At Year's Turning

Father, your Son did not stay in Bethlehem, and neither can we.
Of course, we’d rather linger in the fields near David’s city
waiting for more angel choirs and dazzling stars
to chase the dark and silence from our souls,
here in the land where death’s shadow casts its pall.

We’d rather hunker near the place where the family from Nazareth
received the homage of burly shepherds and travel-weary kings,
and bask with all who long for rest in the presence of this Prince of Peace.

But you had other plans.
Your will took him to Jerusalem, and if we’re serious about Christmas,
we need to follow him.
Follow him, with the heavenly strains of the “Gloria” ringing in our ears,
till we reach the Via Dolorosa, where groans and curses fill the air.

The journey is not an easy one, we know;
and we hesitate as we take down the Christmas tree.
But the Master‘s words come to us as surely as they did
to Peter, James, and John: “Come, follow me.

Follow me through the tempter’s wilderness
till angels take the devil’s place and give you what you truly need.
Follow me among the crowds who hunger for daily bread
and feed them with the basketsful of those who share,
but who hunger also for the nourishment of good news,
and tell them that they are blessed when they are meek and merciful,
when they make peace and do what’s pure,
when they show love to those who hate
and forgive when they’ve been  sinned against,
for of such is the kingdom of heaven.

Follow me when I heal the sick and resurrect the dead
through the power that the Father gives, and learn
that neither sickness nor death separates you from the Father’s love.

Follow me when I flee the crowds and find a solitary place
where I can meet the Father,
sometimes in transfiguring glory on a mountain top,
sometimes under the silent stars of a Judean night,
wrestling through blood and tears with my Father’s will.

Follow me to Jerusalem, where only faith and love can follow,
and truth and grace meet in a broken body on the bloody cross.”

Father, that’s our prayer at the dawn of this new year:
to walk where Jesus walked, in faith that knows no fear.

                                                                           [from Talking with God: Prayers, meditations & conversations for God-seekers]

Hope at Christmastime

Note: Advent is a time to ponder.  To ponder the world's needs and our own expectations.  It forces us back to God's appearance in a manger.  In that appearance lies our hope for all the years to come.  They may be long, they may be violent, they may be dark.  They always have been.  But God has come among us.  To comfort us.  To walk with us.  To help us walk in step with him. To carry us when we collapse.  To lead us to the light.  To save us.  To keep our hope alive.

Emily Dickinson's poem (in italics) has reminded me of the astonishing quality of hope and how inextricably a believer's hope is connected to faith.
Our Advent prayer in 2012 is for faith-fulness and unswerving hope.

 

We live by hope.

It’s the song deep within that is never silent,

the song of “the promised land.”

 “Hope is the thing with feathers

that perches in the soul.

It sings the tune without the words

And never stops at all.”

Hope is audacious and is constant.

It does not fade but brightens when
storms flatten the farmer’s fields of grain, when
recessions wipe out one’s savings for old age, or when
one’s prayed-for child becomes untracked.

 “And sweetest in the gale is heard;

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

That kept so many warm.”

Hope lived among the stumps and shacks

of those who, more than a hundred-fifty years ago,
sailed across a treacherous ocean to “the promised land”
of hunger, hardship, and disease.

 

Hope lived among the starving in the Warsaw Ghetto,
where one left this inscription on the Wall:
“I believe in the sun, even if it does not shine.
I believe in love, even if I do not feel it.
I believe in God, even if I do not see him.”

Hope lived on Robben Island within Mandela’s heart.

Hope lives among the Tutsis and the Hutu,
it lives among the exiled families of Syria,
it lives within the ghettos of our own land,

and even among the laments of Newtown, Connecticut?

“I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.”

Hope never wavers, but is steadfast like a star.

It looks beyond what is, toward what is to come.
The ancient hope of Abraham, Isaiah, and Simeon.
The ancient Advent hope of all at Christmastime:
when the hopes - and fears - of all our years
are met in God’s gift of love, his Son,
our Hope for all the years to come,
into the perfect promised land.


                                                                          -emily dickinson

In the Beginning

God made.
And He called it good.

How He made
We do not know,
But he called  it good.

What He made
We know only in part;
But it was good.

The moon, the sun, the stars,
The wind-swept haunted places,
Proud peaks and gentle valleys,
The waves and sands and trees;

And images of God walked everywhere.

All this was good
For a short season.

Then all things fell apart.

Hate hardened,
Cruelty coarsened,
Sickness, hunger, and terror
Bent divine images in groteque shapes,
While death darkened all the good.

Again God made.
And Christ was born,
And it was good.

How He made
We do not understand.

What He made
We know only in part.

Why He made
He has clearly told us;
And it is good.

For what was lost
Can now be found again,
What was apart made whole,
What was doomed redeemed;
And that is good.

Now Creative Word was flesh.

Light pierced a great darkness;
Then we saw an infinite, astonishing Love,
For God is good.

Still God makes.
Love is born in human hearts,
Trembling and frail,
Reaching out beyond the self,
Touching comfort, healing, grace,
Changed through faith and hope and love;
God calls that good.

It's Christmas time!
Behold, all things are and will be new!
Behold, how He loves us!

Let us love one another.
God calls that good.

Prayer for the election

 

This special "election day" needs a prayer maybe more than anything else.
I therefore share the prayer of a sister in the faith.
May it be the prayer of God's children today, whoever and wherever they are.


(By Joanna Harader, author of the “Spacious Faith” blog)

God of justice and compassion,
God of Republicans and Democrats and Independents,
God of the poor and the 1% and the middle class,
in the heat of this election year
we pray for our nation, our churches, and ourselves.
In the midst of meanness and deception,
may our words be kind and true.
In the midst of loud speeches and harsh accusations,
may we listen well and try to understand.
May those who follow Jesus do the work of Jesus–
breaking down the dividing walls
speaking the truth in love
meeting together in the face of disagreements.
Holy, loving God, have mercy on your children.
Amen.

Wedding Anniversaries, Love, and Shakespeare

I remember with fondness some long-ago but very special family days, like the golden wedding anniversary of my grandparents.

I remember it because my sister and I were allowed to leave school early that day; because infrequently seen uncles and aunts and cousins came from everywhere; because the cigar smoke was so pungent, I think it lingers in my nostrils still; because there was merriment and drinks to sip and sweet pastry to chew.

But I remember it especially because that whole great company of descendants was in one place, happy together, gathered around a pair of aging human beings without whose wedded life there would have been no celebration.

Celebrations, national or personal, accent our relatedness, express the joy of our unity, and renew the strength that comes from belonging.
Celebrations are communal expressions of gratitude.
Maybe that’s why they’re so important.

For what is a nation without its Independence or Freedom Day; what is a community without its festival; what is a Christian Church without Christmas and Easter?

And what is a family without its birthday, anniversary, and holiday celebrations?

Taking celebration out of life is like leaving the yeast out of your bread or taking the yolk out of your egg or leaving the spices out of your pizza: you don’t have much left but a flat taste on your tongue.

Sometimes celebrations get a bit extra special, like golden or even silver wedding anniversaries. Strange, now, to think that we’ve already passed both of those plateaus.

But yes, it was on August 7 55 years ago that a young bride looked up at the boyish face of her groom and promised to be his loving wife.

And my, how she has kept that promise!

The journey that began on that stormy, rainy August 7 day has scaled mountains of adventure and challenge, and wandered its way through valleys of stress and strain. Somehow, we never stayed lost; we always found each other again.

And, thankfully, it’s not done.
Though, we admit, these are the sunset years.

