There are about thirty of us along, only a few of whom have relatives in the Netherlands. All the rest have roots here but would barely be able to identify them were they to jump at us from out of the ground. What the rest of us know about Dutch life is largely what we know about Dutch-American life, and believe me, the two aren’t at all the same.
So here’s what happened. Our schedule today brought us to Holland’s most impressive dyke, a monster that stands proudly against the rowdy North Sea on one side and the Issel river on the other. Just on the other side of that dyke stood—we knew—the farm places of two of our fellow pilgrims, a wonderful Canadian couple who immigrated to Canada sometime after WWII.
It seemed to me like a great thing to do—take all 30 of us to the homes those two had left when they emigrated. Bring the whole bus back there to experience exactly what the other 28 would absolutely love to do, even though none of us had ever lived in the houses our immigrant families left behind as long as 170 years ago.
So this big bus left the beaten path, swung off the roads more traveled in search of her family home, this woman with her own rich history somewhere in the neighborhood. Her parents’ farm didn’t make it though the first years of the Depression, so when the poulder was created and the Dutch government looked for capable and eligible farmers to possess and farm the land created from what once sea, her parents applied—and were accepted. It was 1932, and this was the story she told as came up to her old family house.
I didn’t think our visitation would be rough. In my mind what was about to happen would be rich for everyone—and it was. We got out of the bus to see her own homeplace, although the barn obscured the living quarters on the other side—a traditional Dutch country farm place, combining both domicile and barn under just one roof. By the time the rest of us were out of the bus and wandering around something of an overgrown farm yard, the owner came out and, sweetly, invited everyone to come in and visit his place, which is to say, of course, the place that was once upon a time hers.
There were tears. I hadn’t thought of that. I didn’t think it would be that difficult for her, but then what did I know, a young whippersnapper? During the war, up the staircase to what was designed as the place for a hired man or two, her family kept onderdykkers, young men avoiding conscription into the Nazi war machine. I saw the stairs.
In what turned out to be last few days of the war, the Nazis let people know that that wonderful dyke, the one that had created this very ground the family had been working—that dyke—was going to be blown. It was the final days of the war, and the Germans had no desire to leave anything in good order in their wake.
They did as promised, and the sea returned to the land they’d been farming for fourteen years, rising up to eaves of the barn in fact, ruining everything.
It was the end of misery, of course—peace had come and occupying Nazis in their jackboots were hauling off for Germany; but the farm was ruined. That was all part of the story.
So the patch of cement over across the driveway was more than just a floor for what she’d called a “replacement house” when first we left the bus. The whole story was that when the Nazils blew up the dyke, everything had been destroyed; they had to start over, once again, so they build a little “replacement house.”
When all of that came back to her, when she looked up a road she biked, she said, two hundred times, when she saw a yard full of verdant life, but unweeded and seemingly unminded, she reached for a Kleenex.
That wasn’t how I’d had it planned. I didn’t figure on tears. I didn’t figure on such a big story. I didn’t figure on the house’s new owner just yesterday having buryed his mother and being himself susceptible to tears. I didn’t figure on a tour of the house. I didn’t figure on getting into the barn. I hadn’t figured on any of that.
But it happened. And it was, for all of us, an afternoon of grace.
But the tears hurt me. I didn't want it to be painful--and it had been.
When she got back into the bus, she said, “It was worth it.” She did.
And now my rendition doesn’t do it justice. Here’s the way I think about it. I had in my mind this idea—if she gets to go home and show us where she grew up, we’ll all be her for a fleeting moment. We’ll all get blessed with some variation of her own homecoming joy just by watching her do what none of us can or will. Her homecoming can be ours too. We’ll love just being there.
And all of that happened. But it wasn’t our story that was a joy this afternoon, it was purely and peculiarly hers. It’s just that she was big enough, gracious enough, loving enough to give it away, even in tears, so that the love and joy and heartfelt emotion wasn’t just hers, but our own too.
It was her homecoming.
We were just blessed enough to be there.
