Author: krinvan

This is a true story. The family gave me permission, but I still changed their names to protect anonymity. My reason for sharing this will become clear by the end.

Bill was a member of a church I served, and I had grown close to him and his blended family. He had a daughter from his first marriage named Anna. One weekend, Anna stayed at his home for a scheduled custody visit. Early in the morning, a daughter by his current marriage found her stepsister hanging in the backyard, already dead for hours.

Adding another layer of damage to this inconceivable tragedy was the story of Anna’s final days. Her mother belongs to the Jehovah’s Witnesses. While invading her daughter’s privacy, she discovered that Anna had texted her boyfriend some explicit images. Her mother’s discipline included dragging Anna in front of the male elders and shaming her in public. That shame was one of the triggers for her suicide.

The so-called memorial service at the Kingdom Hall was no source of comfort. Bill said it was cold and impersonal, and that one of the church’s members intentionally whispered within his earshot, “The sins of the father are visited upon the child.”

Let the brutality of that comment sink in for a moment.

Suffering a bottomless grief no parent can even describe, Bill came to my office with his current wife, wondering if we could offer an alternative service at our church. I readily agreed, as did the elders of our congregation.

Anna was a student at a local charter high school specializing in creative arts. A talented artist in her own right, she had an array of friends who created in multimedia. I suggested that we open our sanctuary as a space to celebrate her life, letting others say goodbye to her with their own artistic flairs.

And so it happened, an event I dubbed Annapalooza. Friends, teachers, and administrators from the school packed our pews. For over two hours, they took turns sharing poems, paintings, videos, and songs. Some simply stood and gave short eulogies. Each one illuminated an aspect of Anna’s short life, and the uniqueness of this special young woman rose up palpably in our midst.

I simply acted as a host, offering prayers, my love for the family, and a short benediction. We had no illusions. We knew this tragedy would cast a lifelong shadow, but as we cried and laughed and began to process our collective grief, we hoped that we were reframing, even re-envisioning that pain at its outset.

So…why am I sharing this?

Because the degrading of those who are different or make mistakes continues in too many religious quarters. Even when people say, “we love the sinner but hate the sin,” the message is loud and clear. Your behavior or lifestyle falls outside the boundary of what we deem acceptable. We have judged you.

Gay and trans people will readily attest to this attempt at shaming. So can those who suffer from various addictive diseases. But the lifestyle judgers now go far beyond those favorite targets. They are now including politics, race awareness, even a person’s reading habits.

And let’s be clear. This venom is not just endemic to conservative American Christianity. It has been a poison spewed by many world religions and political movements. It is written into our history books, and this demonization of “the other” seems to be on the rise.

Today, I no longer align myself with any particular faith. As I look back on my 32 years spent laboring within organized Christianity, I—like many of my friends—can clearly see its institutional limitations and errors.

But when it comes to events like Annapalooza, I can say this with absolute certainty. There are communities of faith that practice grace and love, that stand with those on the margin, that labor for unity and inclusion. I blessedly found such a group early in my own life. That experience led me to say this in my book, Invitation to The Overview: “Giving people the space to connect to their own spiritual meanings without the pressure of conformity is a priceless gift. This is the real meaning of sanctuary.”

We offered that sanctuary to Anna and her family, and in the years since, I have seen what it meant for them.

Grace, which I define as a powerful, often unmerited offering of love and service for the healing of our world, is still a compelling message of my former faith. When I recall Annapalooza—a memory I will take to my grave—I know the clear difference this grace can make.

A Baptist church near my home spent a fortune on its digital billboard. The messages that flash across it are a testimony to proof texting—ancient verses plucked out of context, meant to inspire modern commuters. I usually disregard them.

But the other day, in strobing yellow, came these words: Do you know why you were created?

Wow! How’s that for a writing prompt?

Beyond the first patriarchal query of the Westminster Catechism, I thought of ways people might answer this question today.

• Learn to love and be loved.
• Serve the common good.
• Raise a family, leaving your legacy for the next generation.
• Do your duty without complaining.
• Be mindful of the present before it slips away.
• Realize your full potential.