But I’ve always savored the pensive moments that come when watching the sun sinking into the horizon while splashing the heavenly canvas above with its palette’s most brilliant colors. The best sunsets “do not go gentle into that goodnight.”

Fifty-five years accumulate a lot of memories.
Much more is forgotten, of course. And we’re getting painfully good at forgetting.
But we rarely forget those experiences that made deep imprints.
And we are blessed when most of those continue to give more pleasure than pain.

We are blessed when on such special occasions we can gather our children and grandchildren around us and joyously celebrate the goodness of God for giving fifty-five years of life and love and well-being.
As we did at 25, and 40, and 50, and will do again at 55.

A wedding anniversary is, of course, especially a celebration of human love.
I have no special insight into that subject.
Even after 55 years, love is still largely a mystery to me.
Maybe it is better so.

Maybe the best celebrations always honor what is at its core a mystery, like God’s love for a sinner, or a soldier’s love for his country, or a woman’s love for a man.
But I think I have learned something of human love: it is not always passionate, nor is it ever perfect, though true love matures and becomes more precious as the years turn.
Still, when Shakespeare wrote Sonnet 116, it is highly doubtful that he had just been gazing at Anne Hathaway or reminiscing on his many years of married life.

But a wedding anniversary of any color or metal deserves something like a sonnet. I therefore offer, with obligatory apologies to Shakespeare, my Revised Version of Sonnet 116:

Sonnet 116—RV

Let me not on the marriage of two lives
Impose perfection. But love is love still,
Though shaken by the changes in the wife’s
Appearance, or the husband’s moody will.
It’s true that love is frail, a flick’ring light,
Trembling through tempests, swayed by many fears;
 It is no star which, in solitary height,
Remains unmoved by human pain and tears.
Love is not constant, like the love of God,
But through God’s love and grace it does mature;
In five-and-fifty years it’s been well taught
To give and to forgive, and thus endure.
If this be false, then I would say on oath
We never loved, nor pledged each other troth.

Other Worlds to Sing In

Sometimes one comes across a story that worms its way through the layers of flotsam and jetsam of daily life and fastens onto the part of self where treasures are kept.
This is one of that kind.
As is too often the case, its author is unknown.
But it deserves an audience just the same.

                                                                 ~~~

When I was quite young, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood.  I remember well the polished old case fastened to the wall.  The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box.  I was too little to reach the telephone but used to listen with fascination when my mother talked to it.

Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an amazing person – her name was Information Please, and there was nothing she did not know.  Information Please could supply anybody’s number as well as the correct time.

My first personal experience with this genie-in-the-bottle came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbor.  Amusing myself at the tool bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer.  The pain was terrible, but there didn’t seem to be any reason for crying because there was no one home to give sympathy.  I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally arriving at the stairway – and the telephone!  Quickly I ran for the footstool in the parlor and dragged it to the landing.  Climbing up I unhooked the receiver and held it to my year.  “Information Please” I said into the mouthpiece just above my head.

 A click or two and a small clear voice spoke into my ear:  “Information.”

 “I hurt my finger…”  I wailed into the phone.  The tears came readily enough now that I had an audience.
“Isn’t your mother home?” came the question.
“Nobody’s home but me,” I blubbered.
“Are you bleeding?”
“No,” I replied.  “I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts.”
“Can you open your icebox?” she asked.  I said I could.  “Then chip off a little piece of ice and hold it to your finger.”

After that I called Information Please for everything.  I asked her for help with geography, and she told me where Philadelphia was.  She helped me with my math, and she told me my pet chipmunk I had caught in the park just the day before would eat fruits and nuts.

And there was the time that Petey, our pet canary died.  I called Information Please and told her the sad story. She listened, then said the usual things grown-ups say to soothe a child.  But I was unconsoled.   Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers, feet up on the bottom of a cage?

She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, “Paul, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in.”  Somehow I felt better.

Another day I was on the telephone: “Information Please.”
“Information,” said the now familiar voice.
“How do you spell fix?” I asked.

All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest.  Then when I was nine years old, we moved across the country to Boston.  I missed my friend very much.  Information Please belonged in that old wooden box back home, and I somehow never thought of trying the tall, shiny new phone that sat on the hall table.

As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me.  Often in moments of doubt and perplexity I would recall the serene sense of security I had then. I appreciated now how patient, understanding, and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy.

                                                                    */*

A few years later on my way to college, my plane put down in Seattle.  I had about half an hour or so between planes, and I spent 15 minutes or so on the phone with my sister, who lived there now.  Then without thinking what I was doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said, “Information Please.”

Miraculously, I heard again the small, clear voice I knew so well, “Information.”  I hadn’t planned this but I heard myself saying, “Could you tell me please how to spell fix?”

There was a long pause.  Then came the soft-spoken answer, “I guess that your finger must’ve healed by now.”
I laughed, “So it’s really still you,” I said.  “I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during that time.”
I wonder,” she said, “if you know how much your calls meant to me.  I never had any children, and I used to look forward to your calls.”
I told her how often I had thought of her over the years, and I asked if I could call her again when I came back to visit my sister.
“Please do.  Just ask for Sally.”

                                                                      */*
Just three months later I was back in Seattle.  A different voice answered Information, and I asked for Sally.

“Are you a friend?”
“Yes, a very old friend.”
“Then I’m sorry to have to tell you.  Sally has been working part-time the last few years because she was sick.  She died five weeks ago.” 

But before she could hang up she said, “Wait a minute.  Did you say your name was Paul?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Sally left a message for you.  She wrote it down.  Here it is.  I’ll read it: ‘Tell him I still say there are other worlds to sing in.  He’ll know what I mean.’”

I thanked her and hung up. 
I did know what Sally meant.

At Home

The nice thing about leaving home and moving far away is to go back now and again.
We’ve done that often over the years, mostly because we left so many dear family people behind.
On Sundays we would usually attend the family’s church. But one year we chose to go back the church of my youth.

The occasion was an especially festive one.

No, not because a “son of the church” had returned; in fact, many didn’t know me anymore.
The festivity centered on the organist: the congregation was celebrating her 50 years of service to the Lord and the church through music.
For this special occasion, the congregation had invited the organist’s son as guest minister.
This son, along with two other sons, also provided the special music through stirring vocal harmony.
And the mother?
She was the organist, of course, accompanying the special music and the congregational singing as I remembered her doing nearly every Sunday when I was in my teens.

 But there were changes too.

The organ had been moved from the left to the right of the pulpit.
I pondered the symbolic significance of that for a while but became distracted by the ceiling fans.
They must’ve been newly installed for I noticed many eyes raised heavenward watching the blades lazily swinging against the warm summer air.
More conspicuous, though, was the absence of the consistorial parade, in which the minister would enter first, with the elders immediately behind.
Before ascending the pulpit, the minister would stop, turn to the nearest elder (the vice-president, no doubt), and shake hands, after which the throng of elders, followed by the deacons would parade to the best seats in the house – center section, four rows from the front.
It had always been a solemn ritual, no doubt symbolic too, and I think I missed it just a little.

 So many memories come back when you’ve been away.

And we’d been away for a long time.
That Sunday morning it was good to think back on many things:
on all those ushering Sundays long ago –
and good to note that some of my “old customers” were still ushered to the same seats;
on many a young people’s meeting in the church basement –
and good to recognize around me some friends from those early faith-forming years;
on that Sunday morning several decades ago when the Spirit compelled one young adult to profess his faith in God’s Son –
and good to express that faith in worship now among many of the same people who had witnessed that public profession then.

People change and therefore churches change.

That is as it should be.
In this church of my youth, once tagged as the most conservative in town, there were now family hymnals next to the Psalter in the pew racks.
And the guest minister for the evening was to be none other than the son of a local sister church who was now counted among the more liberal voices of the denomination.

