Church Picnic: Arie and Katrien in Canada, 29.

29. Church Picnic

Our congregation’s annual picnic is now a memory. We had a wonderful day together. The weather was glorious, and nature was dressed in its finest. The water in the lake was just right—not too cold and not too warm; the beach was not yet crowded with Canadians when we arrived in large numbers. In short, everything contributed to making it a perfect day for our congregation.

The person who invented the church picnic deserves an honorable mention in church history. When church members gather in God's great outdoors, all disagreements are forgotten, all doctrinal disputes are left at the water's edge, everyone plays together, and we become like children. Isn’t that just how the Saviour wants us to be?

We need the picnic to build up our young churches here. A picnic wonderfully strengthens the bond between the hardy Frisians, the stout Zeelanders, the reserved Groningers, and the open-hearted South-Hollanders. A shared thermos and an exciting soccer match enhance the communion of the saints at its best.

At nine o'clock in the morning, nearly fifty overloaded cars lined up outside the city to drive the twenty miles to the picnic site together. The covenant children hung out of the open windows, waving flags or pelting each other with peanuts while waiting for the signal to depart.

Young mothers, with determined faces, issued last-minute admonitions. The little boys still found time to pee against the front tires of the cars, and then, suddenly, dozens of car horns sounded a deafening noise, signaling that the congregation was ready to depart.

The police, having noticed the massive exodus in time, provided a motorcade for safe passage. And so, we made our way towards the picnic site under the protection of the armed forces. We did not drive fast; no one was in a hurry. At intersections and crossroads, the police ensured we had the right of way, which seemed to impress the bystanders. Some even respectfully removed their hats, thinking a funeral procession was passing by.

By ten o'clock, we reached the site of action—or as some later called it, the battlefield. Towels were hastily hung in front of many car windows, trousers were exchanged for shorts and trunks, and, with loud squeals and screams, the future of the church rushed into the inviting water. For a moment, all one could see was a massive column of water.

The elders took a more reserved approach. Thoughtfully, they dipped their big toes into the water, shivered, and withdrew, standing around in hesitation until some young men dashed by, spraying them with the refreshing water.

The young mothers mentioned earlier handed out little shovels and buckets to the toddlers, who generally found other children's toys more appealing than their own, with all the predictable consequences.

It was a true delight to see the pastor and church council members among the bathing guests. Especially the pastor, stripped of his robe and collar, white shirt, and gray jacket, attracted much attention. This time, no one questioned whether his sermons were too dogmatic or too focused on the Covenant; instead, with great unanimity, everyone agreed that the pastor was . . . chubby. 

The clerk also didn’t lack attention. As a 200-pounder in swimming trunks, he was quite a sight. Above his colourful shorts, he displayed a snow-white torso, making him somewhat resemble a white angel.

It visibly did the congregation members good to see their church council without the external glory of their daily or Sunday attire. It is sometimes beneficial to discover that the pastor, under his white shirt, looks just like Brother A, who never agrees with his sermons, and Brother B, who is under censure. People start to accept him more as an ordinary person of flesh and blood, which fosters appreciation. Wouldn’t there have been fewer church disputes and splits in the past if church councils and synods had met in swimwear?

At exactly twelve o'clock, a call was made for the communal meal. Forty-five minutes later, everyone was seated at the long picnic tables. We sang together, "Praise God and magnify his worth,” and it sounded beautiful in the open air. The babies on their mothers’ laps and the birds in the tall trees joined in bravely, each in their own way.

The chairman of the picnic committee led us in prayer, giving thanks for the wonderful day we were able to spend together under God's open sky and in the beautiful realm of nature.

After that, we ate for an hour. Milk cups were knocked over, lemonade was spilled, and potato salad landed on bare knees and clean dresses, but none of that mattered—we were out having fun together! Some disciplinary measures were administered to naughty children, yet even these couldn't spoil the overall festive mood.