That last one is dear to my heart. I have always encouraged people to discover their deepest purpose. My doctoral work focused on spiritual gifts, a Christian concept that I demystified and extrapolated far beyond the confines of religion. These gifts are talents, abilities, and inclinations that spring from the nexus of our genetics and personal history. They take myriad forms, but there is one thing they have in common. When we exercise them, we feel a quickening, a satisfaction, the joy of living in the center of our being.

In golf, tennis, and baseball, we us the term “hitting the sweet spot.” It’s that place on the club, racket, or bat that connects most cleanly with the ball. In golf it creates a ping, in tennis a resounding thwop, and in baseball a sharp snap that often results in a homerun. When we are utilizing our gifts, we are hitting our sweet spot!

Do you know what I mean? Do you have a vocation or advocation that gives you keen satisfaction? Have you been blessed enough to both know and exclaim, “This is my calling!”

Here’s an unfortunate truth. In a world that trains us to gauge our value against other people’s accomplishments, we too often feel we are lacking. Please don’t let this happen to you. As Wayne Dyer famously said, “Don’t die with your music still in you!”

Reflect on this quote from Deepak Chopra: “Everyone has a purpose in life… a unique gift or special talent to give to others. When we blend this unique talent with service to others, we experience the ecstasy and exultation of our own spirit, which is the ultimate goal of all goals.”

If you’re still not convinced that “little old you” has a gift to offer, let me share an illustration from my years of ministry.

I had a stole I wore on special occasions, a brightly colored weaving given to me by a woman who labored amongst the poor in Guatemala. I will always remember her and the vitality she radiated. I called it our “community stole,” not just the accouterment of a priestly class, but something each of us would wear at various times in serving each other.

Occasionally, I would interrupt our worship services and call people forward. I would place that stole around their necks and thank them for exercising their gifts in our midst. People like:

• Jack, an older gentleman who came early, turned on the lights, brewed the coffee, made sure the bulletins were ready. He relished doing small things behind the scenes.
• Deirdre, a young woman whose love for children was charismatic. She cared for my son, Kristoffer, and others with a patience and grace that amazed us.
• John, not only a consummate vocalist, but a director of music who encouraged others to overcome their timidity and find their own voices.
• Mike, a master numbers cruncher, who consistently found ways in our budget to serve the community.
• Melissa, a fiery prophet, whose passion for social justice awakened the consciences of countless people in our midst.

I could go on, but I’m sure you hear me.

I write these words because I long for you to actualize your own gifts, sing your own song, find your sweet spot, and let your unique createdness shine a light in our world.

Namaste! God bless you! As-salamu alaykum! Mitakuye oyasin! May the Force be with you! Keep on truckin’!

It’s a painful reality, frequently denied. Spiritual leaders avoid it; self-help books would rather serve up pablum. It’s similar to how we treat the aged in our culture. We shunt in away, glossing it over with cultural addictions to youth, beauty, and prosperity. We present our best faces on social media, like rouge on the cheeks of a caretaker’s subject.

It is this. Some wounds never heal. Certain emotional and psychic events leave lesions that reopen in both our waking and sleeping hours. I know this from my personal life, but also through connections with those I counseled throughout my career. Here are a few examples.

The Death of a Loved One. How many of us have experienced the loss of someone who was inextricably bound into our lives? Their absence is like a phantom limb, our jangling nerves reaching out for an unconsummated union. It may be the loss of a friend, a spouse, another family member, or (God forbid) a child. It is especially acute when the death is sudden through rapid disease, an accident, or especially suicide. Elizabeth Berrien, founder of Soul Widows, says, “We never truly get over a loss, but we can move forward and evolve from it.”

Trauma. It pains me to remember people I’ve walked alongside who experienced trauma, many of them in childhood. The causes are many: verbal, physical or sexual abuse; neglect; bullying; racism or discrimination. These experiences cast lifelong shadows, a form of PTSD that undermines our lives with multiple symptoms. Even after regimens of counseling, we find we cannot erase that radioactive source completely. As novelist Laurell Kaye Hamilton says, “There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds.”

Betrayal.  Betrayal cuts us to the bone. Too often we cope by becoming emotionally reclusive, fooling ourselves that we are better off alone. These treacheries may convince us that we are not worthy of love and affirmation. We doubt the very core of our divine identities.

Some of us exacerbate our culture’s denial. When we encounter suffering people, we fan the pain through vacuous platitudes. Everything happens for a reason. Look on the positive side. Things will be better tomorrow. Be grateful for what you do have. During my decades of ministry, I trained caregivers to always avoid easy answers. Be a loving presence instead, even if it means total silence.

