There is a God

 

Jesus, I come – George C. Stebbins by George vP

The Hero

(Translation of “De Held” from Peper en Zout by Ds M.E Voila, Kok: Kampen (n.d.), a book about the experiences of a Dutch minister in about the 1950’s.)

Although small and skinny, Mr. Lampers still gave an overblown impression. That came from his manner of carrying himself. He was a teacher. Of course, that in itself had nothing to do with his puffed-up air, for I know several teachers with whom that is not at all noticeable. I mean, no one would say they were conceited, because they really weren’t.

But I had better return to Mr. Lampers.

When he straightens his spectacles and tilts his head, there are several girls in the second grade who grow afraid of him. And when, in spring, his high falsetto voice pierces the classroom with sharp rebukes, even the sparrows chirping in the chestnut tree outside the open window fall silent.

In his classroom he rules supreme; outside of it, not to the same degree; and at home, it is his wife that reigns. 

Our housemaid Jans let him in, and when he emerged from behind her formidable form, she said in the same tone she would use with the cat, “Yes, go on in.”

But Jans is not in the second grade. He solemnly shook my hand.

“Ahem” (that’s how he usually begins his sentences), “Ahem, Pastor, I would like to ask your advice.”

He had already given me advice on several occasions—unsolicited—so I felt it only fair to return the favour. 

“With pleasure, Mr. Lampers. What’s on your mind?”

He coughed importantly, pulled up the legs of his trousers, and sank into a big chair. Then came the story. He had Kees de Bont in his class. Did I know the De Bont family? Indeed, I did. The household was not as clean as one might wish. Well then, a few days earlier he had said to Kees: “. . . you should give yourself a good wash sometime, or you’ll get scabies.” The boy had repeated this at home, and it had not gone down well. The result was that Kees’s father kept him home from school.

“Ahem, mind you, Pastor, I did not say: 'you have scabies,' but: 'otherwise you’ll get scabies.' Or perhaps: 'that’s how one gets scabies.'”

What pained Mr. Lampers most of all was that father De Bont demanded an apology.

“And that I cannot do, Pastor. I only gave a well-meant warning. That is my duty, and besides. . .” His voice was already beginning to chirp again. So, I cut him off and advised him simply to go to the De Bont household and explain the matter. He shook his head despondently and left.

But from other quarters I heard that he could not be moved. The headmaster, his colleagues, his wife—everyone tried. All in vain. 

Until one evening he appeared again.

He seemed even smaller and thinner than before; this time he looked more deflated than inflated. After much beating about the bush came the confession. He was willing to go to the De Bonts. “But you see, Ahem. . .  you may laugh at me, but they have such a large dog there, a terrible brute. And I simply am so afraid of dogs.”

There it was. This time his glasses sat crooked, his head hung low, and the Hero of Grade Two sat pitifully in the big leather chair. 

So, I gave him my advice once more, with the result that he went to the De Bonts . . .  together with his wife. And Kees is back in school.

But every now and then, when I meet him in town, I have the urge to bark.

 

JANS

 JANS

(Translation of “Jans” from Peper en Zout by Ds M.E Voila, Kok: Kampen (n.d.), a book about the experiences of a Dutch minister in about the 1950’s.)

Jans. That’s her name. And for me, that simple name represents a formidable presence.

This week it was rough again. I wouldn’t want to speak ill of her, because she’s a good girl, my wife says. But if I’m honest, there are moments when I dislike all those “good girls” who, with all their goodness, tyrannize the whole household—me included.

Because, to be even more honest: I’m afraid of our housemaid. I’m not afraid of anyone, no—but I am afraid of Jans. Afraid of her look, in which a whole world of contempt can lie. Afraid of her “see-I-told-you-so-you-poor-fellow” air when she finds something I’ve been searching for hours. Afraid of the merciless decisiveness with which she announces that I may not go into this or that room because it’s being “done.” Afraid, too, of her sharp tongue, her lack of respect for my person and my office.

My wife is also afraid, but only that she might leave—“and you know you can’t get anyone nowadays.”

So we live under the reign of Jans.

And she is formidable. When she arms herself with broom and dust mop, it’s as if the Pleiades are bearing down on you. She is broad and tall and, in certain places, of considerable depth. She has a chin like the bumper of a modern army truck and hands that conceal a crushing strength. An Amazon, a Hippolyta, a tank.

It does me good to be able to say this for once. Because this week was particularly bad. To put it briefly: on Sunday I preached an old sermon. Not very old—only about three years. Nobody noticed, which says some things about both my congregation and my sermons.

