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.