My mother-in-law
Twelve years ago when my mother-in-law was moving from the family home in Needham to her condo on the beach in Plymouth, she gave me some things to sell on eBay. One item was a book she received as a child, Pinocchio by Carlo Lorenzini. The book itself was only worth a few dollars, but what I found inside proved to be more valuable and dear to me. It was a picture of her taken in the Netherlands, possibly 12 or 13 years old. I have always found that if I am having difficulties with anyone is to consider them as a small child. Having six children of our own, I have found this easy to do. I have more patience and understanding for those who are young and have kept her photo close as a reminder.
For fear that my nose will start growing before you, I am not going to lie and tell you that we had the best relationship with Erik’s mother. Psychologist say that birth order has a great deal of effect on our lives and describe what is called Middle Child Syndrome. Older children, usually over achievers get rewarded, younger children get away with more and are loved. Which leaves those in the middle with nothing except trouble finding their niche in the family. Fortunately the syndrome is not fatal, just difficult.
But I would also not be truthful if I told you that we had the worst relationship. For although we did not agree on earthly matters, we saw eye to eye with her on heavenly ones. And although the claim is that we did not talk to her often, when we did it was about things that truly mattered. She would always say to me, “I can always talk to Erik about God.”
In early April she had moved into the assisted living facility at Emeritus and Erik and I were having dinner with her in the lounge. The residents in her wing had been coming up to her, introducing themselves and welcoming her to her new home. It was at a time when she was having difficulty breathing, her oxygen level had not been regulated, and each word she spoke was thought out carefully in a great effort to speak. She was in her early 80s and a gentleman came up to our table, healthy but definitely in his 90s, and asked if she was enjoying her meal. At the moment all she could do was take a deep breath and smile. Erik seeing her struggle continued the conversation for her and asked him how he liked living at Emeritus. You could tell he gave his standard answered, straightened his back and proudly said, “I survived boot camp and World War II, so I certainly can survive it here.” Erik responded by saying, “She saw the war from a different side, in occupied Holland”. The old man paused and looked down upon her with great pity in his eyes then simply said, “Now that couldn’t have been good”. For a brief moment I did not see an old man with a cane or a sick woman in a wheelchair, but a young handsome soldier and same little girl in the picture.
She was only 9 years old on May 10, 1940 when German paratroopers dropped in and around the Hague to capture the airfields and city. Five days later, her Queen gone exiled to Britain, the Dutch surrendered, the beginning of a four and a half year occupation. She would recall how she could see the bombs falling in the distance from her window, her gaze fixed upon a distant skyline, her finger tracing each bomb as they fell one by one. She spoke about her father who traded goods and remembered wagons pulling up to their home with barrels bound for German soldiers, he would open each lid and take a cup off the top of each one, sugar, coffee, flour. Before the war he dealt primarily in coal, but when that ran out they had to chop down the trees along the canals to keep warm which was strictly forbidden. One day her father had been picked up by the SS, “that was it”, she said, “we thought we would never see him again”, but miraculously was dropped off at the house a week later. He never spoke about what had happened. For 26 years I have been trying to throw away expired food from her refrigerator and cupboards. “It’s still good”, she would say. I would reluctantly put it back remembering there was a time in her life that moldy bread and cheese was a gift, “look, just cut it off, it’s fine”. Ok I would say, just don’t feed it to the children.
It was during this time as a small child that she made a commitment to Jesus. She and her husband Koen had brought their 5 children up in the Presbyterian church, but when they started asking questions and did not receive any answers, they left. When I came into the family they were members of a Spiritual Temple in Boston, an eclectic mix of main stream religions combined with the occult. I later termed it kaleidoscope faith, it looked pretty, but with every turn it changed. But they were searching for the truth. Days before his own death in 1986, Erik’s father in a delirious state told Erik that he heard of a native american tribe that had found the happing hunting grounds. He wanted Erik to find out where they were going so he could follow too. It was four years later in my own search for the truth and the meaning of what Jesus said to Nicodemus that ye must be born again that we found the Community Bible Chapel in Hopedale and Babs recommitted her life to the Lord. It was during that time, attending bible studies and worship services, that we were the closest to her.
But it was the Thursday before her death that will always be my most precious time with her , a day I will never forget. Ingrid, the nurse of the family, had been caring for her 24/7 in the hospital and I was going to relieve her for the day. She had been sleeping for the 2 days prior but Ingrid called on my way there and said she had woken that morning the hope being she was still alert when I arrived. She was in a deep sleep, but when I touched her and said Oma she opened her eyes and saw that it was me and said...Where is God...Why haven't I died...He must not love me...hold me. So I did what I would do for any child that was afraid and crawled into the bed with her. I figured we must have looked pretty pathetic to anyone passing by her room. Two wretched souls stuck in the miry clay of life. For an hour and half we talked, and prayed, and laughed, and cried. She even got to hear my bad rendition of Jesus loves me this I know. It was there in her arms I truly knew what it meant to love and be loved, forgive and be forgiven, redeem and be redeemed.
As she slipped back into a state of unconsciousness she was repeating...I do believe in God, I do believe in God. And as the battle for her mind had ended...He does love me, He does love me. During brief moments when she awoke in the afternoon, assured of her salvation, she never questioned again where was God. Just, where’s Erik. He’s home he’s not well. It warmed my heart when Ingrid said later that night she awoke and asked....where’s Renee.
When I spoke to cousin Nick in Vancouver the Sunday morning she passed away peacefully in time for church in Heaven, he said he approved of a delayed memorial service for the entire family to arrive, since services are for the living not the dead. They are fine. So to my dear husband, Babe, I know at times you felt she didn’t like you, but many times these past few months she told me how she liked the way we cared and loved and treated each other....you know, she said, you’re so together. She understood what it meant that a man shall leave his father and mother and two shall become as one. Ian, she was the first to recognize your gift of music. She would sit with you at her grand piano and noticed how you gently played a song, you were only two. You made her day when she found out you learned how to sew on your own. Jesse, she remembered how you would always talk about God when you were little. Your favorite line was “Jesus is MY Lord. Cheyenne, when you born we noticed how much you resembled her, it was dear to her that you were ballroom dancing like her brother Tom and his wife. Elias, although she didn’t recognize you since you have grown to be a young man, she recognized your quiet, gentle spirit and good heart. Kristian, I know you don’t appreciate the color of your hair, but I found a beautiful red lock that Opa cherished of hers, lovingly kept in an empty chocolate box. And the joy she had when looked upon your face and always said...you look just like your father. Kelani, she regretted missing out on your little life, but I know she will spend an eternity making it up to you.
For she is in a place where there is no more war, or death, or mourning, or crying, or pain for the old order of things has passed away. He who is seated on the throne says I am making everything new. Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true.
Read at her Memorial Service at Second Church of Christ in Plymouth MA, June 29, 2013
Bartha Cornelius Nickolaas
