This little character loomed large in my childhood imagination. Bartje Bartels is the hero in a series of Dutch books written by Anne de Vries at the beginning of the 20th century. These culture-rich and colourful stories are woven around an adventurous boy with with an unwavering ambition to set the whole wide world aright. He grows up in a poor family in the countryside of Drenthe, in the north-east of the Netherlands. The most famous quote from these books is taken from a scene in the story in which the family are sitting down to a meal. His mother places a steaming pot of brown beans on the table.(This was a typical post-war peasant dish often eaten with pork crackling if the family could afford it.) Bartje happens to hate brown beans and he refuses to say grace for the food. He purses his lips and says: "Ik bid nie veur bruune boon'n" ( I don’t pray for brown beans). I too, was not overly fond of "bruine bonen", so this act of bravery made Bartje my indelible hero.
But Bartje was also the name of my big brother. Fortunately for him, he grew up to be Bart. Even though he has never refused to pray for bruine bonen, he remains one of his "little sister's" real life hero's.
And then there was my maternal grandfather: Barteld van Dijken. Their home was the "seat" of our extended family. Around Oma's table the whole noisy clan came together in relative harmony. In the shadowy nooks and crannies of Opa's tenderly tended garden, children could be lost and found. He was tall and big-boned, soft-hearted and fiercely loyal to his family and "Vaderland". He loved to entertain us with Dutch rhymes and riddles, which my brothers would repeat tirelessly, especially the slightly naughty ones... This is just one of many that comes to mind: (A silly rhyme about a shop and its bizarre list of goods for sale.)
"In de Winkel van Sinkel,
is alles te koop.
Daar kan men krijgen:
Mandjes met vijgen,
Doosjes pommade,
Flesjes orgeade,
Hoeden en petten
En damescorsetten
Drop om te snoepen
En pillen om te p--pen."
En pillen om te p--pen."
Up to this day, I had been convinced that it was called "De Winkel van Stinkel". It was fun to discover that it was in fact the very first department store opened in the Netherlands by a Mijnheer Anton van Sinkel, who composed the ditty as an advertisement for his concern. It is located along the Oudegracht canal near the city hall of Utrecht, first opened in May of 1839. Here you could literally buy almost anything you wanted. (The Afrikaans equivalent would be a "negosiewinkel" - general store.) The store was famous throughout the Netherlands and lasted more than fifty years. In 1898 a bank took up residence for over a century. Nowadays "Winkel van Sinkel" is a grand café and restaurant during the day, and transforms into a club at night. Nou ja toe.
Back in "de Vaderland", my grandfather used to be a humble painter, travelling from house to house with his ladder and other painter's paraphernalia strapped to his black bicycle. My mother told us how she was in the habit of hopping onto the carrier when she met him cycling past in the village. One fine day she saw a dapper man with a cap and white overalls, cycling past on the other side of the road. So she skipped along and hopped "agter op" (onto the back). The old painter slammed the brakes on, and gave her such an angry scowl, that she never attempted this feat again. Needless to say, it was not Mijnheer van Dijken.
Tracing the origin of a surname is for many people akin to exploring the world, the way a sea captain did, before every region of the globe was charted. Like with many Dutch surnames, van Dijken seems to point to the first ancestor's occupation and/or habitation. So it would be an educated guess that the earliest van Dijken earned his surname from living next to or near a dike. Therefore, we can deduce, that from both sides of the family, we hail from watery regions. Dike and duck-pond people - that certainly rules out any possibility of nobility in the family... But to me they were noble - each one. Queens in their fragrant kitchens, kings with their paintbrushes and trowels. Those fine young princes making music and mischief, and the light-hearted princess who loved her silly sister with so much devotion.
He gives to His beloved even in his (her) sleep. Behold, children are a gift of the LORD, The fruit of the womb is a reward. ~ Psalm 127:3
Shortly after we celebrated Luke’s first birthday, I started experiencing bouts of lethargy and dizziness. At first I ignored it, putting it down to early symptoms of the dreaded m e n o p a u s e. But this was no pause of any kind. Sirens were sounding. Even with eyes closed, the turret light kept spinning. But denial felt like a safe place, so I huddled there for a while.