But some things should not and did not change.

The benches were filled with young and old.
The singing was wholehearted and spirited.
The attention seemed sincere.
The atmosphere was friendly.
And the worship was genuine.
That’s how I remembered it, and it felt good to be back again.
After more than thirty years I could still feel at home.

 When years hence, my children revisit the church where they grew up, my hope and prayer is that they too will still be able to “feel at home.”

The Boogey Man of the Woods

 Some of my earliest memories go back to bedtimes.

My oldest sister, six years ahead of me, shared my bedroom.
When the day’s light retreated in the evening hours, darkness would fall on our bedroom too, the time when sister would sometimes raise the specter of the Boogey Man by scratching a nail on the metal surface of her bed.
“Listen!” she would exclaim in a frightened whisper, “You hear the Boogey Man scratch inside the corner cabinet?  Maybe he’s coming to get you!”
Part of me knew it wasn’t so, but the too easily quickened irrational part of the young (do we ever outgrow it entirely?) felt haunted by a demon.
Maybe it was my sister’s way of exercising (and, perhaps, thereby exorcising) her own demons, but the memory of that awful scratching sound in the dark has stuck with me.

Did it prepare me for the encounter with the Boogey Man in the woods?

And WWII, the most monstrous Boogey Man of all?
Perhaps it did – to intensify, not allay the fear.
                        
                                                         *-*

Once upon a time there was a little boy …

The little boy had a big sister and brother, but they were too old to play with him.
He also had a younger sister, but she was too little.
So he played with a cousin who lived next door and was only a year older.
She would come over, and they would play pretend games or walk to the woods together that lay way at the back of the farm.
They would walk through the fields, climb over the gates that divided the fields, and cross the little bridge over the stream that ran through the fields.
Sometimes the two would pick a bouquet of buttercups from the back field next to the woods and take it as a surprise present to Mama.
That made Mama so happy that she would treat the little playmates to a cookie or candy.

To the little boy and his cousin, the woods were scary and therefore exciting.
Rabbits and hares lived there and other creatures of the wild.
Inside the woods the sun did not shine.

The children would enter the woods down a narrow path.
The deeper the path would lead them into the woods, the more hesitantly they walked.
“Ssshh,” they would whisper, “don’t let the Boogey Man hear us!”
Then, scaring themselves, they would soon turn around and hurry back to the sunshine and the view of their home in the distance, just to feel safe again.

 But one day they didn’t feel safe at all.
They had gone farther into the woods than usual, holding each other by the hand, moving slowly and very quietly.
The path had become narrower now and overgrown in places with brushwood.
They had never gone this far; they felt surrounded by the darkness of danger.
Then, just off to the right of their path, they saw it: a wild hare, almost perfectly blending into the dry dust-colored underbrush.
They stopped dead in their tracks.
It looked like the hare did too, because it was not moving.
They stood and stared open-mouthed: why wasn’t the hare moving?

Then they heard the snapping sound of twigs: someone or something was coming their way!
“Let’s run,” gasped the little boy to his cousin, and he tugged her hand to rush back toward the sunlight.
Instead she pulled him off the path into the trees, then crouched down behind a thicket.
“Don’t move and don’t make a sound,” she hissed into his ear.
The little boy bit his lip; he was scared and he wanted to cry.  His heart hammered in his chest and his body shook.
But the two watched through the tangle of twisted scrub brush that hid them from view.

And then they saw the Boogey Man, a large man in a blue farm jacket.
He stopped where they had seen the hare.  They saw him bend down with his back toward them.  They heard him growl, “Gotcha!”  When he straightened up again, they saw that he held the dead hare and dropped it into the burlap sack he had been carrying.  He swung the sack over his shoulder and disappeared in the same direction he had come.

 On the way home, the little boy and girl did not stop to pluck flowers for their mama.
And for a long time they did not go back to the darkness of the woods.
They did not know about poachers then; but they had seen that the Boogey Man was real, and that was more than they had wanted.

Back at home, they would play church or school, until the girl cousin had to go to the real school, a year before the little boy did.
Now he had to play by himself.
He missed his cousin who had also been his best friend.
And he looked forward to his 6^th birthday, when he too could be in a real classroom.

But when the little boy had his 6^th birthday, something very frightening happened….
            [see “When War Came,” the blog entry for April 30, 2011]

 

Angels of Mercy

Some people go to work each morning to pursue the sullen craft of bullying others into submission.

Others, less able or interested in making the world revolve around self, simply re-enter their appointed niche each day for un-heroic but faithful service.
Perhaps most find themselves in this latter group.
There may be no trophies at the end of a day and not even a eulogy at the end of a life, but the value of life for some does not lie in fancy trophies or in fine testimonies.

Yet I would give both to those who in times of need have been angels of mercy to me and to so many others among us in this family of mortals for whom sometimes the routine of a hospital becomes more familiar than that of home and job.

As I think back now, I would give both to Mrs. Sobota, LPN, who often functioned as a mother substitute. 

A civilian nurse in an Army hospital, Mrs. Sobota would greet me cheerfully each morning, place a caring cool hand on my forehead, and begin to transfer her jovial mood to me. 
I still remember the tenderness and love with which she held me at those times when I was feverish and anxious and in pain as doctors probed and squeezed and performed their sometimes unwelcome medical services.
To most who knew her, Mrs. Sobota may have seemed a very ordinary human; to me she was an angel of mercy.

And I will always remember Lt. Pat Philips, RN, who would on those nights when sleep would not come take time for a personal chat.

I don’t remember what we talked about.
But I know that her human kindness proved invariably conducive to sleep; and even when it did not, the reassurance blessed me that to a young Army officer I was not merely Pvt. US 56227916 but cared for and cared about as a real person who felt a bit lonely and fearful now and again.

There have been others: in isolation wards, recovery wards, and ambulatory wards: in military, VA, and private hospitals – God’s angels of mercy are needed and found everywhere. 

I’m grateful still for their special touch and spirit, for they were surely as vital to me as all the medicine prescribed to make me well.

Of course, as anyone who’s been hospitalized knows all too well, there’s another kind:  one who makes the rounds, delivers the medicine, jabs in the needle, takes pulse and temperature with icy efficiency and indifference.

They chill the room and leave the patient feeling guilty for being so burdensome.
At best they’re the competent mechanics of medicine; at worst they’re the cruel compounders of human misery.
In either case, they chose the wrong profession.

That may not be fair.

A hospital isn’t exactly a country club.
The pressure is enormous, the human pain and grief everywhere, and the work emotionally and physically exhausting.
In that environment day after day, year after year, many may become rather grim if not calloused human beings who impose on self a degree of insensitivity in order to preserve some inner resources.
Outside of a hospital, one can understand that.
Inside, as a patient, one will never appreciate it.
And that makes the angels of mercy so special.

Most of us will need hospitalization sometime in life.

Nearly all of us will spend our dying hours inside a hospital or hospice room.
At such times, when we confront the fact of our frailty and mortality, when we feel utterly vulnerable and dependent, when we are frightened for ourselves and our dear ones – then the soft touch of a doctor’s or nurse’s hand and an encouraging word minister to us as a balm in Gilead.

Praise God for the gift of caring, of compassion and empathy.

Praise God for the angels of mercy among us.
And though there may be no trophies or eulogies, all of us remember the words of Christ himself:
“Blessed are the merciful.”

“Emergency”

All of us have memories.

Some are so smashingly good, they still have the power to induce goose bumps.

