Chapter 12 ~ Becoming Free!

When I was six years old, I nervously boarded a KLM (Koninklijke Luchtvaart Maatschappij/Dutch Royal Airlines) jumbo jet with my mother and father, and crossed the ocean to the country of their birth. I turned seven at approximately 30 000 ft above sea level. A sweet blond air hostess dressed all in blue, gave me a box-set with KLM playing cards and a Delft blue miniature replica of a traditional Dutch house. I was queen of the airways for a whole minute. Each one of these miniatures depicts a real house in the Netherlands and a new model is introduced on October 7, (the anniversary of KLM’s founding in 1919) each year. These are filled with Dutch genever (gin) and have become collector's items over the years. But my mother's concern was more for her minor's sobriety than the value of the souvenir, so the contents were tipped out into the plane's WC (water closet). To my father's frustration. He was particularly fond of a good "jonge jenever".

Many of the memories of this six-week-long trip have blurred into a collage of faces and places, but some still stand out stark and singular in my memory. One of these was our visit to the Rijksmuseum. Not the kind of place which one would imagine could fascinate a seven year old. But somehow it did.  It is a giant palace-like structure at one end of a park: the Museum Square. Flanked by the Stedelijk Museum of contemporary art, the Van Gogh Museum and the Concert-gebouw symphony hall. The showy design was inspired by the Louvre, a former palace repurposed as a cultural monument to French-ness. The building is given colour and light by stained glass windows celebrating classic artists and philosophers. It is a big building for Amsterdam - and with its size, location and contents it makes a big statement, even to a little girl, unaware of it's cultural importance.

I did not know how much of a nation's history, ethic and religious convictions and perceptions one can glean from it's art. People seemed to jump off the canvasses at me around every corner. A sensitive, warmly hued painting of a lady pouring milk from an earthenware jug, next to a beautifully lit window, reminded me of my "Oma" at work in her cosy kitchen. (Vermeer's Keukenmeid, also known as The Milkmaid). My father must have seen me staring, so he bought a postcard sized print of it. It remained a precious possession for many years, until it was sadly lost in one of the many relocations. We strolled into yet another room, dominated by one impossibly large canvass (3.9 x 4.8m originally). I stood behind a red-roped barrier, staring up at Rembrant's "Nacht Wacht". Shadows and light, movement, men in imposing costume, faces alive with expression, an array of spears and swords, a dwarf in armour, a drummer boy, a dog leaping. But the most ethereal light, he reserved for a little golden girl, with a dead chicken dangling from her waistband. She looked like she did not belong in this picture and I felt sorry for her. She was fanciful, meant to represent a personification of the company of Kloveniers in the painting, but to me she seemed pretty real. It makes you realise how powerful images can be and how they can be locked in your memory for a lifetime. This particular painting has seemingly stirred up strong emotions in a negative sense also. It has been slashed and restored, sprayed with acid and restored, and cropped to fit into limited spaces.

These great masters left behind such a wealth of genius in artistic expression. But I, (romantically fascinated by the people behind the paintings), discovered, that with few exceptions, they were all rather morose in character. Van Gogh, an impressionist, started out as a dedicated preacher to the poor and destitute, but was overcome by the desperation, rather than being able to bring light and hope into it. It seemed that they all had a longing, an obsession, to create perfect harmony on their canvasses, while wrestling with personal demons which could not be subdued. Art was their religion, and as with every other belief besides faith in the Creator God through Jesus himself, it failed them miserably. Having said all that, art, music and creativity continues to be part of who I am, and as with every good and perfect gift from God it can be given perspective and place. A greater peace came when I acknowledged that this form of expression in all its different facets, comes to us for one reason only. To give glory the the greatest artist of all time - our Triune and only true personal God.

There was another sight I can recall clearly, because of the way it affected my Father, more than for what it represented. It was a war memorial, where "Pappa" found the name of his brother etched onto a concrete wall, along with the seemingly endless list of other soldiers who lost their lives in WWII. His hand rested briefly on the name, his eyes filled with a place and time that I had no grasp of. My mother and I stood to one side, as people witnessing another's grief, and having no way to offer consolation, apart from just being there.

I remember my Mother telling me about "Dolle Dinsdag" (Mad Tuesday), which took place in the Netherlands on 5 September 1944. After a broadcast by the Prime Minister-in-exile which alleged that Breda had been liberated, many rumours spread across the occupied Netherlands that the liberation by Allied forces was at hand. On 4 September 1944 the Allies had conquered Antwerp, and it was thought that they already advanced into the Netherlands.

People started celebrating in the streets, while preparing to receive and cheer on the Allied liberators. Dutch and Orange flags and pennants were prepared, and many workers left their workplace to wait for the Allies to arrive. Children were sent home from school. But the Allied advance could not continue as the Allies had overextended themselves and had to halt in the South of the Netherlands. The disappointed northern part of the Netherlands had to wait until 5 May 1945 for their liberation.

On the same day, my father ran home with a carefree heart, swept up in all the celebration, although still too young to comprehend what it all meant. He arrived home to a house in mourning. They had just received news that his brother had been killed in combat.

There followed a winter later remembered as the "Hongerwinter" (hunger winter). A time of starvation, exhaustion, cold and disease. 30 000 people perished. The famine resulted from the Germans cutting of all food and fuel shipments to the western provinces, in which 4.5 million people lived. It spread to the north, where my parents lived. Although it was probably not as harsh there, it must have left a deep mark on them. Relief finally came at the beginning of May 1945. A Spring of hope.