Finally, I mustered enough courage to make an appointment at the doctor, although I had not shared any of my suspicions or fears with anyone else. We made small talk and my doctor friend took the necessary samples, while I tried to appear calm and collected. She left the room and came back with a frown on her face that made the room shrink and tighten around me. She said the words I had had dreaded to hear: “Believe it or not - you are pregnant.” I cried unchecked. Our marriage was not constant and our income unstable. I was 44 years old, barely confident in my role as a mother of one, but teetering on a tight rope in most other areas. In my very limited vision, there was simply no "room" for this new life in my life. As I sobbed, the doctor put her arm around my shoulders and said gently: “This is God’s will Maria, and there will be a way”.
It was a very sobering turn of events for us, and for a while it stabilised our marriage relationship also. But the anchor was still drifting.
There were dark days and doubts, but there was also a certain assurance, which kept me going and trusting. A cousin and mother of two, told me that when your second child is born, the first does not need to be content with less of you. Your heart simply expands and another wide room opens up for the new life to occupy. Tireless mothers, hitched their own babes with strong arms onto knowing hips, and embraced me with the other. Always ready to share their own stories, making me once again feel one with something precious and timeless.
I wasted so much time feeling sorry for myself, crying in secret over circumstances that seemed out of control. Like blinkers on a mule, self-pity limits, blinds and blocks out truth and proper perspective. Each day presents a myriad of choices and I am learning that right choices are never made from a position of self-pity or dwelling on limitations.
Luke remained a bright dot of effervescent life, lifting heaviness with his ability to live "large". Our own Tigger, bounding and bouncing with irresistible lightness. I remember one instance which sums up his ability to attach himself to just about anyone, crumbling all resistance with his uninhibited charm. We were selling bread at the local morning market. I went inside to ask for an Americano for the baker. There was a long table at the back of the bistro, with an Indian family seated around it. Dressed in Sari's and Kurta's, adorned with fezzes and bindi's; they represented a typical Hindi family, reserved and separate. A short while later, back at the bread table, I glanced down for Luke over my bulging stomach. He was not with us and I could not spot his blond head anywhere among the market bustle either. The market folk all knew him, and seeing as there was a customer waiting to pay for an armful of sourdough loaves, the search was delayed. Shortly after I went back inside, and immediately noticed a change at the wide table. The Dadaji(grandpa) was laughing from his belly and the shy faces of the naari's (woman) were lit up. Then I saw the reason for their change in demeanor. Seated on the swarthy Dadaji's lap was a little blond cherub, our son. He was babbling away, all the while being fed bits of their lunch, and quite in his element. I offered to relieve them of their uninvited guest, but this seemed out of the question for both parties. Later as they were leaving, the grandpa announced in a lilting tone: "We'll be taking this one with us, oke?" And I knew, he would go too.
On woodland or mountain walks he would perch in his back-pack and prattle away endlessly - ruling out any possibility for quiet reflection or taking in the forest sounds and bird calls. Later he would toddle ahead next to the border collie, both as nutty and carefree as cuckoo's let out the clock. It is impossible to be unobtrusive when Luke is around. It makes you forget yourself for a while, jump in muddy puddles, roll in piles of leaves, make pine-needle rain and just let tomorrow take care of itself. Unfortunately all that intensity and enthusiasm has a flip-side, which is just as visible, but much less pleasant and rather draining.
While Luke bunny-hopped through each day, I had an unfounded notion of a sad, sombre baby in my womb, who would be born into a messy world of confused adults and an uncertain future. I developed a painful cough, coming in uncontrollable spasms, hurting my ribs and stomach muscles, and (I believed) upsetting the baby. Unlike the peace and wonderful awareness that marked the months of waiting for Luke, I just let the days go by, unmarked.
But it was not all gloom, it never is - the small stranger continued to grow steadily without any complications, and part of me longed to meet him/her. Luke had a baby-doll to help him get used to a newborn in the home, and he surprised me with his boyish tenderness. The thought of two babes in diapers, and another totally dependent little person in the house was daunting. Still, there were islands of hope, when I heard God’s voice and could start believing in the reality of a future cupped in His hands.
