Chapter 18 ~ Living small

One of my grandfather's early paintings, which hangs above our bed

My grandfather had a deep appreciation of beauty. It moved him, stirred his gentle heart. Beautiful music, prose, landscapes. People. He lovingly planted a garden of rolling terraces in a leafy suburb. (Which has now been taken over by high-rise apartment buildings and traffic). A painter by trade, he delighted in blending colours to the optimal effect. I was too young to appreciate the detail, the gentle dedication which he poured into the soil with every tilling and feeding. It was an old-fashioned garden of heady scents, blooms and blossoms, terraces and trellises. A narrow stone escalier led up to his studio and tool shed, where he painted pastoral scenes from the "Vaderland". There is a thick volume, which now graces our bookshelf called "Holland, wat ben jij nog mooi!" (Holland - you truly are lovely!). In a time of so much visual stimulation through electronic media, there is something restful about taking out an old book, letting the familiar spine rest in my hands, as my forebears have done before me. This particular book has some lovely colour plates in it, but the rest are in unassuming black and white. I find this comforting - the way the details are captured in an honest, almost stark manner. It draws the eye in, unlike bold technicolour, dazzling with the total effect of it.

It is most probable, that Barteld van Dyken (my maternal grandfather), as the head of his house, was the one who made the decision to emigrate. My father was the only one from his large family who made the same intrepid move. These men are the reason why four generations of our clan now call South Africa our home. What personal dilemma and doubt preceded this drastic move? All of Europe witnessed and experienced hardship during and after the war, with varying degrees and of a nature that we can never understand. There was propaganda, peer pressure and a looming depression. But the decision was still his. Perhaps the longing to surround himself with beauty, create it, find it in the most unlikely places, was partly his way of making up for what was lost, what he (with his family) had to give up. What a generation of victims had to surrender, to leave the horror behind and embrace the God-given hope of a new beginning.

He loved to walk. A dapper gentleman with a hat and cane. A felted and feathered hat which was tilted with the tip of his cane in greeting and held to his heart in moments of reverence. I clearly remember him arriving on our doorstep one mid-morning, out of breath and with tears in his eyes. My mother took him by the hand and asked in a voice filled with alarm: "Pappa, wat is er tog gebeurt?" (What happened, Dad?). To which he answered, head bowed and eyes moist but full of wonder: "Och, Janny, het leven is zo mooi!" (Oh, Janny, life is so beautiful). He had walked the approximately five kilometers from their home, observed all that was lovely on his path, and was overcome by it.

But this was not a man who was gushy with sentiment or flattery. (Which would have been very unusual for a Groninger and Dutch-man if he was). He was passionate but did not suffer fools. Had strong convictions and often did not shy away from sharing them. My cousins and I viewed him with a strange mixture of fear and trust. He was strict, but fair, and I never thought of crawling onto his lap or disturbing his concentration. I fondly remember a time when my mother was in hospital and I went to stay at my grandparents' house. Their home was cool, quiet and neat. My grandmother was unerringly tidy, but managed to maintain a comforting atmosphere of warmth and homeliness in her house. I enjoyed their hushed routine, which was quite unlike the racket which often ruled our home. During hourly news-broadcasts, the house had to be completely silent, and Opa's daily paper and pipe habit was almost sacred. It was a balmy summer, and the dining-room doors were opened wide to let the the smell of roses and purple rain wisteria in with the breeze. I sat at the tapestry covered table, trying to do a homework assignment on Lepidoptera (butterflies and moths). I became aware of a presence behind me. It was my grandfather who had taken (to my dismay) an interest in what I was doing. When I could not find a picture to accompany the assignment, my grandfather fetched his pastels, sat down so near to me that I could smell the tobacco and turpentine on his fingers. Almost effortlessly, his hand found the contours of  wings, shaped the delicate form of a butterfly, gave it iridescent colour and life. I held my breath, not certain of how to receive such a gift. Long after the assignment was forgotten, the butterfly remained a treasure, reminding me of those rare intimate moments between an awkward girl and a man who always remained a stranger in a land away from home.