Is there hope, or is this post just an invitation to depression?

I have a guarded answer. Yes, there is hope, but I don’t believe we can base it on eradicating our pain. Rather, we find it as these wounds become sources of strength, leading us to engage the world in powerful new ways.

One of my heroes is Henri Nouwen, the Dutch priest, writer, professor, and theologian who died in 1996. His book The Wounded Healer became a touchstone for my life, and I often quoted his words to others,

Nobody escapes being wounded. We all are wounded people, whether physically, emotionally, mentally, or spiritually. The main question is not “How can we hide our wounds?” so we don’t have to be embarrassed, but “How can we put our woundedness in the service of others?” When our wounds cease to be a source of shame, and become a source of healing, we have become wounded healers.

Imbedded in Nouwen’s wisdom are three truths that help us forge new strength from these wounds that keep on wounding.

• Acceptance. There’s no shame in admitting that some pains won’t disappear. We are not inferior because we haven’t found spiritual disciplines to completely erase our grief, to “let go and let God” as the simplistic motto advises.
• Vulnerability. Learning to share our pain with others is healing. However, we need to be discerning in how we choose our confidants.  It is most beneficial with those who reciprocate by opening their own lives, allowing us to share our common humanity. We then need to respect this mutual transmission, emptying ourselves to be present for them the same way they are present for us. Avoiding self-absorption is critical.
• Service. Helping others who are hurting can lessen the sting of our injuries. It’s no wonder that those suffering from addiction hear the admonition to serve others as the Twelfth Step of their recovery process. Some people have founded entire movements from the wells of their personal trauma, leading them to missions with wide-ranging impact.

If you have read my words to this point, I have something I want to say to you. I love you, even with all your wounds, and even though we may never meet. I pray that you will turn your wounds into new sources of strength and inspiration. I hope that you will become a wounded healer in this world where so many people are crying out for compassion.

I arrived at the Las Vegas airport before dawn and decided to grab some food before my flight to San Antonio. A sign for breakfast burritos caught my eye. My order was steak, eggs, cheese, and green salsa, filled by a woman who wore a black COVID mask. She deftly browned the tortilla on a large skillet, ladled the ingredients inside, then folded it with a flourish, lifting it for me to see.

“Now that’s a perfect burrito,” she said with a laugh.

I looked at its round curvature and finely tucked edges.

“It is indeed,” I replied with a chuckle. “Fit for a promo video!”

She laughed again, bagged my prize, then handed it to me. I paid my bill and walked away, but her comment stuck with me.

Why? Let me explain.

Mindfulness of the here and now is beautiful, even necessary, and people use various techniques to increase their mental acuity. Meditation, yoga, walks in nature, even apps designed to interrupt our daily tasks and refocus our attention.

Whatever the method, may they help us pass the most enduring test—to find pleasure in the midst of the mundane. To become present as we mow our lawns, change our baby’s diapers, wait at stoplights, or load our dirty laundry. These are the moments that make up our lives.

The woman who served my breakfast may feel that she’s found her life’s calling, but I highly doubt it. Most likely she is performing a minimum wage job filled with a vastness of potential tedium.

And yet, the finely crafted burrito, brandished for me to see! A flash of humor and celebration! With gratitude, I let her enthusiasm enrich my own enjoyment of the moment.

As my plane lifted into a sky filled with clouds, my mind cast back to another person whose presence in his routine lifted the spirits of countless people. He was a toll booth operator on the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge, northernmost span across the San Francisco Bay. During a year of my seminary education, I used that passage to attend my internship. My return trips coincided with his evening shift.

I would pull up, offer my fare, and he would do two things EVERY TIME. First, he would make direct eye contact. Secondly, he would say, “You have a blessed evening.” Words like that sound hollow if offered superficially. From him they always seemed sincere. And their effect on me was like a tonic, turbocharging the rest of my drive across the bridge, a shining example of how small gestures offered in the crush of daily life can radiate positivity to others.

In one of my most popular posts from 2020, The Unspiritual Spirit, I quoted the late Thich Nhat Hanh about his fellow community members at the International Plum Village Community of Engaged Buddhism. These are words worth repeating.

