My Opa

Not long before leaving for Canada, I went to say goodbye to my Opa and Oma. After some pleasant chitchat, Oma staying in her chair, Opa went to place an open Psalter Hymnal on the old pedal organ. Getting the message, I laughed, went to the organ, and began to play what he had put up: Psalm 134. The instrument sounded asthmatic. Not having been played often, it was probably clogged with dust. Standing behind me, Opa stretched out his hands over me, and with a voice still strong he began to sing. Slowly, in whole notes, the song drifted through the darkened room, returning to me muted from within the pleats of the heavily curtained windows.

Dat’s Heeren zegen op U daal

Zijn gunst uit Sion U bestraal

Hij schiep’t heelal zijn naam ter eer

Looft, looft dan all der Heeren Heer.

Translated from the Dutch, this reads close to “May the Lord’s blessing descend on you and Zion’s favor cover you. He created all there is to honor his name. Praise, praise the Lord of Lords.”

The blessing—its melody the same as “Praise God, From Whom All Blessings Flow”—made my eyes fill with tears. Because of its familiarity, I could finish playing it without needing the music—just a sleeve of my jacket. On the way out, with a “Don’t tell Oma,” Opa put a gold 10-guilder coin in my hand, followed by Oma, who with a “Don’t tell Opa” gave me another one! Then, with a kiss and a final goodbye wave, I left.

One time, when biking home from the bank where I worked as a teller, I reflected on how well I had acclimatized to my new life in Canada in just three years. When home, I put my bike away and sat down by the kitchen table where Mom brought me a cup of tea. Dad looked up from his newspaper and, just like that, said, ”Opa is dead.”

I put my cup down and didn’t know what to say. “Dead?” He nodded.

I got up and went outside. My thoughts traveled back to Alphen, the Hofzichtstraat home with stained-glass windows, and my last visit there. Such good, good people! And deeply within, my soul wept. Then, with a shock, I felt sick. In those three years I had never written to Opa—not a letter, not a card, not a birthday wish, nothing. Then the tears came, and I cried suddenly, my loud, anguished wails getting lost in the open field next to me. Why? Why had I never written to him? I was his first grandchild, named after him, blessed by him. How could I not have?

I’m an Opa myself now, yet the question remains unanswered. The Lord’s Prayer does not appear to have made provision for forgiving oneself. How can I ever forgive myself and forget the shame I put on myself?

Then, despaired and dispirited, my thoughts strayed (or were directed?) to a text that is very personal to me and hangs framed in our living room: Eugene Peterson’s take on Ephesians 3:20:

“God can do anything, you know —far more than you could ever imagine or guess or request in your wildest dreams! He does it not by pushing us around but by working within us, his Spirit deeply and gently within us” (The Message).

And miraculously, the balm of Paul’s words to the Ephesians brought release of my anguish—and peace.