Some are so grindingly painful, they nearly stop the heart.
For very different reasons, it’s good to revisit both kinds now and then.
 

The memory of this “emergency” partakes of a bit of both dimensions.

 
Pain, like an alarm clock inside the stomach, early in the morning. 
Nauseating pain.  Can’t be up.  Call in sick.  Go to Med Center.
Back home again, sleepy from the pills, but the pain still stabbing the insides, somewhere.
Where?
Why?

 Late afternoon now.

        The pain is getting worse.
Back to the Med Center.  This time a referral to own doctor.  Meet him at Emergency in an hour.
We go, vexed more with the inconvenience of it all than worried about some pending doom. 
After all, what could go wrong so suddenly?  It must be some minor thing the doctor will soon be able to fix.

We reach the hospital’s Emergency Department.

By the time we get to the nurse’s desk, my wife needs it to lean on.
She’s “getting sick”; the nurse quickly escorts her away from the desk and into the waiting room, then goes for the barf tray.
It’s too late; Ruth empties her stomach on the waiting room floor.
Now I know why they don’t carpet those floors.

They take her somewhere now. 

I stay in the waiting room, waiting.
Not much happening.
One little boy, looking like a miniature doctor with glasses, tie, and sport jacket, walks around, holding a bandaged hand slightly away from his body.  He makes the rounds, stopping here and there and asking what’s wrong.
I tell him my wife is sick.

During the next few minutes the activity picks up a bit.

A couple walks in.  He’s a skinny guy in a leather jacket, a scrubby beard, and a look as if he hasn’t washed in a while.
He takes a 10-inch knife from a holster in his belt that was hidden by his jacket.
I watch him grab the woman’s hand and make a light cut in the band aid on her finger.
She cringes.
He says loudly: “Nobody said it wasn’t going to hurt.”
She turns away from him.
He’s put his surgeon’s knife back.  He sounds angry now: “You act like you’ve been hit by a grenade or sumpin’.”

A mother comes in with a howling girl of about 12, holding a bloody towel to her mouth.

The mother hops around the screaming girl, shouting that she has to control herself.
She tries to shake her into calmness and says: “You better cooperate or they’ll put you in a straightjacket again just like last time!”

They’re taking my wife’s pulse and blood pressure.

I fill out the usual forms.
Then they put her to bed in a room not far away.
They’ll be doing x-rays and a battery of tests.
It’s going to take a while.

I go back to the waiting room.

An Hispanic couple has come in with a baby, but it seems to be nothing urgent.
The little doctor boy with the sore hand comes back to me.
I find out his name.
Bobby asks me why I have a gray beard; he says his dad’s is dark.
I say, “That’s nice.”

The woman’s finger is examined now.

It looks like an ordinary cut to me.
The man with the knife hovers close, more threatening than concerned, it seems.
They take the woman’s pulse and blood pressure too.

The girl with the bloody mouth is calm now.  Maybe they gave her something – a sedative rather than a straightjacket.

Her mouth injury looks like nothing more serious than a cut lip.
Her mother walks to the payphone and in a hushed, emergency tone talks to someone.

The Hispanic couple is still walking their baby girl.

Everybody is waiting for something, for someone, but the emergency nature of many things tends to dissipate in an emergency waiting room.

I go to see if my wife’s been wheeled back down again.

         I find out they want her to stay.

They need to do more testing, maybe even exploratory surgery to find out the cause of the pain.

         The doctors are obviously concerned.
Now, for the first time, I am too.
Sometimes an emergency turns out to be real.

I walk back to the car.

Must go home to arrange for another baby sitter who can stay late into the night.
I call my college student daughter.
I call our pastor.
Then I drive back to the hospital.
         I feel scared.
I worry what God might have in mind for us.
I pray, but my thoughts won’t focus; not yet.
There’s too much uncertainty now.

Back in the hospital I discover the doctors have decided that exploratory surgery is necessary.  Apparently something is constricting the bowel, but they have no idea what they’ll find; it may or it may not be serious.

Ruth is calm, even serene.
She doesn’t feel the pain now; they’ve taken care of that.
She says she’s ready for whatever may happen.
Both sedation and faith enable her to say that.
But I’m not ready.
And I know that I won’t be until I have to.
Or even then.

I watch her as she’s wheeled to OR.

          Then I’m alone.

Almost time for surgery now.

Our daughter comes, and then our pastor too.
I’m glad to have both there.
Psalm 103 is read, and then we pray together, placing this emergency into God’s caring and healing hands.
But my heart keeps pleading.

The three of us sit in another waiting room now, close to surgery.

It’s past midnight.
I think of the line “take your burden to the Lord and leave it there.”
I try, and discover how hard that is.
I still feel part of the weight myself and can’t let go.
We try to talk a little, make the time pass.
But mostly we wait.
And wonder.
And worry.
And pray, deep inside ourselves.

Waiting for a possible life-or-death verdict is a fearful thing.

Shortly after one o’clock, the doctor comes.

            He has good news: the surgery went well.
Scar tissue had put its squeeze on the bowel; fairly simple to correct.
She should be fine.

Prayers of thanks flow freely on the ride back into the night.

But I remember keenly how frail is our life, how vulnerable to emergencies of every kind.
And remember, too, with profound gratitude, that the Lord is near to all those who call on him, and that he has us not only but the whole world in his hands.

Betrayed

I was ten when I discovered that grownups don’t necessarily mean what they say in church.

It was a Sunday morning.
I was staring through the window at the people passing by.  I knew those people.  Some were out neighbors. One was my best friend.  All were heading for our church, which now was not our church anymore.
Instead, our family and some others were gathered in the town’s tavern for worship.

As I watched the people through the window, I felt deep shame.  I heard some boys chant, “Har, har, har--they go from church to bar.”

I also felt a deep sense of loss.  Sundays would never be the same again.  I felt cut off from the people we belonged to.  Why couldn’t we be together anymore?  How could people who had worshiped together all their lives split apart like this!  All I knew was that something terrible had happened.

I remembered the visits of church members, some of them family friends, and the arguments about baptism and covenant and about big words like regeneration.

I cringed as I remembered the times voices became strident and the words became angry and friends would leave as enemies.
I remembered Dad’s elder meetings that lasted until midnight.
I remembered him writing letters late into the night to theologians like Klaas Schilder.
I had noticed the deepening lines on his forehead and the weary look in his eyes.
But I hadn’t understood his preoccupation and deep anxiety.

It was 1944.  The Nazis had our country, and life wasn’t safe.

I was scared that more planes would be shot down over our town, that more soldier bodies would have to be buried in our churchyard.
I was scared that someday the Germans would discover out hiding place, shoot the family we were hiding, and then shoot my dad as well.
I was scared that patrols would stop my mom on one of her courier excursions and find  the incriminating material.
I was scared of guns and bombs and enemies.
I was scared of fighting.
I wanted Holland to be free again; I needed a world where people got along, where no one needed to be afraid anymore.

That’s why I had liked my church.  It was a good place to be, especially in wartime.  

In a hostile world, we felt closer to each other there.
We were united, and we were protected by God against a common enemy.
With one voice we would sing Psalm 68: “God shall arise and by His might/put all his enemies to flight,” and that gave us hope.
We would pray for God’s care, and that gave us trust.

But then some of the people in the church started fighting each other.

They didn’t use guns.
They used the Bible for words to shout at each other, to prove right and wrong, to condemn, to call each other nasty names.
They used the Bible as a gun.
And now we couldn’t go to the same church anymore; we didn’t belong together anymore.

My dad said it happened because synod forced everybody to accept a belief about baptism that wasn’t biblical.  But I didn’t understand it.

