is "Mr. Van Dijk," but, in our household, he has earned the moniker of “Mr. Sticky.” My children, with their imaginative minds, have drawn a parallel between him and a well-known glue that boasts the tagline “Guaranteed to stick.” Unfortunately, I had not forbidden my children from using the nickname.  Here is the backstory.

This particular parishioner is a lingerer. Once he graces you with his presence, he seems to be glued to his seat.

There are others like him, but, usually, there are ways to get them to move along. Mr. Sticky, on the other hand, is a challenge of a different kind. His arrival, often conveniently timed right around dinner time, triggers a flurry of activity. The children exclaim, “Oh-oh, there’s Mr. Sticky! Mom, you may as well put the supper back in the oven!”

A whirlwind of chaos ensues, which I find myself struggling to navigate.

What’s peculiar about this man is his lack of any significant conversation. He arrives unannounced, engages in boring small talk about his wife, the weather, and his views on the future. His favourite topic, however, is illnesses.

“Tough times, Pastor,” he says. And so, we discuss the tough times.

“Terrible weather for those who are ill, Pastor,” and then we discuss the weather.

“Have you heard about that farmer in Bronkhorst?” And then, the conversation inevitably turns to all manner of quack remedies for various illnesses promoted by this farmer.

All my usual tactics prove futile against him. Whether I subtly steer the conversation towards the time or offer him a second coffee—a strategy that usually works with other lingerers—he remains unfazed. He even accepts the second coffee without hesitation, forcing me to abandon that tactic. The clatter of dishes and the clinking of cutlery coming from the kitchen do not deter him. He simply sits there, savoring even the awkward silences in our conversation. After a prolonged silence, he would suddenly say, “Still, he has helped a lot of people.” And so we circle back to the farmer from Bronkhorst.

But then. . .  My youngest son deserves a round of applause. He managed to outsmart Mr. Sitcky, not with cunning or subtle hints, as his father attempted; no, his methods are straightforward and leave no room for misinterpretation.

Mr. Van Dijk had been seated across from me for a full hour. He was as comfortable as if he were lounging on a bed of roses, while I felt like I was sitting on a bed of nails. 

The door to my study swung open, and in walked Henry, my three-year-old son. Any change was a welcome distraction, so I tried to engage him in conversation. But he paid me no mind and positioned himself directly in front of Mr. Sticky. “Henry, give the gentleman a handshake!” I suggested. 

But Henry didn’t budge. It was futile to try to distract him with such trivialities when he was focused on a grand mission. Henry was already zeroing in on his target.

“Aren’t you hungry?” Henry asked, catching us off guard.

I silently applauded him. “Well done, lad,” I thought to myself, “that’s the way to do it.”

Mr. Sticky attempted to salvage the situation by laughing heartily and extending his hand towards Henry. But he was no match for my son. Henry, standing before him like a stern judge, interrupted him. His tone became noticeably more authoritative: “I asked, aren’t you hungry?”

His tactic was working. Van Dijk managed another smile and said, “Yes, yes, little man, you must be hungry too, right?”

Henry then moved towards the door, and his intentions could not have been more clear. He opened the door and stood there, determinedly waiting to usher our guest out.

Mr. Van Dijk had no choice but to take his leave. We looked at one another and chuckled a bit awkwardly, but he stood up to leave.

My older children found the whole episode amusing and were silently cheering on their little brother. As we stood in the hallway, my wife emerged from the kitchen to say goodbye to the visitor. She said, “So, Henry, did you want to see Mr. Van Dijk out?” To which Henry replied in a clear voice, “Mommy, this is not Mr. Van Dijk; it's Mr. Sticky.”

A muffled laugh echoed from the dining room, but Mr. Sticky and I acted as if neither of us had heard Henry’s candid remark—or the muffled laughs.

However, it’s been three months now, and Mr. Sticky has yet to pay us another visit.

 

From “Plakkon,” pp 87-89, Peper en Zout, M. E. Voilà: Kok, Kampen, n.d.; tr. George van Popta, 2024

 

A Daytime Nightmare

 

It was midsummer. It was the haying season. It was hot. It was Sunday afternoon, two o’clock. We were in church.