My grandmother doted on him and he cherished her. Never did a meal pass without a soft "Dank u wel Moeder" for the fare she'd prepared for him. She did not appreciate his habit of passing bits of food to his fidgety Toy Poms under the table, but only showed her displeasure with an occasional long-suffering sigh. Just outside the the back door in a sheltered area of dappled shade, stood a garden bench swing. It was a creaky seat, meant for gentle dozings under a floral canopy. Except if you were pre-teen cousins subject to fits of giggles. Each time we pushed a bit harder, the poor swing groaning with each wild sway. At the height of this silliness, the spindly front legs lifted off the ground, hung there for a moment and then surrendered to gravity once more. But this time the pull was back-ward, and it was as if the whole thingamajig just collapsed on itself like a stack of sticks. With it's occupants bottoms up and "all shook-up" (Kabouter Spillebeen Returns). Two ashen faced girls faced their fuming grandfather with shaky legs and grazed elbows. The swing lay in a sad heap, a fainted damsel with her frock over her face. As my grandfather stomped off, Oma came tottering towards us with an expression of motherly concern and a roll of mint humbugs for the shock. Oma did it with sugar and love, and it worked each time.

In such a way our young lives were shaped and nurtured. By ordinary people with an extraordinary acceptance of  LIFE. Not always wholly uncomplaining - but with a hearty gratitude for what was good and wholesome. They understood the joy and contentment to be found in simple pleasures, which was never greedy or gaudy. They knew both how to be abased, and how to abound.

Better a little with the fear of the LORD than great wealth with turmoil. ~ Proverbs 15:16

When I was in my mid thirties, I attended a course at our local Vineyard church dealing with "How to find your passion". The other folk all had very noble passions - a passion for the broken and lost, for the sick, for the poor, for growing the church. And me? It appeared I had a passion for - beauty... It felt as if I had missed the mark. The young pastor was diplomatic and kind, and encouraged me to pursue beauty and purity in all things. Looking back, he was probably speaking prophetically and with wisdom beyond his years or knowledge. I know that there is inconceivable beauty which awaits us in heaven in the presence of our Saviour Jesus. But on days when it is cold and dark, when children's voices become sharp shards, dog's snarl, the cat vomits up a mouse's entrails on the carpet, rice clumps and burns, eyes appear puffy and old  - I breathe deeply, stretch taller - and there it is. It can be as simple as crystal drops of moisture clinging to the fennel outside my window. A melody or symphony filling the house with pure chords and harmony. The way the cat is curled on a velvet pillow.

My boys have become sensitive to this. Probably not always completely unselfishly though. Life is much easier for little ones when your mom has a smile on her face. A few days ago they were dividing the contents of a pack of smarties, which they had received as a treat from friends. Twenty seven multi-coloured, candy-coated choccies where spread out on the table. Luke set aside ten for his brother, took ten for himself and offered the remaining seven to me in a damp, dirty little hand. "Because you deserve it Mamma", he said, very convincingly. Instant Mamma-meltdown...

Daniel's offerings come in the form of vividly coloured drawings, executed with bold strokes. Quite the little impressionist, he is proud and confident in his abilities as an "artist" - even if the gazelles look like asses and birds become pterodactyls under his hand. This morning I received a rolled up painting of a Bengal tiger, presented in an empty Lindt wrapping. A beastly beauty, with a whiff of dark chocolate emanating from it. Oh they know my weaknesses so well. I am often presented with slightly crushed flowers, which they arrange in my graying mop. I am then declared the flower-princes. Princesses don't growl and grumble - they are floaty, benevolent beings, who set the world aright with a magic wand, not with smacks on naughty bottoms!