And I didn’t understand why Christian people threatened by a terrible war were now threatening each other and taking each other to court.
I didn’t understand why as kids we couldn’t spend time with our friends anymore, why my dad’s business lost so many customers, why a lot of people didn’t talk to us anymore.
I didn’t understand how any of this was possible among people who believed in God, who listened to the Ten Commandments every Sunday, who sang the Psalms together, who prayed together for a new heart, who were supposed to love God and each other.

The world became more confusing, more frightening to a ten-year old in the tavern on that Sunday when the war and hate tha had entered the church tore it apart and splintered it to pieces.

He felt betrayed, and for a long time he found it hard to pray.
For a long time church was not God’s house anymore.

Always

We may not always shiver
In the wind-blasts of the night;
We may not always grope our way,
In the absence of sunlight.
We may not always hunger
Through seasons of perpetual blight.
But we shall always wonder
At the absence of His sight.

We may not always groan and sigh,
And shed our solitary tears.
We may not always curse and cry,
But we shall always have our fears.

Our fears stick deep though warmth returns.
Our fears stick deep though light returns.
Our fears stick deep though bread returns.
Our fears stick deep:
Shall He return?

We shall not cease to wonder,
Though we may smile again.
We shall not cease to wonder,
Though we may feel some grace.
But we shall always wonder,
Until we see His face.

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, trembling, slowly strolls
across the graveyard
a grave's about to burst
before the rising sun

                                       [tr. from Frisian; Tiny Mulder]

Were You There?

Peter, James, and John were there.

It had been a long day, and it was night now.

Peter yawned, James rubbed his eyes, and John rested against an olive tree.

They fell asleep.

Jesus went off by himself, to pray.

When Jesus knelt and wrestled with God, he was alone.

The Man of Sorrows was alone.

He felt the awful weight of the cup, filled with the gall of the world’s evil.

“Drink ye all of it”: the betrayal, the spit, the blows, the scourge, the lies, the mockery, the thorns, the mob, the thirst, the blood, the nails, the absence of God…

His hands trembled, his voice shook as he pleaded: “Take this cup from me…”

The Son of God wrestled with his Father.

His three disciples slept.

They were the closest of his friends.

They had been with him to the mountain top and had basked in his glory.

But this was the Mount of Olives, shrouded in the darkness of impending doom.

They did not share in the agony of his sorrow.

They slept.

Already forsaken, their Lord cried to the Father:

“O Father, take this cup from me…yet not my will, but yours be done.”

 “Your will be done,” Jesus said, the hardest words he ever spoke.

Because he loved the Father.

Because he loved us.

Holy Week

As disciples of Jesus, we follow him on the highways and byways of his three years of ministry.

Along the way we learn much from the Teacher, this Rabbi in step with the Father.

We marvel at his words and are astonished at his actions.

But we are loath to follow him to the cross.

His torment is too painful, his agony too harrowing.


Yet it is at the cross that we feel closest to our Lord.

It is at the cross that we receive his love in fullest measure.

It is at the cross that we unload our own burden of pain and suffering.

It is at the cross that we are embraced by his compassion.

It is at the cross that we are healed.


Life prepares us for the cross and for the grave.

It does not prepare us for Easter morning.

We have no experience with open graves.

Joy at Easter comes by faith.

Faith in our crucified and risen Lord.


For that faith we pray this week.

IT YMMIGRANTE-AVENTOER

Foreword:

Emigration has fascinated many people: researchers, family members and descendants, the people who stayed behind, storytellers, and many more.

Hylke Speerstra is one storyteller who pursued the experience of the emigrant seriously.  He traveled to three continents to gather the stories; then he wrote a book, It wrede paradys.  It became an immediate best-seller in Friesland, and it sold well in the Dutch translation too.  [I translated it later: Cruel Paradise.]

The book incited so much interest that the Leeuwarder Courant, Friesland’s main newspaper, decided to sponsor a symposium on the topic of emigration.

Researcher Annemieke Galema who wrote a book on the emigration wave of the 19^th century (Frisians to America, 1880-1914: With the baggage), author Hylke Speerstra, and I were invited to be presenters to an audience of more than 500 in the Harmonie Hall in Leeuwarden, in October 1999.

Part of my speech follows, in the language in which it was delivered, here offered for those who can still read the ancient tongue.

An English version follows the Frisian one.

IT  YMMIGRANTE-AVENTOER: It longerjen om der by te hearren/The Quest to Belong

Ynlieding

Ik bin Hylke Speerstra en Pieter Sijpersma fan de Ljouwter Krante tige tankber foar de

ùtnoadiging,want ik bin o sa bliid dit evenemint mei te meitsjen.  It ûnderwerp, emigraasje, leit my ticht oant  hert.

Kearn

Ik ha myn noas omtrint myn hiele libben yn’e boeken hân.  De  bibleteek fan de“School met de Bijbel” yn De Pein yn de jierren 40 wie net sa grut.  Ik leau dat ik dy hiele kollektsje fan boeken wol twa kear trochlêzen ha.  Uteinlik is it lêzen en it ûnderwiis yn de literatuer myn berop wurden.  Literatuer dat ús sjen lit hoe’t wy ús minsklikens en ûnminsklikens blike litte in ús deistich libben.  En yn de literatuer  fernimme je al gauachtich dat in minske om minske te bliuwen, fan hiel wat dingen ferlet hat.  Ien fan de belangrykste is, wat wy yn’t Ingelsk neame, “a sense of belonging.”  It gefoel dat men der by heard.  Dat gefoel jout wissichheid.  It jout tefredenheit.  It jout “a sense of significance,” de oertsjûging dat jins libben wearde en betsjutting hat, en dêr kin in minsk eigenlik net sûnder.

No, de ûnderfining fan de emigrant set dat minsklik ferlet om der by te hearren yn noed.  ‘t Is wol wier fansels dat de minsken somstiden, as se it gefoel krije dat se der net mear bij hearre, dat se net meitelle, dat se net mear akseptearre of respektearre wurde-- dat se dan flechtsje: hja emigrearje om dat minsklik ferlet op in oar plak te fersjen.
Mar faker, tinkt my, wurdt it beslút om te emigrearjen makke sûnder folle oantinken te jaan oan it ferlet om der by te hearren, oan “the quest to belong.”
Mar dat feroaret gau as de ymmigranten wekker wurde yn in frjemd lân mei allegeare frjemde minsken, mei in frjemde taal dy’t se net ferstean, mei in kultuer dêr’t se net oan meidwaan kinne.

Lit my in pear foarbylden jaan.

Nei ús oankommen yn Hoboken, NJ, yn maaie, 1948, namen wy de trein fan de iene ein fan ‘t lân nei de oare.  Ik hie omtrint ien jier op de ULO west en hie dêr wat Ingelsk leard.  Sadwaande tocht ik dat ik wat ôfwist fan de Ingelske útspraak.  Op in stuit frege ik in man yn de trein: “We stop in Chai-cai-go?”  Ik fûn it wol wat frjemd dat net ien oait fan Chai-cai-go heard hie.  Mar wy stoppen wol yn Chicago, en dêr moasten wy oerstappe yn in oare trein dy ‘t ús hielendal nei de steat Washington bringe soe.  No, ik wie sa’n bytsje de tolk fan ús famylje fansels.  In man frege ús doe’t wy al moai op reis wienen, “Where are you going?”  No, dat wiste ik wol en ik wie der suver grutsk op dat ik sizze koe fan “Seetle.”  Dêr wie wer gjin minsk dy’t wiste wêr’t Seetle wie.  Lokkich binne wy wol yn “Seattle” kommen, mar myn betrouwen yn myn kunde fan ‘t Ingelsk hat doe wol in lytse stjit krigen.
Wy wiene frjemdlingen yn in frjemd lân; de minsken seagen ús oan út nijsgjirrigens, wy besoargen har wat ferdivedaasje.