Nobody? Except Jans. For she—apart from other “talents”—also has the memory of an elephant. But I hadn’t thought of that at the time.

Those whom the gods would destroy, they first blind. Cheerfully—at least outwardly, for after an old sermon you always have a slightly uneasy feeling—I stepped into the living room after the service and laid my sermon on the sideboard. I had a friendly word for my wife and for our children. I was behaving in that familiar way that marks a conscience looking for reassurance in the normal behaviour of others. Half an hour later I went to the sideboard to fetch the sermon. It wasn’t there.

“Jans! Jans!”

Jans appeared. Her expression should have warned me.

“Jans, where’s my sermon?”

“I’ve already put it away in your study.”

Still I suspected nothing of my approaching downfall, and in my hubris I had the audacity to ask, “And how do you know where that sermon belongs?”

“I’ve known that for three years already, Pastor!”

There’s a time to be silent. This was one of them. We both stood there—but how differently. The air was full of her triumph, and I, badly wounded, left the battlefield for my study.

“You know what you’ve got,” says my wife, “and not what you’ll get.”

Well, what we’ve got, I know for sure: an Amazon, a Hippolyta, a tank.

 

There is a God

A hymn inspired by the Dutch Er is een God, die Hoort. Jesus, i come – George C. Stebbins by George vP

 

WRONG NUMBER

(Translation of “Verkeerd adres” from Peper en Zout by Ds M.E Voila, Kok: Kampen (n.d.), a book about the experiences of a Dutch minister in about the 1950’s.)

I’m deeply shocked. What happened? Didn’t get the call from that church? Had a falling out with my church council? Salary raise didn’t go through? Or even worse: burned a hole in my last good suit?

    None of the above. And yet I’m deeply shocked. By a phone call.

    It was around five o’clock, and the phone rang. I rushed to it (rushing is the only way to silence the thing). Before I had a chance to say my name, he had already begun:

    “So, there you are at last? You surely know why I’m calling. If you think your old aunt is calling you, you’re dead wrong . . . .”

    I was already shaking, but it got much worse. I realized he had dialed the wrong number, and I tried in vain to cast my name like oil upon the waters of his agitated spirit. But he ranted on:

    “You’ve turned into a gentleman of leisure, have you? Well, let me tell you something: that car better be back home today, or you’ve seen the last of me!”

    A light dawned. He thought he was talking to the local auto mechanic, who has almost the same number as I do.

    “And don’t go thinking I’m the one sitting idle. I work, you hear? I work for my daily bread—I don’t sit around smoking cigars all day. . . .”

    I felt something had to be done.

    “Pardon me,” I stammered.

    This was a complete disaster.

    Apparently, the oil had hit the fire instead of calming the waters.

   “Case, don’t get me started with your ‘pardon me.’ ‘pardon me,’ ‘pardon me’ —what's next, should I tip my hat to you? Well, you know what you should do? Take off those gloves of yours and use your wrenches!”

    Now I began to recognise the voice. Yes, I couldn’t be mistaken. It was one of the deacons—a shopkeeper, a decent guy—and I had never heard him like this before.

    I was shaken. And I also remembered that the auto mechanic was a deacon too. I realized serious spiritual stakes were involved here. A dreadful brotherly quarrel. Intervention was needed. I began preparing a little speech in my mind, working in a few Bible texts, and launched into it:

    “Now listen—”

    But apparently, he still had steam to blow off.

    “Yeah, yeah, I know—busy, busy, and no staff. Staff? Man, don’t talk to me about staff! Then you roll up your own sleeves. That’s what I do! I’ve already called three times and I’ve been waiting for that car since two o’clock. Why don’t you get under it yourself? Oh, pardon me, that would dirty your fingers—hadn’t thought of that. With customer service like yours, your business won’t last long. You ought to start a beauty salon, and give ladies perms all day. And then go around all day saying: ‘pardon me.’ Well, just you wait!—”

    I felt I shouldn’t say another word. Besides, I was developing a sneaking admiration for this wordsmith and didn’t want to embarrass him by revealing my name.

    I hung up, but I was deeply shaken. So this is what they’re like, I thought, when you’re not around.

    That Sunday, both of them were in the consistory room. Impeccably dressed in black.

    I glanced sideways at the auto mechanic’s hands: his fingernails were rimmed with black. The shopkeeper was late—he had brought an elderly sister to church in his car. So the car was fine again (I mean the car, of course).

    I considered making a move to reconcile these two enemies. But to my astonishment, they were standing together, chatting and laughing amiably, and after the service, they offered each other a cigar and the one gave the other a friendly jab in the ribs.

    That was my final shock.