After the meal, the youngest mothers took their babies to the cars, trying in vain to get them to take their afternoon naps.

Meanwhile, games were organized for the children. They eagerly played with balls and flags, competing for the title of sack-race champion.

The older youth sat on the grass, singing spiritual songs and street ditties accompanied by accordion and guitar.

There's nothing to report about the soccer match because it was canceled; the ball got punctured during the children's games.

Around four o'clock, the only accident of the day occurred: Brother De Boer, the chairman of the church's financial committee, fell from a tree during a climbing contest for the men. He landed like a ripe apple, raising a large cloud of dust. Fortunately, he only sprained an ankle. He spent the rest of the afternoon sitting in his lawn chair, assessing the financial status of the other bathers.

The most popular game was the pig chase. The festival committee had brought out three skittish piglets greased with green soap, and released them into the circle of spectators. Two men were blindfolded at a time, crawling on hands and knees, trying to catch the piglets. It was hard work. The crowd laughed and screamed at the clumsy movements of the blind pig chasers. The piglets themselves didn't see the humor and darted around squealing. When it was my turn, I managed only to hug my opponent. The highlight of the game was when two office bearers collided with a loud thud. Needless to say, the farmers won this match against the townsfolk.

At half past six, we ate again. A collection was also taken to cover the day's expenses. The offering brought in much more than on Sundays. During a picnic, people don't mind spending a little extra. Apparently, they do on Sunday.

By nine o'clock in the evening, we were home, and by eleven, we were already in bed. However, to our great surprise, we had a restless night. The whole family was awake by half-past twelve because not only Katrien and I, but also the children were severely sunburned by the friendly sun.

That night, many church members suffered bitterly.

Now, a few days later, I am peeling.

Just now, Katrien pulled a huge piece of skin from my burned left arm. She enjoys doing that. At my firm request, she promised not to skin me alive.

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Dof, Arie. (1958). “Kerk-Picnic.” (George van Popta, Trans., 2024). In Arie en Katrien in Canada (pp. 128-131). Hamilton, Ontario: Guardian. (Original work published in Calvinist Contact [Christian Courier]).

Arie and Katrien: ch. 15, "Let us sing!"

15. Let us sing!       

Yesterday was a day of trials for me. The morning began with a tense breakfast. Katrien, my wife, questioned our second daughter about her late return at 11:30 the previous night, despite the young people’s meeting ending at ten o’clock.

Alie, who prefers to be called Alice now that we’re in Canada, responded with a hint of defiance, stating she had taken a scenic route home with Fred Van Buren, a young man from the church.

Katrien has an inexplicable aversion to this young man. I find it perplexing because, apart from his somewhat laid-back demeanor, there’s nothing objectionable about him. I believe he’s a good-hearted individual who is willing to work, even if his earnings are modest.

The dynamics at the breakfast table were clear: the matriarch of the house voiced her disapproval and then maintained a meaningful silence, while the young lady of the house reminded us that her tongue could be as sharp as a sword.

The climax of this domestic drama saw Alice rise from the table in tears and storm out of the kitchen, stomping up the stairs.

Katrien then presided over a strained and uncomfortable silence with her lips pursed.

Following this chilly meal, my wife also aired her grievances against me, upset that I hadn’t reprimanded Alice. Feeling unjustly accused and entirely innocent, I departed for the bus stop in protest, forgoing the customary peck on the cheek.

My mood matched the dismal weather: it was pouring rain, and a fierce wind snatched my hat, which I had to chase down the street and retrieve from a puddle. When I finally arrived at the jobsite where we were building a house, I discovered that the boss’s mood was even worse than mine, casting a shadow over the entire construction crew. What a day!

During lunch, I was joined by Jan Kruit, the church's foremost critic. He had plenty to say, from the pastor’s sermon not being exegetically sound to his disdain for the congregation and especially the office-bearers. It was obvious Jan was angling for a spot on the church council. Talking to him didn’t help my mood at all.