“When we wash dishes…it is to live every minute of the washing. Wash each bowl…in such a way that joy, peace, and happiness are possible. Imagine you are giving a bath to the baby Buddha. It is a sacred act. I have arrived. I am home. Through these two phrases, you can experience a lot of joy and happiness.”

After my return to the Alamo City, I spent the next day planting spring flowers in my backyard. I always mix a blend of potting soils in a large container, running my fingers through the granular dirt, kneading it like a baker. This time, I lifted a handful, remembering the face of that woman at the Las Vegas airport.

I laughed and said, “Now that’s a perfect fistful of soil!”

It’s midnight in Marathon, Texas. I’m lying in the back of my truck, nestled in a sleeping bag, staring at the awe-inspiring night sky. The heavens in West Texas are always bright, but especially here in the Greater Big Bend International Dark Sky Reserve.

The mission of the Reserve is “to protect the area from the spread of artificial light pollution and promote the use of night-sky friendly lighting practices.” It’s a cooperation between multiple communities, parks, and organizations spanning the US and Mexico. At over 15,000 square miles, it is the world’s largest dark sky reserve.

I needed this break. Call it my genetic makeup, generational trauma, or radioactive fallout from our culture, but I too easily get wrapped around my axle, gripped by a sense of urgency that is certainly self-induced.

Vitamin N (Nature) is a remedy for what ails me. I receive healing doses at beaches, mountains, forests, prairies, even my own backyard. But right now, it pours into me through the slowly revolving night sky.

It’s like setting my inner clock to eternal rather than temporal time. As I do this, the gift of my life’s moments—this miniscule allotment—becomes more precious.

It’s a universal human experience to gaze in wonder at the cosmos, to have our breath taken away by constellations, nebulae, and those distant points of light that represent galaxies far grander than our own.

What is your reaction to these mind-bending moments?

Some of us simply revel in the beauty. Some of us feel a chill down our spines, recognizing the tininess of our lives, a visceral pang of existential humility.

My father retells a childhood memory. Growing up on a farm in Wisconsin, the summer nights we’re often insufferable indoors, so he would grab a blanket and go outside to sleep on the lawn. One night, the sky seemed more brilliant with stars than usual. He looked deeply into the pure expanse until he felt overwhelmed, almost scared. But then—even at 8 years old—a transcendent peace settled over him. He had the distinct feeling that whatever had created the universe was living within him as a benevolent presence.

The heavens have awed us since we first looked up from Oldulvai Gorge, and many great minds throughout the centuries have voiced their inspirations.

Somewhere around the 6th Century BCE, an Israelite wrote a beautiful song. Attributed to David, the shepherd who became a king, it shows how this wonder under the vault of night unites humanity through the ages. Tradition names it Psalm 8, and it contains these words:

When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers,
the moon and the stars that you have established;
what are humans that you are mindful of them,
mortals that you care for them?

Here are some other quotes, just a few out of thousands.

Dwell on the beauty of life. Watch the stars and see yourself running with them. – Marcus Aurelius

For that which is boundless in you abides in the mansion of the sky, whose door is the morning mist, and whose windows are the songs and the silences of night. – Kahlil Gibran.

The nitrogen in our DNA, the calcium in our teeth, the iron in our blood, the carbon in our apple pies were made in the interiors of collapsing stars. We are made of star stuff. – Carl Sagan

If people looked at the stars each night, they’d live a lot differently. When you look into infinity, you realize that there are more important things than what people do all day. – Bill Watterson

Those last words, from the creator of Calvin and Hobbes, are prophetic. Just think how a daily dose of stargazing could help us realign our priorities! It could awaken us to that state of mindfulness prescribed by so many spiritual teachers. It could help heal the tragic divisions that have always plagued humanity. Like astronauts who never see Earth the same after viewing it from orbit, we might develop that embracing vision of our shared destiny we so desperately need. I wrote about this in my book Invitation to The Overview.

But right now in Marathon, Texas, under this night sky that extends around the planet, I simply sigh and settle into that middle ground between the ever-expanding vastness above me and the uncharted atomic worlds within my own body.

I set myself to eternal, not just temporal, time.

Selah!