It was summer. The air was sweet. Blossom petals floated on the wind like confetti, all was tender-green and fresh, and people were kind and loving. We had arranged with a country doctor at the small hospital in Adelaide to assist at the birth of our second baby. We felt very fortunate, since I discovered to my dismay that general practitioners no longer saw their way free to do this. The reason being that doctors have to pay an exorbitant amount on insurance for giving birth assistance. Consequently people have come to believe that only a gynaecologist is qualified to trust with a safe pregnancy and delivery process. Which is far from the truth, and the majority of SA's population cannot afford specialist fees. Enough said.
About a month and a half before the ETD (estimated time of delivery) the doctor phoned me. They had just discovered that his wife had cancer, and he was leaving his practise to care for her. The dear man’s voice faltered as he apologised for no longer being able to be there when this new life was to be delivered, while his wife was probably dying. My heart sank. More uncertainty.
Now there is a term for giving birth that has always puzzled me. Delivery... Right, the milk-man used to deliver frosty milk bottles in exchange for plastic coupons on our door step. Post was delivered into a green-roofed post-box, perched on the outstretched hands of an angular steel-tubed man made by my Dad. Jan Vos the suave Dutch butcher, the greengrocer, all delivered. But then a woman delivers - and is at the same time being delivered of - her baby... (Would be nice if it was that easy). The dictionary says to deliver means to transfer, conclude, acquit, achieve, bring, or aha - “bring into being”.
We “deliver” our children into brokenness and sin. Being delivered of the baby by a midwife or doctor means (to me) that there is a person present whom you trust to be with you through the natural but hard process of labour. But ultimately, a woman gives birth, but God delivers, "brings into being" the new life. We may deliver our children into His hands, where their names are etched and their future is safe. This is the perspective that gave and gives me peace. He brings and has brought all life “into being” and is right there, when each child is welcomed into this messed up world. Jesus delivered me of sin, He delivers me of uncertainty and pain, delivers me of endless worries over my children and family, and will deliver us into a heavenly realm when the time comes.
But with this parcel still curled up in my belly, the time was getting short to find a place to birth, and a qualified person to assure that it was a safe birth. A turn of events brought the point of delivery much nearer than I had anticipated. Much, much nearer...
* gobsmacked - my friend's favourite word for extremely surprised.
 |
| Dike-people at their mill |
~ ~ ~ ~
BECOMING GOBSMACKED*
Shortly after we celebrated Luke’s first birthday, I started experiencing bouts of lethargy and dizziness. At first I ignored it, putting it down to early symptoms of the dreaded m e n o p a u s e. But this was no pause of any kind. Sirens were sounding. Even with eyes closed, the turret light kept spinning. But denial felt like a safe place, so I huddled there for a while.
Finally, I mustered enough courage to make an appointment at the doctor, although I had not shared any of my suspicions or fears with anyone else. We made small talk and my doctor friend took the necessary samples, while I tried to appear calm and collected. She left the room and came back with a frown on her face that made the room shrink and tighten around me. She said the words I had had dreaded to hear: “Believe it or not - you are pregnant.” I cried unchecked. Our marriage was not constant and our income unstable. I was 44 years old, barely confident in my role as a mother of one, but teetering on a tight rope in most other areas. In my very limited vision, there was simply no "room" for this new life in my life. As I sobbed, the doctor put her arm around my shoulders and said gently: “This is God’s will Maria, and there will be a way”.
It was a very sobering turn of events for us, and for a while it stabilised our marriage relationship also. But the anchor was still drifting.
There were dark days and doubts, but there was also a certain assurance, which kept me going and trusting. A cousin and mother of two, told me that when your second child is born, the first does not need to be content with less of you. Your heart simply expands and another wide room opens up for the new life to occupy. Tireless mothers, hitched their own babes with strong arms onto knowing hips, and embraced me with the other. Always ready to share their own stories, making me once again feel one with something precious and timeless.
I wasted so much time feeling sorry for myself, crying in secret over circumstances that seemed out of control. Like blinkers on a mule, self-pity limits, blinds and blocks out truth and proper perspective. Each day presents a myriad of choices and I am learning that right choices are never made from a position of self-pity or dwelling on limitations.