Around half-past one, the boss announced we could go home early. We were almost out of materials, and no truck could deliver lumber because the roads in the new district where we were building houses had become impassable due to the rain and mud. This meant losing half a day’s wages. Just my luck!

I returned home in a bad mood, only to be greeted by Katrien, whose mood hadn’t improved since the morning. Her strong character means she rarely changes her mind. With nothing uplifting at home either, I decided to go to Van Wolde’s to get eggs. The Van Woldes are members of our congregation who rent a small farm five miles outside the city, accessible by bus, though the nearest bus stop is a half mile away from their house.

We always get our family’s egg supply from the Van Woldes. Katrien finds store-bought eggs too expensive and usually stale. So, I boarded the bus with an empty egg crate, noting that both the world and I were still far from smiling.

After fifteen minutes, I had to disembark. The remaining half-mile to the farm had to be covered on foot. It had stopped raining for about fifteen minutes, but that did nothing to improve the condition of the muddy road leading to the Van Woldes' farm. Life seemed extraordinarily sad as I stepped onto the slick, shiny mud.

After ten steps, I lost my overshoes in the thick, sticky clay and had to continue my journey in my shoes. Muddy water seeped through the lace holes into my socks and toes. Splashes of muddy water made my good pants, which had just been steamed and pressed last week, unsightly.

With a mood that was below freezing point, breathing heavily and feeling very sorry for myself, I finally reached the simple residence of the Van Woldes. I was let into the kitchen/living room where numerous children were scattered across the floor. Some were wrestling, others were playing with trucks and cars or colouring at the table. The Van Wolde family consists of father, mother, and nine children, the oldest of whom is ten years old. Disheartened, I asked if mother was home, and the oldest child replied in a mix of English and Drents dialect: “Mom is in the barn; it’s milking time, you know.”

Psalter Hymnal, 1959

So, back into the mud, to the barn, which was quite a distance away. Despite all my self-pity, I found a moment to feel sorry for Mother Van Wolde, who, in addition to nine children, also has six cows to care for and to milk by hand, while her husband comes home from work in the city in the evening. This is how some immigrants live! Such a woman must toil from six in the morning until eight in the evening and then go to bed before ten, exhausted. What a life! It should be forbidden!

I was close to the barn when I heard a woman singing, a high, pure soprano, accompanied by the bellowing of cows: “God will Himself confirm them with His blessing. . . .”

A content person, a happy mother was singing, and her song was not for the cows, but for her children, her husband, herself, God’s people, for Arie Dof, and all to the praise of God.

In the middle of a mud puddle, I stood still for a moment, for it was all so wonderful. I felt myself suddenly changing into a different person. Oh, I can’t describe it very well, but at that moment, I felt the urge to both sing and to chide—to sing because God is so good and so is life; at the same time, to rebuke myself, who can sometimes be such a grumpy fellow.

When I headed home ten minutes later with the fresh eggs, the mud was still thick on the country road. But what did that matter? Psalm 87 has beautiful words and a beautiful tune!

I arrived home late in the afternoon. Katrien was standing at the back door. She looked at the eggs with appreciation and at me and my muddy pants and shoes with disdain. Her lips were still pursed.

I left my shoes, socks, and pants in the mudroom and hurriedly ran upstairs to change. As I stepped into another pair of pants and fastened the belt, I sang of “The Moor with the Philistine and the Tyrian. . . .”

Then Katrien came into the bedroom and said, “Aren’t you suddenly so jolly!” And before I got to “And joyful tones be praised by Israel’s throng. . . .” I planted a loud kiss on my wife’s cheek.

Let us sing! Sing often! Sing joyfully!

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Dof, Arie. (1958). “Laat ons zingen.” (George van Popta, Trans., 2024). In Arie en Katrien in Canada (pp. 64-68). Hamilton, Ontario: Guardian. (Original work published in Calvinist Contact [Christian Courier]).

