The wind that blows our sails

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

We’re back in our corner of Grace Manor. We sit in our usual spots, with our coffee mugs on the table – our own mugs, since we’ve decided to be eco-responsible and bring them from home. Douwe has an orange mug that says: Pake: the man, the myth, the legend. The rest of us, except for Broekie, have plain old mugs. Broekie’s mug has a picture of Het Wapen van Broek op Langedijk. His birthplace coat of arms shows two men in a sailboat.

“How is that a coat of arms?” Douwe asks, pointing to Broekie’s mug. “Two guys in a sailboat? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Broekie chuckles. “They’re not just two guys. Look closer – see the sou’westers?”

“Fishermen?”

“Villagers,” Broekie says.

Douwe leans in. “Still doesn’t look very official.”

“It’s a mug, Douwe,” Broekie says. “And it’s about spirit – two men facing forward, into the wind. They’re on a journey.”

“Like Ulysses,” Bill adds.

Broekie lifts his mug. “Yes, about setting out, even when you’re old, even when people say you should stay home.”

Douwe glances back at the mug. “So what, this is . . .?”

“My hometown,” Broekie says. “Determined folk. Heading out, whatever the weather.”

Mary comes up behind Broekie, waits for him to finish, then raises the thermos. “Do you men want your coffee hot or cold?”

Broekie lifts the mug with a grin. “To striving and sailing. Fill me up.”

“Yeah,” says Jan Piersma, pointing at Douwe, “and give him pea soup in his orange mug.”

“More stuff for the legend,” says Pete.

We laugh.

We hold out our cups for Mary to pour that Douwe Egberts gold.

The heart, not the prayer

After our first sips Pete says he heard about a diner in North Carolina that gave customers who prayed out loud a 15 percent discount.

Bill nods, resting his forearms on the table. “Yeah, that’s true,” he says, “Mary’s Gourmet Diner made headlines for it a while back, but they stopped the practice.” He shrugs. “I think the idea was to encourage faith, which is fair.” He glances out the window, then back at Pete. “But Jesus seemed to care more about the heart behind the prayer – whether you’re alone or in a crowd, it’s not about putting on a show.”

Pete takes a sip of coffee. “You know, I was thinking about our Confession of Faith – remember last week? That question about prayer: ‘Do you pray?’” He leans back and exhales. “It’s been bothering me. Like a question to check off.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Broekie says. “We always answered that one so quickly – of course we pray, morning, meals, bedtime, church. But sometimes I wonder. . . was I really praying, or just reciting the usual lines?”

“It became a rhythm,” Bill says. “Predictable, familiar. Not wrong, but . . . safe. Prayer turned into something we performed rather than something we entered.”

Pete murmurs, “There were words, lots of words . . .”

“I think we learned prayer like we learned our catechism – questions to answer, strong on facts, light on mystery,” Broekie replies.

Bill looks down at the table. “We grew up with beautiful table prayers, and they meant something. But over time, I think we stopped asking if they still opened our hearts. They became . . . punctuation . . . a beginning, an ending. Not so much a conversation.”

Pete sighs. “Maybe it’s not that it changed. Maybe we long for something deeper.”

Douwe shifts and sets his mug down with some force. The table gives a small thud. He doesn’t say anything.

Now Jan leans forward, opening his mouth once, then again. His eyes search for the words. We wait – quietly, patiently – because we know when Jan wants to speak, it matters. He sits at the edge of his chair and raises his hand. “Yes, and we always pray at the table, asking God to bless our food and other things . . . the kingdom come . . . and . . . and hallowed name?”

We look at Pastor Bill. His smile deepens.

“Yes, Jan,” he says. “We say those words so often, that we forget to hear them.”

Broekie lifts his mug. “Thanks Jan, for reminding us,” he says. He reaches out to touch Jan’s arm.

A privilege to carry

Now Broekie continues. “Do you guys remember the prayers our fathers said at the table?” He puts down his mug and folds his hands. For a second, we aren’t sure if he’s about to pray right now. “My father,” he says, looking up toward the ceiling, “my father would pray: ‘O, Vader, Die al ‘t leven voedt, Kroon onze tafel met Uw zegen.’”

He lets the words roll off his tongue: God crowns the table with his blessing . . . His hand is gentle . . . He strengthens our soul . . . He guards us from excess.”

“Beautiful,” Bill says.

Broekie continues: “O, Heer, wij danken U van harte, voor nooddruft en voor overvloed.”

Lord, we thank You from our hearts, for hardship and for plenty.

We fall silent.

“We’ve lost something,” Pete says. “I love the sound of nooddruft en overvloed but I don’t remember what nooddruft means.”

“An old Dutch word for poverty,” Bill says. He takes a slow sip of coffee, then traces the rim of his mug. “I remember visiting a church member in Nigeria. Her son offered me half of his sugar bread – all they had for lunch. And still, they prayed similar words: for need and for abundance.”

He looks around the table. “It stayed with me.”

No one speaks.

Then he turns to Pete. “Go on.”

Pete nods. “These two verses talk about our relationship with our food, with our neighbour and with God. I love it.”

“It was part of the table prayer church culture,” Bill says.

“Mother Teresa,” Broekie says, “Mother Teresa was once asked what she says when she prays. She said, ‘I don’t say anything, I listen.’ Then they asked what God says to her, and she said, ‘He doesn’t say anything – he listens too.’”

Douwe tips his chair back. “How can you pray without words? Isn’t prayer about speaking to God?”

Then Pete says, “Be still, and know that I am God.”

Douwe shakes his head.

Bill leans forward. “From the table prayers of our fathers to the silent prayers of our hearts – maybe the culture isn’t gone, it just changed its voice.”

The doors of the dining hall swing open. It’s Trynie. Her eyes go straight to Jan. She waves. “Has he been a good boy?” We look at Jan. He grabs Douwe’s orange Pake coffee mug from the table and lifts it for Trynie to see. “Look what I found!” he shouts. His knees knock the table as he scrambles to his feet. He clamps the mug with both hands, and with outstretched arms, he and his beloved stroll toward the doorway.

Douwe sits back and laughs.

We all laugh.

Now Pete hums a familiar tune. We recognize it right away.

What a privilege to carry . . .

Broekie lifts his mug and looks at the coat of arms again. The two figures in the boat, their backs to the wind, pressing forward: striving, seeking . . . not yielding.

He nods slowly.

“We’re still on the journey,” he says. “And prayer . . . it’s not lost. It’s still the wind that blows our sails.”

We sit for a moment, holding our mugs – letting the words settle like the last sip of coffee.