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 Yet, lately, she appears increasingly fatigued and withdrawn.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.
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.
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)