Black Sunday

15. BLACK SUNDAY

[About the Russian invasion of Hungary, in October, 1956.]

It was a Sunday in 1956. Black Sunday in Hungary. The Russians invaded with tanks and cannons, determined to extinguish the flame of Hungarian freedom with blood.

That Sunday was so dark. It was such a dark Sunday.

On that fateful day, significant events unfolded in Hungary. But noteworthy things also happened among our Dutch immigrant people in Canada.

In Hungary, the first tanks stormed into Budapest. A house, suspected by the Russians of hiding “rebels,” was reduced to rubble. A grandfather, his daughter, and two of her children, perished.

At the same moment, there was trouble in an immigrant family in Canada. A father and three children wanted to sleep in, thinking the church would still be there next week. A grandfather, his daughter, and two of her children went to church, but without a song of praise on their lips.

*

Somewhere in a provincial town in Hungary, in a square behind the pillars of the town hall and in the doorways of closed shops, children, boys and girls aged fourteen to twenty, are covertly positioned with sten guns, pistols, and Molotov cocktails. The Russians are approaching. Some of the children are very young. Some are very frightened. One soils his pants. Some pray, “God, help us, protect us! We are still so young!”

Somewhere in a Canadian town, at the back of the church, there are children, lanky lads of fourteen years. A few are yawning, a few are sleeping during the sermon. Some secretly show each other forbidden pictures of naughty girls.

In a town square in Hungary, embittered women hold a demonstration beside the bodies of some freedom fighters. They sing their national anthem. It sounds like a lament. At the same moment, in one of the houses in Canada, a record player wails. Excited girls scream, shriek, and howl: Rock and Roll! Elvis Presley!

*

In one of the major cities of Hungary, believers find the church doors closed. In a suburb, there is still a church open. The service is about to begin. Catholics and Protestants call upon the Lord in unison. A former communist cries out, “Kyrie eleison!” God and his holy angels listen.

In a Canadian city, believers find the church doors open and they attentively listen to the sermon of the orthodox Dutch pastor, who fervently warns his flock about the traps and deceit of the church down the street—where another pastor preaches, who is also Dutch, and also orthodox.  

*

On a pile of rubble in Hungary, a desperate mother cries and laments. She just found an arm of her missing child.

Somewhere in Canada Brother A complains about his hemorrhoids and Brother B complains about his pastor. 

*

Hungary: Five boys are tied to poles. The firing squad takes position. Two boys cry out for their mother; one cries out to Mary; two can no longer cry. The command is given . . . shots ring out. . . .

Canada: At the youth club, five boys debate passionately about the doctrine of Common Grace, each bracing himself to triumph in the debate.

In Hungary, strangers become friends in their hopeless fight for freedom. People find each other in their common distress. People kneel and cry out together to God.

In Canada, friends become strangers as conversations once again revolve around the question: Should our church here be modeled along Dutch lines, or not? Should we call an American, or a Dutch pastor?

*

In Budapest, the Russians set fire to a house of “terrorists.” A family runs out into the street in panic and is mowed down by a machine gun.

In Canada, Arie Dof lights a cigarette and sulks because Katrien forgot to buy cigars for him.

 *

In Hungary. . . . In Canada. . . .

One question, O God: Why was that Sunday so pitch black for the Hungarians and only colourless for us in Canada?

God does not answer . . .  not yet.

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Dof, Arie. (1958). “Zwarte Zondag.” (George van Popta, Trans., 2024). In Arie en Katrien in Canada (pp. 61-63). Hamilton, Ontario: Guardian. (Original work published in Calvinist Contact [Christian Courier]). 

 

25. The Pastor Receives a Call

Our beloved shepherd and teacher has received a call. As far as we can judge, it must be appealing: a large congregation, a beautiful setting, a church with a rich history that has long since navigated the challenges of a nascent 1950s immigrant community.