Dy earste simmer yn Washington ha ‘k yn de ierdbeifjilden en framboazenfjilden wurke mei in soad oare bern fan myn leeftyd.  Dy waarden myn ûnderwizers yn de nije taal.  Yn de earste wiken fregen se my wolris in boadskip oer te bringen oan de fjildbaas of opsichter.  No, ik woe graach wat foar har dwaan fansels, dan hearre je der wat mear by, no?  Mar ik hie noch gjin idee wat de wurden fan it boadskip betsjutten.  Dus ik nei de baas mei it boadskip fan myn nije freonen, en ik sei sonder te witten wat ik sei:  “You’re full of shit.”  En in oare kear: “Move your ass.”  “En ek, “Fuck you.”  Ik fûn ‘t wol aardich dat myn nije freonen der sa’n wille fan hienen, folle mear wille as de baas fansels.  Ik wie net mear op de ULO, mar ik ha in protte leard dy earste simmer yn it nije lân.

En wat ik hjir mei sizze woe is dat taal  miskien de sterkste bân is dy’t ús as minsken oanelkoar ferbynt. 

Lit my dêr nochris in oar soart foarbyld fan jaan.

Wy ha in lyts ploechje Friezen yn Grand Rapids, dy ‘t wy, samar foar de aardichheid,  “de Fryske freonen by de iterstafel” neame.  Om de 14 dagen ite wy middeis meielkoar om it Frysk der wat yn te hâlden.  Wy binne omtrint allegear neikommelingen fan de earste generaasje fan Fryske ymmigranten.  Us jierren rinne fan yn de 30 oant yn de 80.  Wy binne allegear net fan ‘t selde berop en wy doche allegear net oan deselde polityk. 

Wy ite meielkoar omdat wy sa graach de âlde taal fan ús âlders prate, ek al is ‘t mar gebrekkich.  It bynt ús oan elkoar.  Wêr’t wy elkoaren ek treffe, yn in winkel of op ‘e strjitte of by in konsert, wy groetjse elkoaren yn ‘t Frysk en dat makket mei-ien in bân.
En omdat yn Amearika it Frysk funksioneard as ús twadde taal hoecht it net suver te wêzen om ús it gefoel te jaan dat wy in “shared identity” hawwe, in djipgeande konneksje, dat wy by elkoar hearre.

Mar at der wat mis is mei jins taal as de taal fan it lân dêr’t je wenje, dan komt de konneksje yn gefaar of it is brutsen.  En dat wie faak sa mei de ymmigranten.

Us heit, mei de âlderdom fan 52, hie it tige swier mei de nije taal.  Doe ‘t er yn partnerskip wie mei in heareboer moast er fansels wol saken besprekke mei dy man, mar hy koe de wurden net fine.  En ús heit wie in man dy’t oars noait om in wurd hoegde te sykjen, want hy wie in lêzer en in skriuwer en mocht o sa graach prate.  No moast er de help ha fan syn bern om de wurden foar him út te drukken.  Men kin je yntinke hoe frustreerjend dat wol wêze moast. Hoe koene de ymmigranten har thús fiele sûnder de taal fan it nije lân!

En ek as je de taal op ‘t lêst in bytsje yn’e macht hawwe en je der goed mei rêde kinne, mar dochs ist noch net hielendal geef en der sit noch in swiere aksent oan, dan lûkt de taal trochgeande oandacht nei it feit dat de taal jin apart set, dat je net echt ien binne mei de minsken fan it lân, dat je der eigenlik net by hearre.

Begripe jim no wat fan it konflikt dêr ‘t ik it yn ‘t begjin oer hie?  It is “a struggle,” in wrakseling, sels-bewust of net, foar elke emigrant dy’t te âld nei in nije lân komt om de frjemde taal te behearskjen.  It is de reden dat bern fan ymmigranten har faak sjenearje en besykje wat distânsje te lizzen tusken harsels en har âlderlike ôfkomst.  It is ien fan de redens werom ‘t ik my hjir net mear sa thús fiele kin as yn Amearika, omdat ik gjin “native fluency” mear yn ‘t Frysk en Nederlânsk ha.  En it betsjut ek dat de measte ymmigranten har noait hielendal thús komme te fielen yn har twadde lân.  

Mar at taal dat “sense of belonging” dat wy allegear nedich hawwe yn gefaar stelt, wat wurdt der dan foar yn ‘t plak set?

Foar in soad ymmigranten hat dat de tsjerke west. De tsjerke dêr ‘t se nei preken hearre koenen yn har bekende taal.  Dêr ‘t alles gemiensum is, dêr ‘t alles bekend oandocht.  Dêr ‘t alles bliuwe koe en moast sa’t se altyd wend west hiene: de learstikken en útlizzings, de opfettings en gewoanten, de liturgy en de muzyk.  Dêr ‘t se mei oare ymmigranten prate koene sûnder om wurden te sykjen.  Dêr ‘t se wat te sizzen hienen.  Dêr ‘t se meidwaan koenen.  Dêr ‘t se har thús fielden.  Dêr ‘t se oanelkoar ferbûn wienen, dêr ‘t se by hearden.

De tsjerke: in feilige haven yn in ûnbekende see dêr ‘t se bytiden wol yn ferdrinke koenen; in punt fan hâldfêst yn in frjemde wrâld dêr ‘t alles yn feroaring is.

Alle ymmigranten wiene net tsjerks, fansels.  Dy hiene it faak noch slimmer mei de iensumheid.  Se woenen fansels wol fryske selskippen oprjochtsje, mar dat slagge har mar op in pear plakken, yn grutte stêden dêr ‘t  in hiel soad ymmigranten wennen.     

Myn leitmotif yn dit taspraakje is “the quest to belong,” it longerjen om der by te hearren.  De taal, sei ik, hie dêr hiel wat mei te dwaan, mar der wiene ek oare dingen.

Om as bern sa hurd mooglik mei te dwaan yn it twadde lân, moast men fansels op skoalle.  Ik wie eigenlik al fan de legere skoalle ôf, mar heit en mem, op rie fan oaren, stjoerden my nei de 8ste klasse om de taal der goed yn te krijen.  (At se dat net dien hienen, no, dêr doar ik eins net iens oer nei te tinken want dan hie myn libben hiel oars beteare kind.)

Dus, ik soe op skoalle.  Dan mar mei mem nei de winkel om wat skoalleklean te keapjen.  Dat koe net folle lije fansels, want de âlders sieten earst ferskriklik krap oan jild.  Mar mem woe har Hindrik, nei pake Hoekstra neamd, wol knap yn de klean ha.  Dat kreaze broekje fan wol mei in moai kleurich triedsje der troch koste wol wat mear as de gewoane katoenen broekjes, mar fuort dan mar, har soan moat dochs in goede yndruk meitsje.

Mar dat gie ferkeard fansels.  Alle jonges hiene katoenen broekjes, en dêr stie ik yn myn deftige broek dêr ‘k wol mei nei tsjerke koe.  As in nij boekemantsje op in frjemde skoalle yn in frjemd lân woenen je leafst sa ûnopfallend mooglik wêze.  Mar ik hie de ferkearde broek oan.  Alles wie mis. It wie omtrint sa’n spultsje as mei Josef en syn bûnte mantel.  De kweajonges fan de 6de klasse ha der my mar raar mei pleage.  Doe moast ús earme mem wer nei de winkel om in nije katoenen broek te keapjen.

