His New Beginning

Anton van der Jagt

my beloved Opa

died on

March 12th 2016

Almost seven years to the day since Oma died.  

His obituary was very nice, words to sum up a life.  The funeral service was beautiful, the most beautiful I have witnessed

.  

It is hard to say goodbye but much, much easier to say goodbye when the staying brings so much pain and difficulty while the going so full of promise and hope and healing.  

When I got home from the funeral, I felt the sudden urge to buy orange flowers (which I did) in honor of him.  And I scrounged some old photos I borrowed in order to make copies.  Can I celebrate and share this man and his enormously large life with you?

After the funeral and while eating lunch, many people said many beautiful things in his memory.  

When I first heard about Opa passing away I began writing- writing is therapeutic for me.  I didn't know if I would be able to stand before a group of people and read it in my grief but, surprisingly, I was able to do it without blubbering at all.  

This is what I said:

The day that Opa died was the day that my daughter Corynn’s chicken died.  It was devastating to her that her beloved Pinecone would die and she sat on the couch, all weepy and forlorn about her chicken. I thought she was ridiculous that she would mourn so profoundly the loss of a chicken as I inwardly mourned the loss of my own dear Opa.

I admit I was a bit unsympathetic as I rebuked her for caring more about a silly farm animal than her own great-grandfather.  And then she said something that was pretty revelatory.  She said “Mama.  I only knew Opa as the man who said I looked like a ‘nice-looking girl’.”

Wow.  A sucker punch to my soul.

It’s true- as Alzheimers progressed and his memories became more and more elusive, he himself grew more and more clever at disguising his forgetfulness with generic terms like “M’lady” and “You’re a smart cookie” and “You look like a nice boy...”  With each passing season and each subsequent visit, Opa had lost a bit of himself, a bit of his greatness, until he was merely a shadow of who he once was.

Long life is a great gift from God…but the tragedy of time is that those promised generations that you have helped create, those branches and shoots of children and grandchildren and great grandchildren cannot know the vibrant and glorious and capable person behind the dull eyes and the tired bones and the weak muscles.  They cannot see the passions, the playfulness, the principles, the experiences, even the little idiosyncrasies that drive a person to be singularly their own.

I cannot blame Corynn for not cherishing Opa…Corynn had no opportunity.  Even I, as his tomboy granddaughter, didn’t often take the time as a young girl (when I did have the opportunity) to cherish who he was.  And when I grew wise enough to realize I wanted to know him, I had grown into a woman who had a husband and a household and a gaggle of children to care for and exponentially less opportunity to take the time to do so.

The man who was confined by lack of strength and fog of memory in the nursing home, that shadow of a man, is not the man who Opa was and I choose not to remember him that way.

For my childrens’ sake, and my own, let me tell you who I knew Opa to be.

I know that he was adventurous and brave.  Not the kind of pseudo-adventure and bravery we find so often today, seeking opportunities out like skydiving or mountain climbing but the kind of adventure that doesn’t need being sought after but find you anyway.  The kind of adventure that forces you to hide inside a church organ, escaping death in order to continue the work of helping those persecuted Jews flee to safety during World War II.  The kind that causes you to leave your family, your country, your home and everything familiar to you in order to make a better life for your family.  The kind of adventures that beget bravery.

I know he loved fiercely.  He adored his ‘Bep’ and remained faithful and steadfast to her every day of their 62 years together and beyond.  He brought her flowers every single week and would steal kisses as Oma scolded.  

I know he loved truth and fought for it, debated it, sought it, reflected it.  He was intensely proud of his children.

He sipped tea with a handled cup atop a porcelain saucer and stirred with a dainty spoon.  He walked miles and miles...on all sorts of days, in all sorts of weather.  “Fresh air is good for you!”  His stride was hard to match; his long legs were quick and steady and strong.

He sat with knees crossed like a Dutch gentleman, not at all like the other, American men I knew.  His smile lit up his whole face and his laughter filled up a room.  He spoke with that wonderfully foreign Dutch brogue and the beauty of those sounds is one I will miss tremendously.

He would debate and discuss and ask you questions and then wait…wait…wait for you to have an answer (that he could then refute).  He made you think things through, even when doing so made you squirm.

He was a storyteller and could spin a tale as if it was nothing at all.  I loved reading the Escape and The Secret Mission and took such pride in knowing that it was MY grandfather who had written them...real books!   He left a piece of himself in the books that he has written and the stories he has told.

His life was an adventure story of epic proportions.  Son of shoestore owner defies evil dictator, works in an underground movement risking life and limb for the sake of humanity, leaves home and nation for a land of freedom and plenty for his children, works tirelessly with a team to create a lens for the Hubble telescope- a scientific breakthrough for the whole world to glance higher up and further in to God’s glorious masterpiece.