Some among us still believe that the highest promotion for a pastor is to be called by a large congregation in a big city, where he becomes one of a team of ministers. This may be the case in Holland but, fortunately, it does not apply in this part of the world. Here pastors move from cities to villages and vice versa, and receive almost the same salary in all places, and all this has much to commend itself.

The pastor himself came to tell us that he had received a call, and it seemed that he was quite pleased with it. Katrien shed a tear, and I, with many compelling reasons, highlighted to the pastor the many needs and requirements of our large growing congregation. However, I doubt whether this had much effect. After all, a pastor himself knows what his congregation looks like.

The distress within the congregation seems to be greater than that within the pastor’s family. At least, our pastor continues his duties undisturbed, offering a friendly smile to all the brothers and sisters who approach him to assure him that it would be best if he remained here.

Both the old and young are involved. We even discovered that our sons and daughters had placed a bet with each other, with a small radio as the prize. The boys said, “He’s leaving.” The girls declared, “He’s staying.” When Katrien found out about this, she eradicated this gambling root and branch.

Indeed, there is significant confusion and unrest within the congregation, which is quite unfortunate. We Dutch are often quick-tempered, and Dutch immigrants are typically even more so, with their hackles easily raised. This is evident in our immigrant church during these tense days of the pastor’s call.

So, what transpired? People have started making assumptions. They’ve said, “If our pastor accepts the call, where will that leave our church?” Whom should we call upon then? Pastors come in various styles and forms; what kind of preacher should we call upon?

This sparked a debate on this crucial question. The congregation hastily began to split into two factions: the A and D directions. The A-movement consists of believers who exclusively want an American pastor. The D-direction is made up of Christians who solely desire a Dutch preacher.

Every evening, we receive visits from interested congregation members who come to gauge and test the opinion of elder Arie and attempt to align us with either the A or D faction. Katrien, as the hostess, is kept quite busy, and I get the sense that the coffee is starting to taste a bit weak.

On Tuesday evening, Gerrit van Putten, accompanied by a friend, paid us a visit. Gerrit has been in Canada for five years. He is a successful livestock and poultry dealer and has been nominated twice for the position of elder, but has yet to secure the esteemed role. After failing to be elected for the second time last year, he has found himself in opposition. Gerrit claims to be thoroughly Canadian and struggles with Dutch, which he views as a foreign language. Critics argue that Dutch has always been foreign to him, as he has only managed to grasp the Overijsel dialect with a Zwolle accent. However, that's a different matter.

Van Putten's companion initiated the conversation, expressing hope that the pastor would remain, as it's better to stick with the known than venture into the unknown. He hoped that there would be abundant prayers for the pastor's family during these times. We all concurred wholeheartedly.

But what if the pastor accepts the call? What then?

Well, Van Putten, with his Canadian accent, opined that we should opt for an American pastor. They perform well, and you never have any issues with them.

At this point, Katrien, who was only half-awake, made a naïve comment. She asked how heavy the Americans were when they arrived, mistakenly thinking that Van Putten was endorsing a particular breed of pigs. Gerrit, however, didn't catch the misunderstanding and overlooked Katrien's comment in his eagerness to continue the discussion. He assured us that he had observed that the Americans were sufficiently heavy, yet not overly so, while the Dutch were often either too light or too heavy.

From Katrien’s expression, I could tell that she thought the chatty cattle trader was still discussing pigs, and that this was his roundabout answer to her question. Following this, Van Putten asserted that Dutch pastors were more rigid, substantial, and pretentious than their American counterparts, and that simplicity was the essence of truth. He suggested that we should abandon the bilingual system as soon as possible and conduct all our services in English for the benefit of the youth and the progressive segment of the congregation.

And what were Arie’s thoughts on this?

I attempted to clarify to our esteemed guests that I hadn’t given it much thought, as we currently have a pastor and our church isn’t vacant. Moreover, I don’t align myself with either the A or D factions.