Foar jongelju tusken de leeftyd fan 12 en 18 is de “quest to belong” foaral geweldich sterk en wichtich.  Dat wie faak in probleem foar bern fan ymmigranten.  Foar my yn de earste jierren ek.  

Yn de 8ste klasse wienen  ek in pear oare jonges fan Fryske ymmigranten.  En dat wie oan de iene kant wol moai, want dan hienen je wat selskip.  Mar  oan de oare kant joech dat ek ferlies, want wat mear as je meielkoar as ymmigranten omgongen, wat mear as je apart stienen fan de oare bern dêr je byhearre woenen. 

En dan de sport. As jonges woene je fansels hiel graach meidwaan oan sport.  Mar de sport wie net fuotbal mar basketball en baseball, en dêr wisten je noch neat fan.  Je stienen der wat helpleas nei te sjen, en de ûnderwizers hienen gjin tiid fansels om je der wat fan by te bringen.  De “quest to belong” wie hjir ek wer frustrearre.

En de famkes.  Ik hie al in each op leave, knappe famkes.  Mar de measten fan dy leave, knappe famkes woenen net folle te dwaan ha mei ymmigranten.  Want dy famkes hienen har eigen “quest to belong” moat je mar rekkenje, en omdat ymmigranten mar leech yn rang stienen, kearden de leafsten en de knapsten ús de reach ta.

De measte bern fan Fryske ymmigranten yn dy tiid kamen mei de 8ste klasse fan skoalle ôf.  Dat wie mei my ek sa.  It wie in swiere tiid en wy moasten heit en mem helpe.  Mar dat betsjutte ek fansels dat je eigenlik gjin omgong mear hienen mei de jongelju fan je eigen leeftyd dy ‘t allegeare nei skoalle gongen.  Dy tiid fan it ymmigrante-aventoer stiet my noch hiel helder foar de geast.  Somstiden at ik mei de trekker yn ‘t fjild dwaande wie gong ik yn myn gedachten werom nei ‘t heitelân, nei de fjilden om ús pleats hinne dêr ‘t my elke richel en toarnbosk bekend wie, en nei de famylje en freonen dy ‘t wy net meinimme koenen. Ik wie der eigenlik sels oer fernúvere, mar dan koenen de triennen  my samar ynienen yn de eagen sjitte en it djippe gefoel fan ûnwennigens koe dan eefkes swier op it hert lizze.  Sadwaande miskien bin ik ek begûn oan famkes te skriuwen yn Fryslân en oare plakken yn Nederlân.  Mar it giet net maklik in skarrel by in brief yn te stekken, dus dêr is op ‘t lêst net folle fan kommen.

“The quest to belong” yn it nije lân gie lykwols troch, foar de âlderen, mar ek foar de jongeren.  En sa ‘t de tsjerke in hege rol spile yn ‘t libben fan de âlders, sa wie ‘t ek faak yn it libben fan de bern.  Yn myn tsjerke--en ik gong letter nei in oare tsjerke as heit en mem—waard ik lieder fan de jongelingsferiening, in sjonger yn in mânljus kwartet, krige ik freonen dy’t net ymmigrantebern wienen, en waard stadichoan hielendal yntegreard yn it geastlike en kulturele en sosjale libben fan myn twadde lân.  De tsjerke hat foar my altyd in hiele positive ynfloed west.  En dat is er noch.  En dêr bin ik tankbar om.

Der binne fansels in soad dingen dêr’t ik wol fierder op yn gean koe.  Oer de konsekwinsje

konsekwinsje foar de ymmigranten wannear ‘t de tsjerke ek begjint te feroarjen.  Oer de swiere jierren fan skreppen en skuorren foardat de takomst in bytsje ljochter begûn te lykjen.  Oer de ambysjes fan de bern fan ymmigranten en it opmerklik sukses dat sa folle fan de earste en twadde generaasje berikt ha.

Mar wy hawwe Galema har boek en  Speerstra syn boek en der komt aansens gelegenheid om fragen te stellen.

Myn lêtste wurd is dit, en ik woe graach dat heit en mem hjir by west hawwe koenen om it te hearren, foaral hjirre yn de haadstêd fan Fryslân, want it soe har hert goed dien hawwe.

Ik wit net wêrom ‘t ús heit en mem emigrearden.  Ik fyn it o sa spitich dat it foar har, yn mear as ien opsicht, in emigraesje wie nei “it wrede paradys,” foaral omdat heit sa jong ferstoar foardat er de kâns krige om wat te genietsjen fan syn swier arbeidzjen.  Mar myn broer en susters en ik binne har ivich tankbar dat hja dy reis makke ha, want dat hat ús libben ûnmjitlik ferrike.  [Ik moat hjir noch wat beidwaan, dert myn frou om frege.  Doe’t se my nei it fleanfjild brochtr, sei se: “Do moast dy minsken fertelle dat it har libben ek ferrike hat.”  Wat leaf, net?] Emigratie iepene foar ús in nije wrâld fan ûnderfining en mooglikheden yn in lân dat wy no leaf hawwe.  Mar it hat de bân mei ús heitelân ek sterker makke, dit heitelân, dêr ‘t de dyk it lân omklammet, dit lân, sa moai en sûnder wjergea mei har hiel eigen karakter.  It lân dêr ‘t ús woartels lizze, dêr ‘t wy de omkes en muoikes en neven en nichten achter lieten; it lân dat ús noch altyd oanlûkt, want it foldocht ek no noch altyd oan ús eigen “quest to belong,” oan ús eigen longerjen om “der by the hearren.”

English version

THE IMMIGRANT ADVENTURE: The Quest to Belong

Speech given at a Symposium on Emigration, held in Ljouwert (Leeuwarden) in October 1999, featuring talks by Dr. Henry J. Baron and Dr. Annemieke Galema, and an interview with the author Hylke Speerstra.

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 Introduction

I'm very grateful to Hylke Speerstra and Pieter Sijpersma from the Leeuwarder Courant, because I'm really happy to be participating in this event. The subject of emigration is, after all, close to my heart.

Body

I've had my nose in the books practically all my life. The "School with the Bible" in Opende couldn’t boast of a large library in the 40s; I must’ve read through the whole collection at least twice. The reading and teaching of literature eventually became my profession; literature that reveals all the ways in which human kind practices its humanity and inhumanity. And in literature one soon discovers that a person, in order to remain human, has certain basic needs. One of the most important is a sense of belonging. A feeling that one is part of things. We need it for security. It gives us a feeling of satisfaction. It gives a sense of significance, the conviction that our life has value and meaning, for we cannot live without that.

 Not really. But the immigrant experience jeopardizes that sense of belonging. Now it’s true, that sometimes, when people feel they don’t belong, they don’t count, they have no standing or they’ve lost it, they flee: they emigrate, to pursue that quest in another place. But more often, I think, the decision to emigrate is made without much thought of that basic need to belong.

However, it quickly raises its insistent cry when the immigrants wake up in a strange place where they don’t know anybody, don’t understand anybody, and feel estranged from the culture.

 Let me give you some examples.

After our arrival in Hoboken, NJ, in May of 1948, we took the train from one end of the land to the other. I had had one year of ULO (high school)-English , and I thought I knew something about the pronunciation system of the language. So I asked a fellow passenger: "We stop in Chai-cai-go?" I soon discovered there was no such place, but we definitely would stop in Chicago. We transferred to another train there that would take us all the way to the state of Washington. When passengers asked us how far we were going, I announced confidently, "To Seetle." There wasn't a soul that had ever heard of "Seetle." Fortunately we did make it to Seattle eventually, but my confidence in what I knew of English plummeted dramatically. We were very much strangers in a foreign land, objects of curiosity and even entertainment.