I look back at the time when there was a waddling toddler and a babe-in-arms in our home. There was so much uncertainty, and little to sustain from day to day. But what remains in my mind are images which are so fragile and precious, that it seems parlous to handle them without utmost care. In the forefront of my memory are not the things that were hard and tough, but the times and moments which were made perfect by an all-enveloping grace and beauty. What we have now seems much stronger and more secure, but there are still those moments when with aching heart I realise how delicate this life truly is.

I feel that this story may need to come to an end soon. Not that there are no more memories to share. That is a suitcase with more compartments and false bottoms than I could ever explore. But I run the risk of repeating myself and becoming a bore. Writing can only stay vital if it stays fresh. I may change the format or start filling a new skin with snippets and thoughts. What else would I do with all these words which have no-where to go each day!

Charles Spurgeon, the "prince of preachers", once said: “Faith goes up the stairs that love has built and looks out the windows which hope has opened.” I get glimpses out of that window, and it is never a grand view of rewards and surety. It is a view of small steps flanked by thistles and blossoms, peril and sweetness. What has been left behind at the bottom or along those steps have made us stronger and brought us closer. What waits further along or at the top of the steps is not for me to know now.  But I know Who waits there and that is enough...

“Care more for a grain of faith than a ton of excitement.” ~ Charles Spurgeon.

Chapter 17 ~ Learning to understand

Opa en Oma van Dijken and daughters (Mamma far left)

A child views the world through new eyes. Eyes that see leaves uncurl, the reverence in a praying mantis - a rabbit resting on the moon's face. Then we grow up, and look at the time, look in the mirror to see if you are presentable, look at robots change colour and work pile up and your shrinking bank account and messages and news on social media and the frown on your friend's face and... too often, SEE very little. Then a child takes you by the hand and says: "Come - look!" You bend down with one eye on the pot on the stove and glance down at the small hand under your nose. Right before your eyes a butterfly rests lightly on the soft palm, it's wings slow and trembling in the last minutes of life. And you see. Then the child looks at you and sees a "grown-up". Slightly alien, pre-occupied and perhaps a bit unpredictable, but one with whom he can feel safe and secure.

When you become a parent, you again start seeing things completely differently (you have no choice really...). You often have to "see" beyond what is before you. See the child's need in it's cry, the world he has entered into through his eyes. A new dimension opens up - life becomes layered, maddeningly complex at times, but wonderfully rich, and full of colours never imagined before. You look back and see your own parents with aching understanding and empathy. Saddened that you did not "see" then, when you were so heedless and self-absorbed. You long to understand more. To see them as children, understand what shaped their young lives, influenced their convictions and decisions. Determined their way of parenting, of loving, of surviving. Your eyes probe an old photograph, hoping to catch a glimpse of the heart behind the smile, the periphery of the scene beyond the picture before you.

And so, little by little, the angle widens, the picture grows. Fractions of a life lead before I became a reality, are revealed.

I could not hope to understand my own parents, without trying to enter into the joys and suffering they went through. Time and again this brings me back to the outbreak of WWII in Europe and the invasion of Nazi Germany in the Netherlands. For in the aftermath of this, everything was altered. Families, relationships, landscapes, global economy, industry, politics, religion, trust - nothing escaped.

The Netherlands proclaimed neutrality when war broke out in September 1939, just as it had in World War I, but Adolf Hitler ordered it to be invaded anyway. My mother would have been about 3 years old and my father a young boy of 10. On 15 May 1940, one day after the bombing of Rotterdam, the Dutch forces surrendered. The Dutch government and the royal family escaped and went into exile in London.

Following the defeat, the Netherlands was placed under German occupation, which endured in some areas until the German surrender in May 1945. Active resistance was carried out by a small minority, which grew in the course of the occupation. The occupiers deported the majority of the country's Jews to Nazi concentration camps, sadly with the cooperation of much of the Dutch police and civil service.