Following this, Gerrit encouraged me to broaden my perspective, embrace progress, and adopt a principled, decisive, and firm stance during these tumultuous times for our local church.

The evening didn’t yield many productive outcomes, leaving our visitors dissatisfied as they departed.

In the meantime, tensions escalated daily. Everyone anxiously wondered, “What will the pastor do?” And everyone was confronted with the crucial question: “Do you align with A or D?” The American and Dutch factions began to clash more intensely. Both sides were starting to get personal, scrutinizing the pasts of party leaders for vulnerabilities. There was intense conflict, but prayers were scarce. The situation in the congregation was becoming increasingly serious.

Following Brother Van Putten’s visit, we were visited on subsequent evenings by four of his like-minded associates, who each repeated Gerrit’s wisdom in their own words.

Due to these frequent visits, the children were becoming increasingly restless, and Katrien began to regret the day I was called to the office of elder. Both parties were doing their utmost to win over the church council.

We made the intriguing discovery that there were numerous sub-factions within the parties. There was even a group within the Dutch faction that desired a Frisian pastor, believing that a Frisian sermon or home visit could touch the deepest chords of the human heart.

And so everyone was stating their case and expressing their opinion.

Brother Rijkman, the undisputed leader of the Dutch faction, showed up two nights ago, accompanied by two associates. After we all, excluding the hostess, had lit authentic Dutch cigars, Rijkman gently wafted the burning Ritmeester under his nose. He softly sniffed and delicately commented that one could truly smell the real Dutch essence, and that both the products of Dutch cigar factories and Dutch pastor factories were not to be underestimated.

“Ha-ha-ha,” laughed the two companions, while Katrien and I remained silent and waited.

Indeed, this witticism turned out to be merely a superficial introduction to a deeper conversation. Rijkman proved to be a better debater than Gerrit van Putten on Tuesday evening, and he brought up some heavy arguments. He asserted that the Dutch soul can only be understood by another Dutch soul. According to him, only the genuine and unadulterated Dutch sermon could effectively feed the Dutch soul. He then smoothly steered the conversation in a different direction. He authoritatively stated that American preachers tend to emphasize the sanctification of man, while in contrast, Dutch ministers preach more about justification, which he deemed preferable.

My innocent question as to whether the sermon should not focus on the message of the forgiveness sins led to a lengthy discussion in which we did not find common ground.

I pulled out a few of the scarce theological books from our bookshelf, but neither Kuyper, Geesink, nor Schilder could settle the dispute. One of the companions, who also wanted to contribute to the discussion, remarked that American ministers tended to lean towards the side of the Arminians, while we, as solid Dutchmen, were Gomarians. However, he was sharply reprimanded by the group leader and remained silent for the rest of the evening.

At the end of the discussions, Rijkman rightly concluded: “I notice that we can’t count on you, Arie; you’re not taking sides.” “Shame,” declared companion number two emphatically. While the brothers were busy putting on their overcoats, there was a late-night ring at the door. I heard Katrien sigh. But to our pleasant surprise, it wasn’t a representative of A or D who sought entry, but the pastor himself, who came to tell us that he had just posted the letter in which he announced that he had declined the call! What joy! Hands were shaken, compliments were made, shoulders were patted, and edifying words were spoken.

Rijkman and his companions eagerly and wholeheartedly participated in all these activities.

By the next day, the whole congregation already knew, and everyone was delighted, both the A-folks and the D-people.

But the pastor will still be busy trying to calm the heated spirits.

For even though the pastor stays, the battle is not yet over. That wouldn’t be Dutch.

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Dof, Arie. (1958). “De Dominee Heeft een Beroep.” (George van Popta, Trans., 2024). In Arie en Katrien in Canada (pp. 104-119). Hamilton, Ontario: Guardian. (Original work published in Calvinist Contact [Christian Courier]).