At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. – Matthew 27:51

In a scene from Taylor Sheridan’s new series Tulsa King, Dwight Manfredi (played by Sylvester Stallone) visits The Center of the Universe. It’s a nondescript spot on a Tulsa city street that boasts an acoustic anomaly. When you stand over it and speak, your words echo back, and those nearby can’t hear you. Wrapped in that isolative silence, Manfredi admits a sobering fact about his life that he has never voiced in the past.

I’ve been to that spot, following a tip from Atlas Obscura, and I thought of it on a recent trip to Mexico City. We toured the Templo Mayor, ruins of the Aztec’s greatest pyramid. They considered it the axis mundi, the center of their universe. They aligned it with the four cardinal directions, believing that it intersected with levels of both heaven and the underworld.

We then visited the Basilica de Santa Maria de Guadalupe, the axis mundi for Guadalupanos who revere Mexico’s patron saint. Twenty million pilgrims a year journey to this vast compound, passing by the reputed tunic of Juan Diego imprinted with the iconic image of La Virgen.

It’s such a strong desire in human history, our need to stand in places we feel are holier and closer to the Divine. History is replete with examples. Some are natural like Mt. Fuji for Shintoists, Mt. Kunlun for Taoists, the Teide Volcano for Canarian aborigines, or the Black Hills for the Sioux. Some are human made like the Mormon Tabernacle, Mecca for Muslims, the Christian cross atop Mt. Calvary, and the Golden Temple for Sikhs. Some are metaphorical like maypoles, totem poles, or mandalas.

On that aforementioned trip to Mexico City, I marveled at the spell still cast upon Latin America by the Roman Catholic church. It was evident not only on the sprawling grounds of the Basilica—akin to a religious theme park—but in the abundance of the city’s cathedrals, their spires dominating every horizon. With all that money and effort spent, and with all that power invested in a priestly class, I thought of a metaphor in Christian scripture that is still revolutionary.

We find it in each of the synoptic Gospels, including Matthew 27:50-51. “Then Jesus cried again with a loud voice and breathed his last.  At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. The earth shook, and the rocks were split.”

That curtain, of course, was in the temple of Jerusalem, called the Second Temple because it was rebuilt after Babylon destroyed the original in 586 BCE. It contained the Holy of Holies where the Ark of the Covenant resided, a spot where the Israelites believed the presence of God hovered. It was their axis mundi, and a curtain separated that space from “sinful people.” Only the High Priest could enter the sanctum on Yom Kippur to sprinkle blood as an atonement for Israel’s transgressions.

Think of the symbolic power of that curtain being torn! No longer could the Presence of “God” be confined to one place, one time, or one’s people religious practices! No longer do we need priestly classes to intercede for us, acting as conduits to this mystery in which all of us live and breathe and have our being! If Jesus’s only victory at the time of his crucifixion was to release the strictures of any religion that claims exclusivity or requires obligatory rituals, that would have been enough!

I understand the desire to visit sacred places. I have found breathtaking beauty in many such sites during my world travels. But there is much to be said for a Hindu concept. They believe that human beings themselves are the conduits, the pillars, between earth and heaven. That our chakras—nodes of spiritual energy arising in each of us—give equal access to the Transcendent at any given moment. This is another metaphor for the tearing of the temple curtain. It means we can access this grace, this love, this higher and fuller reality while:

• Standing on a mountaintop or in an urban alleyway.
• Viewing stained glass windows or peering through the windshields of our cars.
• Kneeling in a sacred grotto or next to the bed of a loved one.
• Pacing on the rooftop of a skyscraper or within the confines of a prison cell.
• Lying in our cradles or on our deathbeds.

Equal access. Right now. Unshackled from the control of any institution or religion!

Alas. History has shown that most revolutionary concepts are difficult to fully apprehend or internalize. Perhaps we are afraid of the freedom. Perhaps this is why we too often trade comfort for adventure, adherence for rebellion, conformity for authenticity. Maybe this is why we outsource our spiritual authority to others rather than claiming the power within us.

When it comes to the tearing of the curtain, as Jesus so often said, “Let those who have ears hear.”

Selah.

At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. – Matthew 27:51

In a scene from Taylor Sheridan’s new series Tulsa King, Dwight Manfredi (played by Sylvester Stallone) visits The Center of the Universe. It’s a nondescript spot on a Tulsa city street that boasts an acoustic anomaly. When you stand over it and speak, your words echo back, and those nearby can’t hear you. Wrapped in that isolative silence, Manfredi admits a sobering fact about his life that he has never voiced in the past.