Most of the south of the country was liberated in the second half of 1944. The rest, especially the west and north of the country still under occupation, suffered from a famine at the end of 1944, known as the "Hunger Winter". This struck when my parents where aged 8 and 15 years respectively. I can understand neither the concept of real hunger or real cold. The combination of the two must have left a deep imprint on children of such an impressionable age. They were victims, but tracing their footsteps in the years after, also survivors. After times of refreshing had come, they prevailed. The scars had softened and they were able to look back with a gentle sadness for what was lost and nostalgia for what was good and sweet.

Mamma and my adorable sister

I now understand why there was always a bit of a veil over the stories told of their childhood. On the lighter side; I can grasp why my mother meticulously counted out the amount of biscuits according to the amount of people in the room, plus one extra, so that it would not look "mean". And no one ever dared to take the last one anyway... Why birthday presents and wrapping paper were often "recycled", why even loo paper was rationed. Why the cheese was grated and frozen, then measured out in exact portions for the daily need. Why nylon stockings were repaired with dabs of "cutex". Which also happened to be the only place nail varnish was used. Apart from a light facial powder, no make-up ever made it's way into my mom's "objets de toilette".

My mother once told me about an "onderduiker (person in hiding) who had taken refuge in their cellar during the war. I took the bit of information as a matter of fact, not understanding the danger the family had placed themselves in by doing so. The life stories of Corrie ten Boom and Anne Frank are examples of the real peril which people in hiding as well as the people offering the hiding places faced. This has made me view my parents and grandparents with a new respect, in light of the things they faced and the choices they made.

These quotes from Corrie the Boom's Hiding Place say it better than I ever could. For they flowed from a warm Dutch heart which had seen and endured the deepest pits of suffering, but did not stop loving, living and flourishing. Regardless.

“Today I know that such memories are the key not to the past, but to the future. I know that the experiences of our lives, when we let God use them, become the mysterious and perfect preparation for the work He will give us to do. ”

“Do you know what hurts so very much? It's love. Love is the strongest force in the world, and when it is blocked that means pain. There are two things we can do when this happens. We can kill that love so that it stops hurting. But then of course part of us dies, too. Or we can ask God to open up another route for that love to travel.”
~ Corrie ten Boom, The Hiding Place.

Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. ~ Proverbs 3:5

In all my quests to try and understand people, there is one person whom I have never been able to fathom out. Myself. But I have stopped trying to - and am hopefully learning that "understanding" is not everything and it is certainly not the same as "knowing". My days have become significantly lighter since I've given up all the inner probing and prodding. There is after all much more to captivate my attention these days...

We've celebrated birthdays, which seem to follow each other faster than the bodies can keep up with. I look back and can hardly believe that I am now the mother of a five and seven year old, and we are all still relatively sane and surprisingly content. There is much of what other parents have told me about raising children, which I have taken on board and appreciated. But there is also much that is more an old norm and pattern, which has been accepted - like an animal accepts it's fate when it is haltered and penned. We have so much more freedom than what we realise. This freedom is almost a bit of an inversion of what we accept to be logical. When I have made choices in order to gain a bit of freedom for myself, I have often ended up at a dead-end with another trap in it. But the choices and decisions which we have believed to be God's will, have often come a bit more grudgingly, with initial personal sacrifices and limitations. But then one morning I woke up and realised that a great weight had been shed. Our days start gently, with the merry sound of children at play. My husband is a joyful early riser, which affords me the luxury of letting the early hours unfold slowly and without haste. As the door closes behind him, the three of us snuggle a bit longer, often with a book between us or an invented game which mostly turns out to be the first "lesson" of the day.

The one choice which my husband and I have had to defend and explain more than anything else, was the decision to teach our children at home. "Home-schooling" it is called. But what is a school? And were did it start? When did "schooling" become public? Do our children belong to God or to the state? There are questions about what children should be taught at public schools and what not. Evolution theory or creationism. Objective history or politics. I often wonder if we are asking the right questions. What if we took it a step back and asked: Should there be public schools? Can of worms. We are afforded the chance to vote for who rules the country. But who "votes" for what should and should not be included in a school curriculum...?