As C.S.Lewis once said… “If you read history you will find that the Christians who did most for the present world were precisely those who thought most of the next. It is since Christians have largely ceased to think of the other world that they have become so ineffective in this.”

Opa’s life was full, his accomplishments were many, his legacy is great. He was a good and faithful servant. 

It was so heart-breaking in the end, he did not even know or remember those things about himself.  Alzheimer’s robbed him of his memories and of his past and truly, of who he was as a person.  He couldn’t console himself that he had lived a long life and lived it well.  With no past to remember and no future to anticipate, it became, in the end, simply a time of waiting to die.

He didn’t remember then what he knows now.  That death is not the end…but rather, the very beginning.  He lives again.

This moment…this very moment…He lives.  And because of Christ in his life, he is smiling. He is overcome with wonder. With joy.  He is reunited with Oma, with his family, with his brothers and sisters in Christ.  He is in the presence of God, his father.   His strength is renewed.  His mind is more clear than every possible even at the height of his life.  That wonderful laughter of his is filling the heavens.

It is not true of everyone who dies, but it is gloriously true for those who seek after and live for Christ.  For those who understand the sacrificial work of Christ on the cross.  And Opa emphatically did.

While I mourn the loss of Opa for myself, for my mom, for his children and loved ones, all of us here today who have been touched by him in some way... I rejoice with him, knowing that his joy has finally been made complete. He is living his reward…and he will, for all eternity. 

To quote Lewis once more, Opa is “beginning Chapter One of the Great Story which no one on earth has read: which goes on forever: in which every chapter is better than the one before.”  

I’m so happy for him.

A Visit with Opa

 

Adele', Judah and I were able to tag along with my mom and my sister (and a few of the children) to go and visit my Opa (grandfather) last weekend.  With winter weather fast approaching, I didn't want to miss the opportunity while I had it.

I am so glad I did!

We stopped first to visit with my Aunt Jan, who let me borrow some old photographs of my Oma and Opa when they were young to make copies of for myself.  I brought them in when we went to see Opa and, as we looked through them, I saw a glimpse or two of the old Opa.

You see, my Opa has Alzheimer's.  He does not remember me at all (and sometimes, at his best, mistakes me for my mother-his daughter) nor does he remember where he is...who he is with, that Oma has died, what he just said and so on.  The result is a vague circular discussion that seems to go round and round unless you some how stop or divert it.  He is very gentlemanly about it all, for the most part.  He says things like "You look like a nice girl."  and "I say, m'lady, why do you not visit me more often?"  He is good at chatting to a person without actually admitting that he does not remember their name or how they fit into his story.  What he does not realize is that he often says the same thing that he said just a sentence before.  Behind his eyes is an emptiness that I despise.  I remember when his eyes were full of life, of joy, of stories...of all the things that made him HIM.

When those old photographs were brought out, though, a sparkle of joy was kindled again.  He did not remember all the people in the photographs but, for a moment, he was out of that carousel of words that Alzheimer's has forced him to ride round and round.  He was there.  And those pictures- they reawakened a part of him, deep within, and he then began talking about the war!  He began to relate stories of himself hiding Jews in the Underground during the Dutch Resistance.  He spoke of a long engagement to Oma because they could not be married lest she be hurt by association if he were discovered to be helping the Jews.  He recalled living in a church organ to escape with his life from the Germans.  (All quite true stories, by the way.)

And for a moment...a beautiful moment... that was my Opa again.  His eyes were full.  His smile real. His words were memories instead of observations.  It was only a brief glimpse- only a few minutes worth- but I have longed for those minutes for a very long time.

Well worth the wait.

The last Grand

I got the chance to take a caravan to go see my Opa recently. My mom, her brother, my sister and I all piled into Mom's 15 passenger for the day with a select few children.


There is only so much room in a vehicle, even if it is almost a bus, so only my oldest and youngest were able to make the trip with me this time.



A few pictures from that happy day, now almost a month past.










With Opa being the last of the Grands for Matt and I, each visit is made all the more special... and important.

The last of a generation, hanging on by a thread and a very good-natured smile.

Opa, our turn

Last week, thanks to my Mom's 13 passenger van (known as, THE BUS), my sister, Mom and I were able to load up our littles and travel northward for a visit with some extended family: a visiting Uncle from the Netherlands, a very hospitable Aunt and a very dear Opa.

I hate long drives and I hate driving places I don't know very well but both problems are solved when you have good company and are just the passenger.

It was a great time, albeit short. (Although, Aunt Jan was probably glad for us to go with our seven children in tow!)

Opa looks very well and I am always so pleased to see him.

I am coming to terms with the fact that today's Opa is a different man entirely to the grandfather I grew up loving and will be a different man the next time I see him as well.

