Winter
Five o’clock. . . .
With a sigh, I place my
knitting on the windowsill. The fading light makes it too challenging to work
on the intricate pattern for my new sweater without making mistakes. Now, I’ll
sit by the window and wait for my pastor husband Kees. It’s hardly worth
turning on the light before he arrives. Earlier today, at one o’clock, Kees
went into the countryside with Elder Groensma to bring some home visits. Such
visits are customary in the afternoon, as people in the farming community
retire early in the evening. Since half past one I’ve been knitting here,
gazing out the window. After the schoolchildren clattered by on their wooden
shoes at four o’clock, one man passed by with a sheep on a rope. But that’s
been all—no one else.
Five o’clock. . . . Around
this time of the day, I used to be on my bicycle stuck in a traffic jam at a traffic
light in the busy city I grew up in. Sometimes it was with Kees, if he had a
lecture scheduled then, or occasionally with colleagues from the office. Back
home, Mother would wait by the fireplace, ready with tea and cookies, and stories about what
had all happened that day. My brothers would noisily return from school, and my
sister Riet would be back from a day of classes at the university. Cozy, warm,
and filled with light—the house buzzed with life. The perfect Dutch word for it
is “Gezellig!”
Now, in this little country village,
life is quiet and slow. In the twilight of the street, someone approaches. Is
it Kees? No, it’s a man in a blue coat, striding on toward his home. He
sees me peering out the window and raises his index finger in greeting. “Hey!”
Then he leans into the wind, which gusts freely at this corner. On this side of
the village, the land is flat, devoid of trees or bushes, stretching to the
seawall.
Dark early, cold, raining.
That’s what it's like in Holland in December. How different everything seemed
in June, when Kees and I visited after he had received the call to serve as
pastor of the village church! I remember girls with red headscarves working in
the fields, wagons piled high with hay, and shouting schoolchildren. A vivid
picture indeed!
Two figures emerge
from the misty twilight. Kees and Brother Groensma, finally! For a moment,
they continue their conversation beneath the glow of the street lamp—the old
man in his duffel coat and Kees in his light raincoat. One more handshake, and
then Groensma heads off toward his home walking briskly on his stubby legs.
We sit down for a sandwich.
Kees looks tired; his face wears an absent expression. It has indeed been a
difficult afternoon.
“You pray, Frans,” he
says. “I’ve prayed six times today: four home visits and two visits to the
sick. Three cups of coffee and two cups of tea. And I suspect that old sister
De Zwart is miffed that I refused her offer of tea.”
I’m relieved I saved a bowl of
soup for Kees. I know better than to bring up the subject of tea or coffee
after all those home visits.
After fifteen minutes of
silent eating, Kees’s face relaxes. This is when he starts acting a bit silly.
The nonsensical chatter he utters is meant only for the ears of his wife, who must
be quiet and just listen. Afterward, I may recount my own experiences from the
afternoon—namely, nothing!
After dinner, we take a
leisurely walk up the road. I haven’t stepped outside all afternoon, and
the fresh air is invigorating. The twinge of homesickness I felt earlier has disappeared.
In the twilight’s darkness,
Kees unburdens himself. “Do you grasp how challenging it is, Frans?” he
asks. “Imagine bringing a visit to old Brother Berkman—such a seasoned
pioneer, well into his eighties. He has served as an elder, altogether, for
over thirty years. And there I am, expected to pray. Let me tell you, I broke
into a cold sweat. It would have been far better if he had prayed for me.”
“But he does, Kees,” I
interject. “Yes,” Kees replies with a sigh. “He should recognize
how much I need it.”
Back home, I receive a
detailed account of Kees’s visit to Brother Geert Petrolie’s. Geert proudly
displayed the new long johns and undershirt he received from the Sister
Association. “Like a mannequin, he posed for me, stretching his arms in every
direction to demonstrate the perfect fit. We must visit him again next
week, Frans,” Kees suggests. “He’s a lonely old soul. Perhaps you
could prepare some soup for him. But don’t forget to put on your stockings,” Kees
adds with a grin.
Ah, my soup-splattered
stockings—a source of amusement for Kees! During a recent visit to an elderly
woman, who lives several kilometres from the parsonage, the soup I was bringing
her ended up all over my stockings. I had hung the soup pan on my bicycle
handlebars, and with each bump in the road, a little splash escaped. By the
time I reached my destination, only the meatballs and a few noodles remained at
the bottom of the pot.
And so we labour on in the task
to which God has called us. We earnestly pray that our work may bear fruit.
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From Fransje
en haar dominee (Fransje and her pastor), 1953, by Margaretha
Elisabeth Gilhuis-Smitskamp (1908-2008). The book is made up of 25 short
stories about life in the village parsonage in the 1930’s and ‘40’s. Mrs.
Gilhuis-Smitskamp was a pastor’s wife and writes from that perspective. Tr.
George van Popta, 2024.