The systematic provision of learning techniques to most children, such as literacy, has been a development of the last 150 or 200 years, or even the last 50 years in some countries.
Since the mid-20th century, societies around the globe have undergone an accelerating pace of change in economy and technology. Its effects on the workplace, and thus on the demands on the educational system preparing students for the workforce, have been significant. Beginning in the 1980s, government, educators, and major employers issued a series of reports identifying key skills and implementation strategies to steer students and workers towards meeting the demands of the changing and increasingly digital workplace and society. 21st century skills are a series of higher-order skills, abilities, and learning dispositions that have been identified as being required for success in 21st century society and workplaces by educators, business leaders, academics, and governmental agencies. Many of these skills are also associated with deeper learning, including analytic reasoning, complex problem solving, and teamwork, compared to traditional knowledge-based academic skills. ~ Wikipedia.

Educators, business leaders, academics and governmental agencies decide what students and workers (our children) should and should not know to meet the demands of the workforce and society. What are "deeper learning" and "higher-order skills"? Perhaps, just perhaps it is not that people should not ask questions, but that we should ask the right questions about personal choices about how to raise, educate and discipline our children, not just for success in this lifetime, but for eternity.

We cannot know what the future holds for our children. Right now seems so whole and wholesome and I wish it could remain this way. But this is a dream-hope. We, as well as our sons will have to face much which we cannot possibly foresee, let alone prevent. There is a narrow tile, with a beautiful Dutch poem written on it in elegantly slanted script, which sits above the basin in our bathroom. It serves as a gentle reminder to me each morning as I splash my face and look up to see the first lines: "Ik leg de namen van mijn kinderen in Uw handen" (I place the names of my children into Your hands). To this Highest Order I surrender them, in His hands they are safe. Amidst all the controversy about what they should and should not be taught, this remains unshakable, infallible, steadfast and secure.

Our soft little ones have become tough and angular. Fortunately this has taken place on the surface only and they remain dear, with all the loving generosity of a child who feels secure. The circumstances which I sometimes bemoan as being limiting, have also led to an unusually deep bond and understanding between the four of us. I grew up with two brothers who were (and are) like opposing poles. Chalk and cheese, mist-rain and monsoon, day and night. Therefore it did not come as such a shock, that the two entrusted to us sometimes seem to be two different species, as far as character is concerned. Both are precious, with his own gifts and talents and short-comings, but they each dance to their own beat. Despite the differences and occasional fisty-cuffs, they get along remarkably well and never seem to tire of each other's company. "Boezemvrienden" (bosom or heart friends). Luke sums himself up as a "head-guy" - meaning his mind is ever busy, curious, hungry. Daniel tempers that with his easy going - stay in the background, then they demand less of you - approach. Until he is crossed or loses a game or is called a baby. Then there be dragons...

I turned away from my writing for a moment to stretch and look out over the peaceful, hazy scene outside the window. The top branches of a silver birch swaying in the breeze, a hint of new green where the first sign of spring is borne. A cardboard box moved into view, then continued floating across the deck unhindered. I blinked hard, did a double check as it floated out of view. A few minutes later it re-appeared and I stretched taller to get a better look. From under the box protruded a pair of arms, hands holding firmly onto a push bike being propelled by a sturdy pair of legs. Upon closer investigation I learnt that this was in fact Daniel "in disguise" - a spy looking out for "bad guys". That was until the spy crashed into the rails, resulting from "box vision".

So my days continue unfolding with moments of sweet simplicity. I could sweep and stoop and become weighted down by the magnitude of a task which, even though it has no externally imposed deadlines, never ends. Or I could look up and see the little spies with sparkling eyes, the bees buzzing busily around the new lavender and honeysuckle blooms. The cat stretched out in a lazy curve in the sun, the wide, wide vista of mountain and forest with whispering tree-tops. I may not always be able to understand everything. But I breathe deeply and raise my arms in gratitude to the One who does.