The heat was oppressive, wrapping around me like a suffocating shroud. My linen shirt clung to my skin, wet and unyielding.

Moisture gathered on my face, a rivulet of perspiration tracing a path down my nose and cheeks. It disappeared into the folds of my neck, seeking refuge in the lower reaches of my clothing. My eyes burned, and I had to keep blinking to be able to see my sermon text. Where all that moisture came from was a riddle to me. I longed for a car’s windshield wiper to sweep away the discomfort, but alas, I had only my handkerchief—a feeble defense against the relentless heat.

The congregation sat quietly, but it was a deceptive calm. Their eyes were closed, their breathing steady, but it was a facade. Beneath the surface, they simmered like a pot left unattended. The scent of Eau De Cologne hung in the air, mingling with the oppressive warmth. The sisters would dab a few drops on their handkerchiefs, and the vapors would usually keep them awake on a warm Sunday, but it was to no avail that particular afternoon. Transparent curtains veiled the large windows, but the merciless sun pressed against them, breaching the sanctuary.

And there they slumbered—my beloved congregation—in the most curious positions. Some rested their chins on their chests as if seeking solace in their own exhaustion. Others resembled snapped peonies, their heads drooping to one side. A few leaned so far back that they seemed in danger of toppling over and looking as if awaiting the barber to shave their beards.

To the right of the pulpit sat the black-clad elders—six weathered farmers, their eyes closed in blissful oblivion. On the left, the five deacons, also farmers, mirroring the elders. Their foreheads were furrowed in dreams of bountiful harvests. I stood in the pulpit, bewildered by the somnolent scene before me. The entire consistory—no, the entire congregation—was sailing through a sea of dreams, leaving me adrift in a sea of silence.

Desperation drove me to experiment. I lowered my voice, then suddenly shouted, hoping to rouse them from their reverie. A few stirred, their baggy eyes opening for a moment, but it was fleeting.

Finally, I surrendered to frustration. My fist met the lectern, a resounding thud that echoed through the hallowed space. For a brief moment, the rhythmic sighing from the dormitory ceased, replaced by an expectant hush. But then it resumed—a haunting chorus of slumber, drowning out my words.

And so, I stood there—a lone preacher in a sea of sleeping brothers and sisters—wondering if perhaps the nightmare was mine alone. The sun blazed on, indifferent to our collective struggle, and I yearned for the cool embrace of twilight. But until then, I would continue to fulfill my calling and preach to the sleeping. But my voice was lost in the heat and the haze, and my pleas were swallowed by the relentless sighs of the slumbering congregation.

Desperately, I scanned the faces of the congregation, seeking any sign of interest in my sermon—a lifeline amidst the sea of indifference. The topic was the exodus of the children of Israel through the Red Sea, an exciting story of divine intervention and miraculous deliverance. Yet, they remained unmoved, fast asleep. I had been abandoned to plow on alone.

And then, like a beacon in the haze, my eyes alighted upon an old woman. She sat in the front row, her old hands clutching her worn Bible. Unlike the others, she was awake, her eyes wide and unblinking. Her unwavering attention pierced through the torpor that hung over the congregation.

Faithful soul, I thought, you are my sole ally in this spiritual battle. She watched me intently, her gaze never wavering—even as she dabbed her forehead with a handkerchief or discreetly popped a Wilhelmina peppermint into her mouth. Her devotion was steadfast, a lighthouse in the fog of indifference.

I abandoned the rest of the congregation, focusing solely on this miniature audience of one. With renewed vigor, I preached as if my words could part seas and move mountains. Surely, this faithful woman would carry my message beyond these stifling walls.

As the sermon drew to a close, I allowed myself a glimmer of hope. Perhaps my efforts had not been in vain. Maybe, just maybe, the seeds of faith had taken root in her heart.

Outside the church, reality awaited. The old woman stood by a covered wagon, ready to embark on her journey home. A young farmer, now fully awake, was holding the reins. The farmer’s wife leaned out from the wagon, her voice carrying across the dusty yard: “Come on, mother!”