 

 

"There's nothing happening here."

 23. Home Visitation (II).

Once again, I had the privilege of accompanying the pastor on home visits. The Vredenstein family was next in line for the official visit. However, they informed us that they could not accommodate us due to a niece’s birthday celebration on the same day.

After three unsuccessful attempts to schedule visits with families who were either on night shifts, redecorating their living rooms, or dealing with illnesses such as chicken pox or bronchitis, we finally found the Bakker family willing to receive us. Their readiness was a refreshing change after a series of disappointments. The cooperation of the congregation members during home visitation season can sometimes be quite remarkable, for all the wrong reasons!

We arrived at the Bakker family home in high spirits. Three children, aged between ten and eighteen, were quickly ushered into the kitchen, but were promptly called back when the pastor, trying to be funny, clarified that we weren’t there for an “over eighteen” film screening.

The customary comments about the harsh winter and the approaching spring were swiftly addressed. Then, somewhat naively, I asked the indiscreet question: did the Bakkers enjoy life in Canada and in the Canadian immigrant church?

“No,” they responded unanimously.

Out of curiosity and politeness, the following brief but deeply significant question was inevitable: “Why not?”

The head of the household seemed ready for this question. He launched into a lengthy discourse, which essentially conveyed the following: “Life here is so boring; there’s no vitality. There’s never anything to do in Canada or in the church, and there’s nowhere to go. There is nothing happening here.”

Father Bakker expressed that the people were not the problem, but rather the lack of output from them; that in Canada, one would spend the entire evening watching television out of sheer boredom, whereas in Holland there was always something enjoyable to do. 

Father Bakker further stated that while the pastor’s sermons were fine, the rest of church life lacked pleasure due to the absence of any activities. Each person had to find their own entertainment, as nothing was organized for either the young or the old. He concluded by saying that without activity, there is no life, and without life, there is only death. Naturally, no one dared to challenge this final assertion.

After Father Bakker had vented his frustrations, the pastor and I felt obliged to mitigate the damage as best we could. We had to act swiftly, as Father Bakker was preparing to reiterate his “there is nothing happening here” declaration.

To avoid a second gloomy monologue, we both began to speak simultaneously. As the audience turned their attention to the pastor, I quickly fell silent. The pastor spoke passionately and gratefully about the many blessings bestowed upon us in this strange but free land. He emphasized that anyone who loves the Lord should never be bored. He questioned whether Bakker’s neighbour, Pete Pippenger: Carpet Cleaner and Upholsterer (we had chuckled at his illuminated sign before entering Bakker’s house), was also a Christian and whether Bakker had ever spoken to him about the gospel and the way of salvation.

Together, we attempted to explain to Father Bakker why we were in Canada as Christians. After much discussion, we compiled a substantial list of societies, clubs, and organizations for immigrants of all ages. It emerged that neither Brother or Sister Bakker attended men’s or women’s Bible study groups, and their children did not attend youth clubs or participate in the coffee house, having been influenced by their father’s “there is nothing happening here” narrative.

As we prepared to leave, we asked Father Bakker if he now understood that there was plenty of activity and life in the immigrant community, if he would only open his eyes and ears.

We felt that we had won a small victory when he said that he would think about it, .

Upon returning home half an hour later, I found Katrien alone in the living room. The youngest children were in bed, and the others had gone to the youth clubs, choir, a hockey game with some friends, and a birthday party at one of the young people.

My wife was sulking because she had been left alone, and, in a voice laden with self-pity, she declared, “There was nothing happening here!”

I choked on my coffee and cake, and Katrien had to pat vigorously my back.

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Dof, Arie. (1958). “Huisbezoek (II).” (George van Popta, Trans., 2024). In Arie en Katrien in Canada (pp. 96-99). Hamilton, Ontario: Guardian. (Original work published in Calvinist Contact [Christian Courier]).