Best before…?

In case you missed them, the other parts of the Stories from Grace Manor series can be found here.

Jan is away. He and Trynie are staying with their daughter for a few days. Bill just told us Jan isn’t entirely convinced he lost his license. “He told me,” Bill said, “he thought he had passed but wasn’t sure.” Later, Trynie showed Bill the results.

We’ve run out of Douwe Egberts coffee. Jan and Trynie usually buy it at the Dutch Store, so we asked Douwe to grab a pound from the Tim Hortons near Grace Manor. Mary will brew it for us. Tim Hortons is our Canadian version of Douwe Egberts, anyway.

Broekie sets five coffee cups on the table as we wait for Douwe. Other than Jan, we’re all here in our usual chairs. After a bit of small talk, Broekie coughs a dry cough a few times.

Then he says, “Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here this morning . . . ” We remember that our worship services long ago would start like this.

He continues, “gathered to remember the days of our youth.” He pauses, and Pete adds, “. . . and of our foolish ways.”

“Let’s hope we can hang onto some of that foolishness,” I say.

Just then, Douwe walks in with the Timmy’s and grins, “Yes – and often more farts than foolishness.”

We laugh.

“Who wants a cup?” We all raise our cups. Douwe holds up the thermos, looks at us, and says, “The minister first.” He pours Bill’s raised cup. “And now for the common folk,” he says, waving off Broekie’s outstretched arm. He pours Pete’s cup. “Now for the writer,” he says, filling mine. “And last and least,” he adds, pouring for Broekie, “the leftovers.” Broekie laughs the loudest.

“Where’s the Gemberkoek?” asks Broekie.

“Jan and Trynie usually buy it with the coffee,” I remind him.

We send Douwe to the kitchen to ask Mary if there’s any stashed away. But before he goes, Broekie says, “By the way, Douwe, it must be tough every morning deciding which side of your head to part your hair.”

We laugh.

On his way, Douwe turns around, pulls a small black comb from his pocket, and offers it to Broekie. “Here – for your nose and ears,” he says.

Pete’s coffee dribbles down his chin, Bill spits his last gulp back into his cup, and I pound the table in laughter – Broekie wipes his eyes.

The forms of unity

As Douwe returns with the Gemberkoek, we’re already deep into church history. Someone mentions the “Secession.” We all look at Bill, who reminds us that it happened in the Reformed Church in the Netherlands in 1834, followed some 50 years later by the “Doleantie.” Pete asks what doleantie means, and Bill explains that it’s from the Latin dolere, meaning to feel sorrow. We sit in silence for a moment.

Splitting churches – hard to find the humour in that.

We sip our Timmy’s.

“We learned about that in Catechism,” says Broekie. It all seems so distant now. We talk about Catechism.

“My dad drove me every Wednesday night,” I say, and the others nod. “And around 18, they started pushing us toward Profession of Faith Catechism,” I continue.

“A sort of graduate program in Reformed Theology,” Broekie says, smiling.

Douwe runs his hand over his bald head and adds, “Dordt’s Canons, the Belgic Confession, and the Octoberfest Catechism.”

We laugh.

We remember our visits with the elders before doing profession. The joke was that you had to name three kings from the Old Testament – King Solomon, King David and King Peppermint. But in the consistory room, we were nervous. Our minister had prepared us for the one question any elder was sure to ask: “What are the three forms of Unity?” They were certainly not in an Octoberfest mood. All you had to do was answer: Dordt, Belgic and Heidelberg. The elder would nod, look around at the others, pick up his cigar, and continue polluting the air he’d just cleared with his probing question.

“Do you pray?” – that was another one you could count on. There wasn’t much choice with that one. Then came the delicate area of “conduct and walk.”

Broekie says he was asked if he went to the movies.

“What did you say?” Pete asks.

“I told him, not in town. Then another elder asked if I could do it with a clear conscience, and I said I could.”

Broekie takes a few sips of his Timmy’s, and we all fall quiet for a while.

There were more smokers in the consistory room than questioners. The minister said a few pious words about each of us, and then we were dismissed. We’d hear the results after some time of deliberation behind closed doors.

“So, Douwe,” Broekie says, “you did Profession of Faith around that time, and then, 40 years later, you left the CRC for the United Reformed Church.” He looks Douwe in the eye and asks, “Why?”

“Well,” Douwe begins, crossing his arms and staring at the wall, “there was a sense in our church that the Christian Reformed Church was becoming less about clear teaching . . . clear doctrine. More about living our faith in everyday ways than sticking to what the church has always taught. More focused on the world than the Word.” He glances from the floor to the ceiling. “Women deacons, our minister explained, weren’t based on Scripture.”

At this, Bill straightens his back. He looks at Douwe and says, “World and Word, Word and World – that’s always the church’s struggle, just as it was with the Secession of 1834 and Doleantie. How do flawed people live the gospel in a broken world? It’s not just hearing, it’s also doing.” He takes a sip of Timmy’s, places his cup on the table, and continues, “A struggling church is a healthy church. We need each other in that struggle.” He then turns directly to Douwe. “Since you moved into Grace Manor, you’ve been attending Fellowship CRC again. I’m so glad you do.”

Douwe glances at Broekie

“You know,” he says, “back then, you were honest about going to movies. It could’ve been a problem, but they let it go.” He pauses. “Now you speak the truth about your gay grandson, and somehow that same honesty makes you unfit to serve.”

Broekie lifts his cup. He hesitates . . . nods at Douwe, then drops the cup on the table.

The silence lingers.

Now Broekie asks, “Pete, tell us – how was your burger with Grace?”

“The burger was okay,” Pete says. “The beef was tender, but the bun was from the day before.”

He lifts his coffee cup in a toast to Broekie.

“You’re both from the day before,” Broekie quips.

We laugh. We all are, for sure.

“And . . . uh . . . Grace?” Broekie raises his eyebrows.

“She had the burger too.”

We look at Pete and wait.

“Having her in the car next to me was easier than the first time. But when we were in the restaurant, I kept glancing at the door to see who was coming in.” He shrugs. “It felt strange to be seen with Grace by people I might know. At the same time, I felt bad for having those feelings. The whole thing’s a mixed bag.” Then he corrects himself, “a mixed blessing, really.”

“We understand,” Broekie says.

“What Broekie really wants to know,” Douwe chimes in, “is the relationship progressing?”

Pete smiles and shifts in his chair. “We’ll see each other again.”

“Good for you, Pete,” Bill says, patting his shoulder.

“Thanks, guys,” Pete replies, taking the last slice of Gemberkoek from the plate.

We fall into a comfortable silence.

Broekie glances at Jan’s chair. He frowns. “Feels different without him,” he says.