But old mother remained rooted in place. She did not budge, her gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the horizon. I moved towards the dear old soul to greet her, but the farmer’s wife intercepted my intention. Her voice apologetic she said to me, “Mother is deaf, Pastor. She doesn’t hear, even if you shout.”

My last illusion crumbled—the faithful woman, my silent confidante, had been living in a world of silence.

But then I thought: her unwavering gaze may not have been one of comprehension but, rather, of sheer and simple loyalty to the Word.

And so, in the relentless heat, I pedaled my way home, carrying not just the weight of my sermon that no one had heard, but also the memory of the old woman who had listened with her heart, even when her ears had failed her. There is a quiet devotion that transcends mere hearing.

From “Een Dagmerrie,” pp 93-95, Peper en Zout, M. E. Voilà: Kok, Kampen, n.d.; tr. George van Popta, 2024

 

 Navigating Compliments: A Delicate Art

The art of complimenting someone appropriately is a skill in itself. However, the ability to accept a compliment graciously is an equally important art form. 

This is particularly true for preachers, who are held to a different standard than most. They cannot indulge in flattery, as it would suggest arrogance. Conversely, it would be discourteous, among other things, to reject well-intentioned praise. In such situations, a great deal of tact is required. 

Consider this scenario: a preacher receives a compliment on his sermon. The exchange might go something like this: “Pastor, your sermon was truly inspiring this Sunday.” “Ah, Brother Jansen, you think so? I must admit, the text was particularly moving.”  

Notice the subtle shift? The word ‘sermon’ has been replaced with ‘text.’ This places the focus on the Word, rather than the sermon itself. This allows both the preacher and Brother Jansen to express their admiration freely. Of course, the sermon remains at the forefront of the conversation, ensuring everyone leaves feeling satisfied. 

However, caution is still necessary, as I recently discovered. 

Sister De Wilde is known to be a good woman, albeit a bit excessive. She’s the type to express her feelings with “oh” and “ah,” and frequently uses words like “delightful.” 

During a recent visit, she began to express her thoughts immediately: “Oh, Reverend, I thoroughly enjoyed the sermon on Sunday!” 

I was taken aback, but quickly adapted my usual technique: “Well, Sister, I’m glad to hear that. It was indeed a difficult text.” 

“Oh, you shouldn’t say that. It was so clear to me, and those beautiful metaphors! I told my husband: ‘it’s truly a gift, absolutely delightful!’” 

I couldn’t recall using any notable metaphors in that particular sermon, but I chose to accept the compliment graciously. 

Upon reflection, I realized that Sister De Wilde is quite empathetic and intelligent once you get to know her. I had previously found her somewhat off-putting, but it seems I was too quick to judge. 

She continued: “And do you know what I always find so remarkable? One can reach so many people with the spoken word. I told my husband that such a message should be heard throughout the land! No question about it!” 

I found her comment somewhat out of context, but wasn’t there some truth in it? Indeed, there was. Such a sermon, or rather, such a scripture-text, is universally applicable. I didn’t hesitate to express my agreement with her perspective: “Sister,” I responded solemnly, “the entire world needs to hear this.” 

We found common ground and continued our conversation harmoniously. 

“And what about the sick? Oh, the poor ill individuals, Reverend!” 

“I wholeheartedly agree, Sister. They are indeed in dire need.” 

“Do you think the thousands are listening, Reverend?” 

Her question caught me off guard. Our church can’t seat thousands. I attributed her exaggeration to her enthusiastic nature. However, a sense of unease began to creep in, and I cautiously responded: “Yes, thankfully, there is still a significant amount of interest.” 

But my moment of reckoning was imminent: “When my husband returned home from church, I said, ‘Oh, you missed so much this morning! The preacher on TV was exceptional this morning!’” 

There must be a unique art to gracefully concluding such conversations, an art form I am yet to master. 

In conclusion, I find Sister De Wilde to be somewhat superficial, and I struggle to understand why others find her so endearing.

From “Pijnlijk!” in Peper en Zout, Ds M. E. Voilà. Kok: Kampen, n.d. Trans., George van Popta, 2024.