So here’s what happened. Our schedule today brought us to Holland’s most impressive dyke, a monster that stands proudly against the rowdy North Sea on one side and the Issel river on the other. Just on the other side of that dyke stood—we knew—the farm places of two of our fellow pilgrims, a wonderful Canadian couple who immigrated to Canada sometime after WWII.
It seemed to me like a great thing to do—take all 30 of us to the homes those two had left when they emigrated. Bring the whole bus back there to experience exactly what the other 28 would absolutely love to do, even though none of us had ever lived in the houses our immigrant families left behind as long as 170 years ago.
So this big bus left the beaten path, swung off the roads more traveled in search of her family home, this woman with her own rich history somewhere in the neighborhood. Her parents’ farm didn’t make it though the first years of the Depression, so when the poulder was created and the Dutch government looked for capable and eligible farmers to possess and farm the land created from what once sea, her parents applied—and were accepted. It was 1932, and this was the story she told as came up to her old family house.
I didn’t think our visitation would be rough. In my mind what was about to happen would be rich for everyone—and it was. We got out of the bus to see her own homeplace, although the barn obscured the living quarters on the other side—a traditional Dutch country farm place, combining both domicile and barn under just one roof. By the time the rest of us were out of the bus and wandering around something of an overgrown farm yard, the owner came out and, sweetly, invited everyone to come in and visit his place, which is to say, of course, the place that was once upon a time hers.
There were tears. I hadn’t thought of that. I didn’t think it would be that difficult for her, but then what did I know, a young whippersnapper? During the war, up the staircase to what was designed as the place for a hired man or two, her family kept onderdykkers, young men avoiding conscription into the Nazi war machine. I saw the stairs.
In what turned out to be last few days of the war, the Nazis let people know that that wonderful dyke, the one that had created this very ground the family had been working—that dyke—was going to be blown. It was the final days of the war, and the Germans had no desire to leave anything in good order in their wake.
They did as promised, and the sea returned to the land they’d been farming for fourteen years, rising up to eaves of the barn in fact, ruining everything.
It was the end of misery, of course—peace had come and occupying Nazis in their jackboots were hauling off for Germany; but the farm was ruined. That was all part of the story.
So the patch of cement over across the driveway was more than just a floor for what she’d called a “replacement house” when first we left the bus. The whole story was that when the Nazils blew up the dyke, everything had been destroyed; they had to start over, once again, so they build a little “replacement house.”
When all of that came back to her, when she looked up a road she biked, she said, two hundred times, when she saw a yard full of verdant life, but unweeded and seemingly unminded, she reached for a Kleenex.
That wasn’t how I’d had it planned. I didn’t figure on tears. I didn’t figure on such a big story. I didn’t figure on the house’s new owner just yesterday having buryed his mother and being himself susceptible to tears. I didn’t figure on a tour of the house. I didn’t figure on getting into the barn. I hadn’t figured on any of that.
But it happened. And it was, for all of us, an afternoon of grace.
But the tears hurt me. I didn't want it to be painful--and it had been.
When she got back into the bus, she said, “It was worth it.” She did.
And now my rendition doesn’t do it justice. Here’s the way I think about it. I had in my mind this idea—if she gets to go home and show us where she grew up, we’ll all be her for a fleeting moment. We’ll all get blessed with some variation of her own homecoming joy just by watching her do what none of us can or will. Her homecoming can be ours too. We’ll love just being there.
And all of that happened. But it wasn’t our story that was a joy this afternoon, it was purely and peculiarly hers. It’s just that she was big enough, gracious enough, loving enough to give it away, even in tears, so that the love and joy and heartfelt emotion wasn’t just hers, but our own too.
It was her homecoming.
We were just blessed enough to be there.
Jim, I edited your words down to:
ReplyDeleteA Brief Summary of Life
...That wasn’t how I’d had it planned....
But it happened....
I didn't want it to be painful--and it had been....
“It was worth it.”
...even in tears, … joy
...it was... grace.