Legacy

He was the 9th son, the 12th child in a family of 14, born in a small farmhouse during hard times. The large family of immigrant parents soon found themselves moving again, from the dust-laden bowl to the heart of Washington, settling into another small farmhouse, hopeful to try their hand in the soil of the fabled Yakima Valley.



It was 1938, and my father was 3 1/2 years old.

He grew up on that farm nestled between two mountains, Rainier and Adams, helping to tend the rows of grapes with his nine brothers, inbetween lazy summer days skinny dipping in the irrigation ditch. At 9 years, when his mother died, it left a hole in his father's heart, and an ache in the boy that his sisters, though proficient enough with the house duties, couldn't fill.

Still...a smile always creeps into his voice as he tells the stories of growing up on that farm, and of the richness of Sundays spent with the Dutch community.

But all those poor, but blissful days on the farm couldn't hold him down when it came his time to go. At 18, he signed up for the army with a guarantee of adventure and a regular paycheck, and wound up in California for training.

 His wild days were cut short however, when he vied for the attention of a pretty little civilian nurse, and won her heart.

My father and mother were married in a beautiful church in 1954, in her hometown, 3 months before my father was shipped to Korea for an 18 month assignment.

He came home to a 9 month old daughter, and a home in California, far far away from the fertile soil of the valley he'd grown up in. But much of who he was came from that farm, along with the sacrificial work ethic which characterized my Dutch ancestry. He worked hard to make a home, and a little over 2 years later I joined the family.

I have inherited his wide mouth, his Van Corbach forehead, and his penchant for telling stories. We share alot of the same memories, the same bloodlines, the same ancestors, the same value for God and land, and a simple way of life. He raised me well, and

I love him with a love that is doubled and pierces right through.

I never cease to ponder how to best convey to this old dutchman with creased, work-worn hands; to this Dad of mine whose laugh and loves and life has shaped me, what he still means to me...

And on his 76th birthday, I grimace at the passage of time; time that will someday rob me of his prescence as it transports him to Glory, where he will revel in all the days spent on earth loving the God his father introduced him to long ago in the church of his birth. There, he too will reap the reward of the legacy he has passed on to his children, and his children's children.

Hear, O sons, the instruction of a father, and give attention that you may gain understanding,

          ~Proverbs 4:1

                                           

But for now it's Saturday and the phone rings....

          I jump to catch the phone first, smile on my face.

eager to once again harvest his laughter, and store his wise words.

He will be like a tree firmly planted by streams of water, which yields its fruit in its season. Its leaf does not wither; and in whatever he does, he prospers.

       ~Psalm 1:3

Always Seeking Higher Ground,

Nora