I’ve been to that spot, following a tip from Atlas Obscura, and I thought of it on a recent trip to Mexico City. We toured the Templo Mayor, ruins of the Aztec’s greatest pyramid. They considered it the axis mundi, the center of their universe. They aligned it with the four cardinal directions, believing that it intersected with levels of both heaven and the underworld.

We then visited the Basilica de Santa Maria de Guadalupe, the axis mundi for Guadalupanos who revere Mexico’s patron saint. Twenty million pilgrims a year journey to this vast compound, passing by the reputed tunic of Juan Diego imprinted with the iconic image of La Virgen.

It’s such a strong desire in human history, our need to stand in places we feel are holier and closer to the Divine. History is replete with examples. Some are natural like Mt. Fuji for Shintoists, Mt. Kunlun for Taoists, the Teide Volcano for Canarian aborigines, or the Black Hills for the Sioux. Some are human made like the Mormon Tabernacle, Mecca for Muslims, the Christian cross atop Mt. Calvary, and the Golden Temple for Sikhs. Some are metaphorical like maypoles, totem poles, or mandalas.

On that aforementioned trip to Mexico City, I marveled at the spell still cast upon Latin America by the Roman Catholic church. It was evident not only on the sprawling grounds of the Basilica—akin to a religious theme park—but in the abundance of the city’s cathedrals, their spires dominating every horizon. With all that money and effort spent, and with all that power invested in a priestly class, I thought of a metaphor in Christian scripture that is still revolutionary.

We find it in each of the synoptic Gospels, including Matthew 27:50-51. “Then Jesus cried again with a loud voice and breathed his last.  At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. The earth shook, and the rocks were split.”

That curtain, of course, was in the temple of Jerusalem, called the Second Temple because it was rebuilt after Babylon destroyed the original in 586 BCE. It contained the Holy of Holies where the Ark of the Covenant resided, a spot where the Israelites believed the presence of God hovered. It was their axis mundi, and a curtain separated that space from “sinful people.” Only the High Priest could enter the sanctum on Yom Kippur to sprinkle blood as an atonement for Israel’s transgressions.

Think of the symbolic power of that curtain being torn! No longer could the Presence of “God” be confined to one place, one time, or one’s people religious practices! No longer do we need priestly classes to intercede for us, acting as conduits to this mystery in which all of us live and breathe and have our being! If Jesus’s only victory at the time of his crucifixion was to release the strictures of any religion that claims exclusivity or requires obligatory rituals, that would have been enough!

I understand the desire to visit sacred places. I have found breathtaking beauty in many such sites during my world travels. But there is much to be said for a Hindu concept. They believe that human beings themselves are the conduits, the pillars, between earth and heaven. That our chakras—nodes of spiritual energy arising in each of us—give equal access to the Transcendent at any given moment. This is another metaphor for the tearing of the temple curtain. It means we can access this grace, this love, this higher and fuller reality while:

• Standing on a mountaintop or in an urban alleyway.
• Viewing stained glass windows or peering through the windshields of our cars.
• Kneeling in a sacred grotto or next to the bed of a loved one.
• Pacing on the rooftop of a skyscraper or within the confines of a prison cell.
• Lying in our cradles or on our deathbeds.

Equal access. Right now. Unshackled from the control of any institution or religion!

Alas. History has shown that most revolutionary concepts are difficult to fully apprehend or internalize. Perhaps we are afraid of the freedom. Perhaps this is why we too often trade comfort for adventure, adherence for rebellion, conformity for authenticity. Maybe this is why we outsource our spiritual authority to others rather than claiming the power within us.

When it comes to the tearing of the curtain, as Jesus so often said, “Let those who have ears hear.”

Selah.

The year was 1944. Many people in Amsterdam and Rotterdam were starving for lack of food under the Nazi occupation. There were only so many cats and dogs that could be eaten. But in the province of Friesland, the rural area where I lived with my family, we were well fed. After all, we were farmers.

We very much wanted to share our provisions with hungry people in the major cities, but the Germans had decreed otherwise. All the food produced on farms, with the exception of what was needed for personal use, was conscripted and sent to Germany to support their war effort. The Germans were efficient in their administration. Every Dutch farm animal was registered, and the assigned number was then shipped to Germany. Enforcement was brutal.

