When War Came

I love May.
I always have.

Maybe it is because of the new life-ness of spring that suffuses nearly
everything.

Maybe it is because it is the month of my birth, and May birthdays
are still a sweet memory.

But there's another May memory that entered my life at a very
young age.

It is not a memory of innocence, but of evil.  The shadow of that memory
has dimmed over the years, but it has never faded altogether.

This is that story:

Once upon a time there was a little boy who lived in a farmhouse. 
There were cows in the barn attached to the house, chickens in
the chicken coop, pigs in the pigsty, a horse in the horse barn,
and bees in the beehives. 

The boy was happy, for all was well.

But shortly after the little boy had his 6^th birthday, something very
frightening happened.

His birthday had been wonderful.  The early day in May had been warm,
like a summer day.  All growing things were rushing to show off their colors
and smell and beauty.  The little boy loved this time of year, when the cattle
were back in the fields, farmers were plowing, and all the children were playing outside.

But one morning in this beautiful springtime, the little boy woke with a start. 
He heard voices outside the window of his bedroom, many voices, talking
loud and fast, as people do when they are excited or afraid. 
And then the boy heard something else: the droning of an engine,

a great big engine not far away. 
Maybe that’s why there were people outside talking so much, even though it

was only breakfast time.

The boy was curious and for some reason felt fear flutter inside. 
He quickly got dressed.

Nobody was in the kitchen.  Everybody must be outside, he thought. 
When he came outside, he saw his Dad and Mom, and his brother and
older sister gathered in front of the house, busy talking to a group of neighbors. 

And the noise of the engine was much louder now. 
But the boy didn’t see an engine.  Everybody was looking up at the sky. 
When the boy looked up too, he saw where the awful rumble came from:
hundreds and hundreds of airplanes darkened the sky, like a huge swarm

of locusts he had heard his Dad read about from the Bible.

The boy ran to his Mom. 
He could tell by her face that something very serious was happening.

“What’s wrong, Mom?  Why are all those airplanes in the sky?”

His Mom took his hand and pulled him closer.  Her voice trembled
when she said simply, “It’s war.”

The boy was too young to understand fully what that meant,
but he knew it was something that was very bad. 

He heard people talking about the dirty Germans who had invaded
their country and were bombing the big cities in the south. 
It was the first time the boy began to understand that there were
enemies in the land, in his land, enemies that would make life dangerous.

From that day the boy’s self-conscious life began, and he would
never again feel completely safe in the world into which he had been born. 
For the next five years, fear would be a constant companion.

The family gathered around the table for breakfast that morning
later than usual.  Everyone waited quietly for the father to pray
the morning prayer.  They listened to every word as the father
prayed earnestly for God to protect them from the enemy, to bring
back peace, and to be especially near those who were fighting or fleeing

for their lives.

No one had expected a war, though many had not trusted Hitler. 
No one knew what this war would mean for the little country of the
Netherlands or for all the other countries of Europe. 
But on this day, May 10, 1940, a dark cloud of an enemy air force
had appeared in the sky, and even the young boy had a bad feeling
that the cloud would only grow bigger and darker.

Silent Saturday

sleeping
out of the draft
fallen on the lee side of the grave
the flags are lowered
the sails now slackened
the feet are covered
at last at rest

sleeping
out of the draft
fallen on the lee side of the grave

but unobserved
through granite walls
a genial breeze begins to play
all the trees pick up their tiny ears
the fog undulates itself into new shapes
wind, mumbling, slowly strolls
across the graveyard
a grave's about to burst
before the rising sun

                  Tiny Mulder
                  (tr. from Frisian by hjbaron]

Good Friday

He must take this last step,

the last step of love,

the last step of life.

Now life slips from each limb,

finds refuge in his still-beating heart:

stretching from pole to pole,

high as heaven,

low as hell,

now overflowing,

heavy as the world,

the world of sin and misery.

See.

He takes his heavy heart,

and, slowly, laboriously,

alone between heaven and earth,

in the awesome night,

with passionate love,

he gathers the sin of the world,

and in a cry,

he gives ALL:

“Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit.”

Death of an "ordinary" man

I went to a memorial service last night.
It was a reminder that we often learn to know one too late.

And that’s a great sadness.

Reinder came from Friesland to this country when he was 19.
There had been limited chance for an education.

But he took with him a curious intellect and a fine capacity for learning.

And a great love for his Fryslân and its ancient language.

He went to work in his new country, got drafted, sent to Korea, and reached the rank of corporal.  He was a good soldier; love for his adopted country grew.

And also for his sweetheart.
They married, after military service, and for 55 years shared life together.

Until death did them part.

Reinder and a brother, in time, built a business together.

The brick and stone-laying company did well, for their work was first-rate.

But life was not all business.

A growing family generated its own priority busy-ness.

And so did church, for the Lord’s work had first place in Reinder’s heart.

But his heart was large.

There was room for the deep roots of a Gardener’s passion.

He knew when to plant, how to grow, until the garden’s abundance could feed the family and be shared with friends.

But the flower garden became his specialty and love.
Ever hungry for greater expertise, he earned the title of Advanced Master Gardener through the Michigan State University extension program.

Eager to share his knowledge and his skills, he reached out to local gardening groups.

His prize-winning dahlias led him to help establish a Dahlia Society.

His love for neighbor led him to the ministry of Horticultural Therapy for released prisoners.

His reward?  Their growing sense of confidence and dignity; and their love and respect.

Much of this I had not known.

I knew Reinder only from our “Frisian lunch group.”

I learned that his emigrating family and mine had sailed on the same ship, the Veendam, in 1948, though we did not meet then.

He was a thoughtful man, calm and deliberate in speech and manner.

Though he was a man of few words, I discovered that he was an avid reader.

What impressed me most were the facile use of his native tongue, and the rich store of knowledge he had accumulated about his beloved Friesland.

But there had been so much more to know.

Not long ago, this large strong man who had never been sick was laid low.

Attacked by an aggressive lymphoma, he declined rapidly.

But though his voice was nearly silenced near the end, his mind never faltered.

He knew and could bless his family as they gathered around his bed.

He could whisper of his love for them and his love for Jesus.

He was at peace, ready to meet his Savior.

Last night, in the church he had been a part of for so many years, now packed to capacity, I watched and listened as his friends and family testified.

.

I began to see a person I had not known.

A man who had fed on the writings of theologians and historians.

A man whose integrity and gentle spirit had blessed many.

A man who had been a leader in his church, active in nearly every aspect of its ministry.

A man whose delightful writing had often entertained his readers.

A man respected for his wisdom.

But especially a man whose faith, devotion, and love for the Lord had deeply touched those closest to him.

The gratitude for the life of this man and deep love shone on the faces of his children and others who spoke of him.

It was profoundly affecting.

In his death, Reinder blessed me, as I should have been in his life.

An “ordinary” man?

Is anyone “ordinary”?

It’s a great sadness when we think so.