I worked in the fields that first summer, picking strawberries and then raspberries weeks after landing in the new land. The many other boys and girls I worked with became my language teachers. During the first few weeks they would tell me to deliver messages to the field boss. Well, I was eager to please, of course, for that sense of belonging, you know? But I still had no idea what the words I was to say meant. So I go to the boss with the message of my new friends, and I say without realizing what I said: "You’re full of shit." And another time: "Move your ass." And “Fuck you!” I sort of enjoyed that my new friends got such a kick out of that, much more so than my boss, of course.

I wasn’t going to the ULO anymore, but I learned a lot of English that first summer.

The point is that language functions as perhaps our strongest bond of connection.

 Here’s another illustration. A group of us meets every other week for lunch. We call ourselves, just for the fun of it, "the Frisian Lunchers." Nearly all of us are offspring of first generation Frisian immigrants. We range in age from 30 to 80-plus. Not all of us are in the same profession or belong to the same political party. For nearly all of us English is or has become our first language. We get together because we love to practice the language of our parents, even if it’s rather brokenly. It links us together. No matter where we meet each other, in a store or on the street or at a concert, our greeting is likely to be in Frisian, creating an instant bond. Moreover, because in the States Frisian functions as our second language, it doesn’t have to be perfect to make us feel that we have a shared identity, that we belong together.

 But when language fails as the language of the land where you live, the connection is jeopardized or broken. And that was often the case with immigrants.

 I remember what a struggle my dad had with the new language at age 52. How frustrated he would get when he had to communicate with the farmer with whom he was in partnership and didn’t have the words. And Dad was a man who never had to search for a word, because he was a reader and facile with his pen. Now he had to depend on his children to find the right words for him. It’s not hard to imagine how frustrating that must’ve been for him. How could the immigrants feel at home without the language of the new land!

 When you finally gain some mastery over the new language and you can handle it well, but still it's not altogether right and there's still a thick, foreign accent, your tongue is a constant reminder that you don’t quite belong, that you’re different.

 Does that explain my struggle I alluded to at the beginning? It’s a struggle, self-conscious or not, that plagues nearly every immigrant who came to their new country too old to fully master the new language. It’s the reason that typically immigrant children at a certain age would feel embarrassed by their parents and tried to distance themselves from their parental roots. It’s one of the reasons that I, because I don’t have native fluency in Frisian and Dutch anymore, don’t and can’t feel as much at home here as I do in the States. It’s an important reason that most immigrants never quite come to feel at home in their adopted land.

 But if language jeopardizes their necessary sense of belonging, what then takes its place?

 For many immigrants, that’s been the church... the church where they could listen to sermons in their own language... where everything was familiar. Where everything could and should stay as it had always been for them: the doctrines and interpretations, the points of view and practices, the liturgy and the music. Where they could meet and talk with fellow immigrants in their own tongue. Where they could feel at home; where they could belong. Church: the safe haven in a sea of change that sometimes threatened to swallow them; the point of stability when everything else was in flux.

Not every immigrant belonged to the church, of course. Those that didn't often had an even more difficult time with loneliness. They tried to establish Frisian societies, but that succeeded only in those large cities where many immigrants had settled.

 My leitmotif in this talk is "the quest to belong." The language, I said, had much to do with that quest, but there were other problems as well.

 To accelerate their sense of belonging as children, they would have to attend school, of course. I had finished grade school already, really, but my parents on the advice of others decided to send me to 8th grade to gain a full mastery of the language. (If they hadn't done that, well, I hardly dare think how differently my life might've turned out.)

 So I went to school. But first shopping with mom for some new school clothes. We couldn't afford much, of course, for it was slim picking at first. But mom wanted her son, named after grandpa Hoekstra, to be well dressed. That good-looking wool pants with the nice-colored thread was a bit more expensive than the ordinary cotton pants, but OK, her son needed to make a good impression, after all.

 But that turned out quite the other way. All the boys had cotton pants, while I was in my dressy pants that was good enough to wear to church. As a new young fellow going to a foreign school in a foreign land you want to be as inconspicuous as possible. But I wore the wrong kind of pants. Everything went wrong. It was a situation something like Joseph and the many-colored coat. The 6th grade boys teased me mercilessly. So poor mom had to go back to the store to buy new cotton pants.

 For young folk between the age of 12 and 18 the quest to belong is especially an urgent and important one. That was often a problem for children of immigrants. In the first years for me too.

 A couple of other immigrant boys were in the 8th grade with me. That was good for some company, on the one hand. But there was another side: the more you would hang out with other immigrants, the more you were separated from the other kids you really wanted to be a part of.

 And then there was sport. As boys you really wanted to participate in sports, of course. But the sport wasn't soccer but basketball and baseball, and you knew nothing about those sports. All you could do was watch kind of helplessly, and the teachers didn't have time, naturally, to start teaching you some of the basics. So the quest to belong was frustrated here too.

 And then the girls. I already had an eye for cute girls. But most of the cute girls didn't want to have much to do with immigrant boys. Those girls had their own quest to belong, to be sure, and because immigrants were pretty low on the totem pole, the cutest and best looking turned their backs to us.

 Most Frisian immigrant children at that time were finished with their education after 8th grade. Though I wanted to continue, I too quit school. It was a difficult time for my parents, and as children we had to help out. But, of course, that also meant that you hardly had anything to do anymore with the young people of your own age who were still in school. I recall that time of the immigrant adventure still very clearly. Sometimes when I'd be working in the field with the tractor, my thoughts would wander back to the fatherland, to the fields around our farm where I knew every gully and thorn bush, and to the relatives and friends we had left behind. It would catch me by surprise, but all of a sudden the tears would come and a profound feeling of homesickness would momentarily weigh on my heart. Maybe that's why I started to write letters to girls in Friesland and other places in the Netherlands. But it's not easy to stick a date inside a letter, so that finally didn't go anywhere.

"The quest to belong" in the new land, however, continued, for the parents, but also for the children. And as the church played a role in the life of the parents, it often did likewise in the life of the children. In my church--and later on I attended a different church from my parents--I became a leader of the young people's society, a singer in a male quartet, became friends with non-immigrant young people, and gradually became completely integrated into the spiritual and cultural and social life of my second country. The church for me has always been a very positive influence. And it still is. And I'm grateful for that.

 I could, of course, go on to talk in detail about a lot of other things. About what happens when the church changes too. About the years of hard work for most immigrants before the future began to look a little brighter. About the ambitions of immigrant children and the remarkable success achieved by so many of the first and second generation. But we have Galema's book and Speerstra’s book, and we're still going to have a discussion period.

 Let me end on a personal note; and I wish that my dad and mom could’ve heard me say this, especially right here in the capitol of Fryslân, for I think it would’ve warmed their hearts.

I don’t know why my parents emigrated. I regret that for them, for the most part, it turned into "it wrede paradys," especially because dad died before he had the chance to enjoy the heavy labor of his hands. But my brother and sisters will always be grateful that they did, for it has enriched our lives immeasurably.

[I must add something here too, at my wife’s request. She said on the way to the airport where she was dropping me off, "Tell them that your wife is happy too." Wasn’t that sweet of her?]

Emigration opened up a New World of experience and opportunity in a land we have come to love. But it also intensified our connections to the Old World, our fatherland with its unique beauty and identity; the place of our roots, of the family we left behind: uncles and aunts and many cousins. We’ve kept coming back to all of it because it still fulfills for us our own "quest to belong."