Luke remained a bright dot of effervescent life, lifting heaviness with his ability to live "large". Our own Tigger, bounding and bouncing with irresistible lightness. I remember one instance which sums up his ability to attach himself to just about anyone, crumbling all resistance with his uninhibited charm. We were selling bread at the local morning market. I went inside to ask for an Americano for the baker. There was a long table at the back of the bistro, with an Indian family seated around it. Dressed in Sari's and Kurta's, adorned with fezzes and bindi's; they represented a typical Hindi family, reserved and separate. A short while later, back at the bread table, I glanced down for Luke over my bulging stomach. He was not with us and I could not spot his blond head anywhere among the market bustle either. The market folk all knew him, and seeing as there was a customer waiting to pay for an armful of sourdough loaves, the search was delayed. Shortly after I went back inside, and immediately noticed a change at the wide table. The Dadaji(grandpa) was laughing from his belly and the shy faces of the naari's (woman) were lit up. Then I saw the reason for their change in demeanor. Seated on the swarthy Dadaji's lap was a little blond cherub, our son. He was babbling away, all the while being fed bits of their lunch, and quite in his element. I offered to relieve them of their uninvited guest, but this seemed out of the question for both parties. Later as they were leaving, the grandpa announced in a lilting tone: "We'll be taking this one with us, oke?" And I knew, he would go too.
On woodland or mountain walks he would perch in his back-pack and prattle away endlessly - ruling out any possibility for quiet reflection or taking in the forest sounds and bird calls. Later he would toddle ahead next to the border collie, both as nutty and carefree as cuckoo's let out the clock. It is impossible to be unobtrusive when Luke is around. It makes you forget yourself for a while, jump in muddy puddles, roll in piles of leaves, make pine-needle rain and just let tomorrow take care of itself. Unfortunately all that intensity and enthusiasm has a flip-side, which is just as visible, but much less pleasant and rather draining.
But it was not all gloom, it never is - the small stranger continued to grow steadily without any complications, and part of me longed to meet him/her. Luke had a baby-doll to help him get used to a newborn in the home, and he surprised me with his boyish tenderness. The thought of two babes in diapers, and another totally dependent little person in the house was daunting. Still, there were islands of hope, when I heard God’s voice and could start believing in the reality of a future cupped in His hands.
It was summer. The air was sweet. Blossom petals floated on the wind like confetti, all was tender-green and fresh, and people were kind and loving. We had arranged with a country doctor at the small hospital in Adelaide to assist at the birth of our second baby. We felt very fortunate, since I discovered to my dismay that general practitioners no longer saw their way free to do this. The reason being that doctors have to pay an exorbitant amount on insurance for giving birth assistance. Consequently people have come to believe that only a gynaecologist is qualified to trust with a safe pregnancy and delivery process. Which is far from the truth, and the majority of SA's population cannot afford specialist fees. Enough said.
About a month and a half before the ETD (estimated time of delivery) the doctor phoned me. They had just discovered that his wife had cancer, and he was leaving his practise to care for her. The dear man’s voice faltered as he apologised for no longer being able to be there when this new life was to be delivered, while his wife was probably dying. My heart sank. More uncertainty.
Now there is a term for giving birth that has always puzzled me. Delivery... Right, the milk-man used to deliver frosty milk bottles in exchange for plastic coupons on our door step. Post was delivered into a green-roofed post-box, perched on the outstretched hands of an angular steel-tubed man made by my Dad. Jan Vos the suave Dutch butcher, the greengrocer, all delivered. But then a woman delivers - and is at the same time being delivered of - her baby... (Would be nice if it was that easy). The dictionary says to deliver means to transfer, conclude, acquit, achieve, bring, or aha - “bring into being”.
We “deliver” our children into brokenness and sin. Being delivered of the baby by a midwife or doctor means (to me) that there is a person present whom you trust to be with you through the natural but hard process of labour. But ultimately, a woman gives birth, but God delivers, "brings into being" the new life. We may deliver our children into His hands, where their names are etched and their future is safe. This is the perspective that gave and gives me peace. He brings and has brought all life “into being” and is right there, when each child is welcomed into this messed up world. Jesus delivered me of sin, He delivers me of uncertainty and pain, delivers me of endless worries over my children and family, and will deliver us into a heavenly realm when the time comes.
But with this parcel still curled up in my belly, the time was getting short to find a place to birth, and a qualified person to assure that it was a safe birth. A turn of events brought the point of delivery much nearer than I had anticipated. Much, much nearer...
* gobsmacked - my friend's favourite word for extremely surprised.
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