Between two sips of coffee

In case you missed them, here are Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3 in the Stories from Grace Manor series.

We’re in our corner.

There’s a thermos of Douwe Egberts coffee on the table. Today Pete is the server. Instead of Gemberkoek, we have apple pie, which Broekie pulled out of a bag and set beside the thermos. So Broekie brought the pie, though we know Corrie baked it. He hands a plate to each of us and slices the pie into six pieces. We’re all here except for Jan Piersma. He turned 80 this month and has to take an exam to renew his driver’s license. His eyesight is fine, but his memory is fading.  

His slice of pie waits for him.

Once Pete finishes serving coffee, he sits down. He’s quiet for a while, but as our small talk dies down, he says, “I called Grace last night.” He bites his lower lip and reaches for his coffee. After taking a sip, he continues, “We’re going for a drive on Saturday. Maybe grab a burger somewhere.” 

He smiles. 

Douwe taps Pete on the shoulder. “Hey man, that’s great.”

“Good for you,” Bill says with a nod.

“Don’t forget to bring her some flowers,” Broekie advises. We all nod – yes, flowers are a must.

“Tulips,” Douwe suggests. “A Calvinist always brings tulips.”

“And tell Grace she’s irresistible,” adds Broekie, “and . . . only five tulips, very Calvinist.”

“She will totally love it,” I add. We all laugh at that.

Pete chuckles, too.

“Grace is a lovely lady, Pete,” Bill says, facing him now. “I’m happy for you,” he adds, touching Pete lightly on the elbow. Pete nods, eyes fixed on the wall behind us. It’s been hard for him to move on after losing his wife. 

We’re silent for a while, not uncomfortable, just reflective.

“Do any of you remember that Young Calvinist hymn we used to sing at Youth Rallies?” Broekie asks, looking around. “It was more a pledge of solidarity than a hymn,” he adds. “‘Calvinists are we. . .’” he recites,  looking at the ceiling as if trying to recall more.

Pete picks up the thought, “‘Let our colours be . . . over land and sea . . . something unfurled.’”

We remember more fragments: something about “a heritage to show the world.”

We mull over that line for a moment. Back then, it had some confidence to it – a certainty that if we stood apart, the world would take notice. 

Pete runs a finger along the rim of his cup. “I used to think . . . if people saw the way we lived, or heard the way we talked, is more like it, it’d be enough.” 

No one speaks right away.

Teenage Calvinists

Bill leans back in his chair. “There was more,” he says. “‘Soon we must repel craft, and force of hell . . . but in Christ we shall defend the truth.’” He speaks slowly, letting the words settle. “It’s stirring, triumphant.”

There’s a trace of thought in his eyes now, a hesitation. “It’s not really ours to raise a banner,” he says at last, almost to himself. “Aren’t we called to turn our swords into plowshares?”

He doesn’t add more. Just sets his hands on the table and looks at each of us, as if to ask what we’ve made of it all.

“Our church word clouds have changed over the years,” Broekie says. “Today it’s more about food banks, community barbecues and a friendly welcome as a way to meet our neighbour.” 

He looks down at his cup, then at Bill. “Between two sips of coffee you’ve got enough to cover three sermons.” 

We chuckle and fall silent for a moment.

Then Broekie says, “I left Holland as a Dutch boy, became a Calvinist teenager, and then a Canadian adult. Today, there’s still a bit of each left in me.”

“Yeah, you’re full of cheese, theology and beaver poop,” Douwe shouts.

We burst into laughter.

Douwe didn’t actually say, “beaver poop.” He’s a bit rough in his language. He talked to his Frisian horses, a lot.

We reminisce about our teenage years. “It was hard,” Broekie continues. “At Young People’s, we had this sense of safety. We’d have open houses for the youth on Sunday nights at one of our family homes. We played sjoelen [shuffleboard], while Elvis Presley made his first appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show. Our Young People’s was our little tribe, but for how long?” He looks around, and we nod in agreement. “But yeah . . .”

“Beautiful!” Bill exclaims, almost shouting. He stands up and continues, “Maybe we never fully escape our first 12 years.” He reaches for the thermos, unscrews the lid, peeks inside, and then glances at Pete. “I’ll get more,” he says, heading toward the kitchen.

It’s great having  Bill in our group. While he’s in the kitchen, Pete muses aloud about what it means to never escape those early years. “We were just a little older when we left Holland,” he says.

“Yes,” Broekie continues, “I smoked my first cigarette on a Sunday after church. My dad handed it to me. ‘Smoking makes you a man’s man,’ he said. I took one puff and nearly hit the floor.”

“I was still wearing knickerbockers,” Douwe says, crossing and uncrossing his legs.

“Poop-catchers!” Broekie shouts.

We laugh and wait for Douwe’s comeback, but Broekie is quicker this time. “You must’ve been heavily loaded by the end of the day,” he says with a straight face.

Douwe chuckles. “Better heavily loaded than found too light,” he retorts, just loud enough for Bill to hear as he returns with a fresh thermos of coffee.

“Calvinists, are we?” Bill quips.

For a few moments we are silent.

Then Broekie says, “Well yes and no.” He leans back in his chair, staring at his coffee for a second. “We . . . we grew up knowing the law,“ he says slowly, “heard it every Sunday.”

He glances around the table. “But grace . . . that took me a long time. Still learning it, really.”

He smiles and shrugs. “Calvinism is in our bones, our habits. But now I think of myself as . . . just a Christian, a follower of Jesus.” He leans back a little farther and lets the words settle. Then he adds, almost to himself, “Sometimes I wonder which brother I am in that Prodigal Son story.” 

He glances up at us. “The one who knew he needed grace, or the one who thought he’d earned it.” 

Now Pete lifts his cup, like a silent toast. “Amen,” he says, almost under his breath.

The rest of us nod, feeling the weight – and the goodness – of it.

He takes a long sip of coffee, then raises his eyes to meet ours, “When Lisa died, I didn’t know how to keep going.” He looks into his cup, then back at us. His smile is slow, unsure. “Now . . . I think I’m starting to move forward again.”

After a short silence, Douwe reaches across the table, tapping Pete’s elbow. 

We have another cup of coffee, talking and laughing as we go. We briefly return to the topic of age and emigration. Then the dining room door opens and Trynie shuffles in, shaking her head. She reaches Bill’s chair, gripping its back for support. “He didn’t make it,” she says. “Jan didn’t get his license.” She stares at the floor. “He’s staying home this morning.” She backs away, and as she turns, Bill joins her, walking out together.

Jan’s slice of apple pie sits untouched on the table. Broekie picks up his empty coffee cup and says, “Anyone for another piece?” 

He shakes his head, pulls the No Frills bag from his pocket, and wraps the slice of pie in plastic before sliding it inside his coat.

The story continues. . . stay tuned for part 5 of Allan Romkema’s Stories from Grace Manor series .