Alzheimer's steals more than memories. It steals the future too.

I mourn those things that once were, those wonderful things that will never be again. The stories he tells, his history. He no longer remembers his first home or even what he has degrees in. I mourn that the advice-giving days are over at what seems just the moment I began to listen. I mourn that he asks in whispers where his wife is when too long a time has stretched and then must relive her death. "How long since she has died?" he asked and whomever is the newsbearer at the time says "seven months".

"Only seven months? It seems like such a very long time to be without her. The pain is very great and I am just so terribly bad not to remember! I don't remember how she died, or when, or how much she suffered before she died."

Tears choke back and I cannot speak.

Yet with the unfathomable sadness of treasures lost, there come quiet, happy moments to temper the pain. Never have I been so complimented by him than I do now. There was a time when his bluntness was unbearable and could be so unkind. He shows genuine love and interest in babies now whereas he used to be too caught up in conversation to notice them much at all. His jovial spirit seems all the more jovial.

I learned that he is enjoying puzzles these days, and word searches. So I enjoyed making him a few of his own to send with little bits of mail. Word searches with the names of his descendants, of his characteristics, and of familiar things. (You can make your own at this site)

I was also happy to see that he has been enjoying a gift I sent along with my mother the last time she went to visit him.

Seeing the photo there on the coffeetable for him to look at really meant so much. Seeing his hands, holding on to it was like having him hold on to a bit of my heart.

My Mom and her Dad. I wouldn't exist without them. I was born from the love my mother and dad shared and that could only be with the love of Opa toward Oma. And so, in his hands he holds my heritage, my very life.

It was a very nice visit.

My 27th

Growing a bit older doesn't seem quite so tragic when extra bits of love seem to sweeten and balance the tartness of another year. It was a sweet one this year.

After just exclaiming to my sister (who has older children) how wonderful it would be to have older children who were able to take the initiative to create handmade gifts and do thoughtful things for birthdays and Mother's Days like bake cakes or cookies, or make sachets or organize photos in frames (etc. etc).... I woke up on my birthday to my eldest (all five years of her) handing me a card with a little something wrapped in a Kleenex. I thought it might be coal. After all, it's happened before.

But shiny black didn't return my peek, but bright fuschia pink! I thought it was some pretty beads she had gathered for me but turns out~ it was a bracelet! One that she had holed herself up in her bedroom to do. One that attached the elastic string together with about 12 inches of wrapped scotch tape, but one that had love written all over it! And look! It's even in a pattern! I love it so much (I took the tape off and knotted the ends, BTW) and wear it all the time.


She also made me breakfast in bed, with a garnish of chocolate chips. A true girl, she is.


The icing on the cake, though, was the visit from the "extra special person": my Opa. My Aunt drove him all the way out here, not for my birthday-it was just a happy circumstance- and so on my birthday I got to host my Aunt, my cousin, my mom, my sister and my Opa (and all the accompanying children.)

My Opa has not been to my home since Matt and I were newlyweds. It was a joy to have him here.

His memory gets worse by the day, sometimes repeating himself just as soon as the sentence has been completed. There was one point though, when he said "Congratulations Rebecca, on your birthday!"

I know that he had been prompted and reminded who I was, where he was, and why he was here (probably several times) but to hear my name on his lips stopped me in my tracks. I didn't realize it, but somewhere along the line, he had stopped calling me by my name. In an effort, no doubt, to mask the fact that he didn't know who I (or anybody) was, he had begun to use generic names like "you" or to avoid using them at all. Hearing my name on his lips was as sweet a sound as I can recall, and made me realize how much you don't realize you miss something until the moment you get it back.


Mom brought a cake with her and everyone serenaded me the traditional birthday song but standing out was the only male voice~Opa, singing to me. It struck me that likely, it will be for the last time. His memory of me has already been stolen from him and someday his memory will be robbed of the familiar song or just the interest in the singing of it.

I tried to soak it in, and HIM in.

Handed to me was a birthday card and inscribed within were the words "From Opa, who loves you".

Alzheimers is a gift and a burden, a blessing and a curse. The Opa of long ago never would have made silly sounds at the babies or written such a loving inscription. I don't remember Oma or Opa ever saying directly "We love you". The only thing that stands out is the place where those words ought to have been. So that inscription and those coddles and coos meant for the babies are all greatly prized.


I also don't recall Opa ever kissing me. I do recall many many a time when I would stand tiptoed up to his tall frame and kiss his soft, wrinkled cheeks. Perhaps he would kiss mine as well, or the top of my head when I was a child and perhaps I never noticed it then, because children have so much more important things to do, ya know...but for him to kiss MY cheek was quite a turned table. A new phenomenon.


Without a doubt, he was the best present of all.