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 honourable 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.

The children

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.

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.

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. 

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.

The council

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.

It visibly did the congregation members good to see their church council without the external glory of their Sunday attire. It is 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?

Lunch time

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.

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, and competed 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 cancelled; 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. 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 humour 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.

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.

This version has been edited for length. It was translated from the original Dutch by George van Popta in 2024. You can read more Arie en Katrien stories at vanpopta.ca.

Who was Arie Dof?

More than seventy years ago, Arie en Katrien in Canada (sketches of the Dutch immigrant life in Canada) were written by the late Rev. Anthony De Jager, under the pen name Arie Dof – for years a well-kept secret. This highly popular series was originally published in Calvinist Contact, Christian Courier’s predecessor.