I have come to realise that to understand my parents, and anybody else in fact, who lived through such times, I had to at least try to "enter" into the reality of and effect that this war had on them.

By the end of the war, 205,901 Dutch men and women had died of war-related causes. The Netherlands had the highest per capita death rate of all Nazi-occupied countries in Western Europe (2.36%). Over half (107,000) were Holocaust victims, deported and murdered Jews. There were also many thousands of non-Dutch Jews in the total, who had fled to the Netherlands from other countries, seeking safety. Another 30,000 died in the Dutch East Indies, either while fighting the Japanese or in camps as Japanese POWs. Dutch civilians were also held in these camps. My sister-in-law's father served in Indonesia, and he loved to tell lively stories about this time. He had twinkling blue eyes and a quick wit, but there was often a hint of sadness in his features when he spoke of these times.

These are stark statistics to me, but they were real to them. A reality which continued to shape their future decisions, their outlook on life, their spartan ways. I used to think that they were rather miserly, but slipping into their shoes and trying to walk with empathy through the hardships they faced, I have come to see this in a completely different light.

They were trying to protect a new generation (us) from what they had witnessed and experienced. Just what every parent since the beginning of time has longed to do. And I believe they succeeded, in more ways than they could ever have imagined.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

I keep my eyes always on the LORD. With him at my right hand, I will not be shaken. ~ Psalm 16.8

A mother's memories of birth and those first fragile weeks that follow, are always softened by the overwhelming love that the child in her arms awakens. But truth be told, it is tough and tiring. Probably less so with a second child, but still no "perambulation in the conservatory." Walk in the park... 

This is even more true where we live, for any stroll with a new baby on and around Inesi, is arduous and possibly hazardous. Bump, thump, holding on for dear life down-hill and puffing like a "blaasbalk" (bellows) back up. Nonetheless, we were now a foursome, an even number of uneven tempers and uncountable diapers. Hands and arms were rarely empty and free moments were scarce. But there was an underlying simplicity in it all, which was like an ancient rhythm, repeating itself down generations of tired, happy parents. A home takes on a different look, feel and smell. Rubber bath-toys replace the candles and jars of bath-oil on the bath's edge. Our bedroom became a nursery, with so many breaths and snores at night, that even the routine-bound cat found an alternate resting place. Toys and baby paraphernalia found their way into almost every corner of the house, often underfoot, inside furniture, dragged off by a bored dog, even inside little ones noses at times... Meal times were a tangle of serving, feeding, coaxing and mopping up, in between bites of cold  fare. But slowly a new, strange but wonderful kind of routine worked it's lumpy way into our days. And just when we became oddly comfortable with it, it demanded change, as the little masters of the home entered another phase. And such is the life of a parent. Adjusting from day to day, from one phase to yet another. Sometimes naturally, but sometimes with "hande in die hare" (holding your head) and gritting teeth.

The saving grace of this time was that the youngest of the four people, three dogs and a cat who where now occupying our limited cabin, was indeed a most serene little being. Even though the initial weeks of feeding times were once again fraught with uncertainty, he hardly ever complained. His sleep was always peaceful and holding him had a deep, calming affect on me. This in itself was quite sweet, since it is usually the mother who is supposed to calm the baby, one would think. With Luke I had got used to something akin to wrestling with a baby-anaconda, a wriggle-monster even in his sleep. A very vociferous wriggle monster to boot.

There is a wealth in children, in family, which is hard to explain to someone who has never held two sleeping babes of your own flesh and blood in their arms. Luke loved his brother with all the passion packed so liberally into his one and a half year old body. He would screen his brother's sleeping form from older children. He so wanted to share with him, everything that fascinated his constantly curious mind. A precious bond was forming between the two brothers, an understanding that continues to amaze us still.

As the first three months of feeding and sleeping passed, the small stranger who was Daniel, started to show us more and more of his own unique character. A friend's daughter came to me, holding him gently in her arms, and declared with big eyes: "Daniel looks at me as if he knows everything about me". I laughed, but understood exactly what she meant. He did have a way of looking very calmly and almost assessingly into ones eyes, not demanding anything, just locking eyes. People hinted that perhaps something was not "quite right", for he just never cried, and hardly made a noise. (I think he realised very early, like his father, that other people do enough of that, so he may as well just observe.) I was not concerned, for in the security of our home it was often (and still is) quite a different story. He developed sweetly, at this own pace, not attracting attention to his feats and content to be left alone. His wonderful smile is like sunshine on morning dew. It changes a blue note to a clear joyful chord, and melts his mother's heart into goo.

What marks this time more than anything else, is the miracle which changed our lives for what I literally believe to be - forever. A second child had grounded our marriage relationship to an extent, but we were both still held captive by patterns of behaviour, the past, and hearts that were unwilling to fully forgive and let go. I was holding onto the hope and trust of renewal, but the renewal had not taken root in my own heart and could therefore not grow. We have so diluted the word "prayer" as a verb, that the real power behind it, has been lost to most believers. But not to God. He heard each plea, each faithful prayer lifted up by so many voices. Each day he answered, in varied ways, and I had come to see each promise as another step towards freedom. And freedom was granted. Not with clanging symbols and noisy gongs, but with a deep, gentle and unmistakable Love.

The chafe marks from many years in captivity still hurt, but the gates swung shut behind us and we joined hands, walking towards a future with the One who set us free. Everything was being made so new. Some days I still wanted to hold onto the skin that had been shed, but there was a freshness to each new day, a lustre that had not been there before. Flight is something winged beings take for granted, but soaring with our Saviour Jesus is a celebration of freedom, which for me is ongoing and ever increasing!

The best was still yet to come...