And that is why Mr. Hoekstra paid us a visit in 1944. His job was to register all the newborn animals. That spring, our three sows had delivered remarkable litters—forty-five piglets in total.

I still remember the beautiful, sunny day when Mr. Hoekstra came to our home. It was my older sister who first saw him in the distance, pedaling his old bicycle. She quickly told my dad who sent my two older brothers into the barn.

I need to digress for a moment to let the reader know that in Holland, the house and the barn were all connected under one roof. The front of the building was for people, the back part for the farm animals.

By this time, Mr. Hoekstra had arrived. He gently leaned his bicycle against the house and used the door knocker to announce his presence. It was my father who answered. 

“Hello, Mr. Hoekstra, what brings you here?” said my dad with feigned surprise.

“Hello, Mr. Boonstra, you know that I’ve come to do the annual registration of all your livestock.”

“Yes,” said my dad, “but before you get busy, why not come in for a cup of coffee? My wife has just baked some delicious butter cake.”

“Sure,” replied Mr. Hoekstra. “I’d be honored.”

And so, Mr. Hoekstra came inside for coffee and baked butter cake. He and my dad had known each other since grade school, so they exchanged pleasantries. Meanwhile, there were awful squeals coming from the barn. Mr. Hoekstra pretended not to hear, but there was a big smile on his face, confirming his philosophy that what he didn’t see wouldn’t hurt him.

After a second cup of coffee and another piece of butter cake, it was time to complete the registration. Mr. Hoekstra thanked my mother profusely, and then he and my dad proceeded to the barn.

“You know,” my dad said, “it’s really discouraging how poorly our three sows did this spring. One of the them even ate a number of her litter.”

Mr. Hoekstra didn’t say anything. He carefully counted the piglets and meticulously marked the number in his book—three sows, twenty-one piglets.  He continued registering the other farm animals, then shook hands with my dad and pedaled away on his dilapidated bike. 

Once the coast was clear, my brothers finished their assigned task. It took some time to catch the additional twenty-four piglets and reunite them with their proper moms. When my brothers finished, it was their turn to go inside and enjoy some butter cake.

Some of our citizens starving in major cities eventually found their way to Friesland for relief, so I often wondered. Could it be that a few people are alive today because of Mr. Hoekstra’s visits across our region in 1944?

Tony Boonstra is a Presbyterian minister who is a lifelong learner. Born in the Netherlands, his family experienced the oppression of the German occupation. Immigrating to Canada, the family spent its first two years working as migrants in the sugar beet fields of southern Alberta. The family then moved to Northern British Columbia where Tony spent his teen years working on the family dairy farm. Graduating from Calvin University in Michigan, Tony taught in elementary schools for eight years. He then enrolled at McGill University where he received his theological degree and was ordained in the Presbyterian Church in Canada. He has served congregations in three provinces, and for the last 15 years has specialized in transitional ministry. Tony and his wife Bonnie have been married over 50 years, and raised a large family which included a number of children they adopted. Tony enjoys gardening, reading, writing, and guest preaching in churches of various denominations near his home in Ottawa.

I wrote this poem for inclusion in the collaborative art book entitled Box of Darkness, downloadable here. On New Year’s Eve 2022, with time’s passage so palpable, I share this revised version as a reminder of our mortality.

Glimpses

I glimpsed him briefly
at the end of an alley,
his face illumined in the sudden flash
of a cigarette lighter.
He seemed to be looking my way
before he turned and vanished.

I saw him hanging his head
from the highest gondola of a Ferris wheel,
its neon flickering in the twilight.
He looked directly at me,
smiling and mouthing a message
that was lost in the shrieks of children.

I saw him deep within the smoldering confines
of my bathroom mirror,
his shape flickering, shifting,
his eyes like those of a panther at night,
intent, prowling true to its nature.

I saw his visage flicker
across an infant in her stroller.
Or was it a cloud,
or the shadow of wings
from gulls crying and wheeling overhead?

I do know this.
Someday we will stand before each other:
no distance, no buffers, no distractions.
No objections.
And in that bright and final light
I will laugh in his face.

A link to my latest short story published on Story Sanctum. A look at one man’s grief and sense of purpose among the homeless.