Morning Thanks--Grandpa's sermon

The Rev. John C. and Gertrude Hemkes Schaap

Some time ago, I unearthed an old cassette tape, on it a sermon my grandfather preached in December of 1951, Oostburg, Wisconsin, the town where I was born and reared. Years ago, my uncle gave it to me, a man who himself has been gone for decades.

That sermon was delivered in my home town, in the church where I spent my first seven years or so; I knew it when, halfway through, a train went by on the tracks just a few hundred yards west of where that church once stood. It was an evening service.

I plugged it into an old Walkman when I took a walk. It was terribly cold out, but I walked three miles, warmed by an ancient sermon that sounded almost exactly like I would have guessed it would have. I never heard my grandfather preach, at least not that I remember. He baptized me—that much I know. I was just six years old when he died.

But the moment I heard his voice, I recognized it--honestly, somehow I knew. I have no clue where the reservoir of memories is in the brain or how wide and encompassing it is, nor what specific function stands guard to let exactly which specific memories in or out, for that matter. But the pitch and timber of my grandpa's voice was there somehow, even though I thought I had no memory. Very strange. Almost eerie.

After I listened, I decided that Grandpa was no stemwinder, no Billy Graham, no "pulpiteer," as some might say. That night in old Oostburg, he didn't light the place up. Still, I don’t think I could have enjoyed that hour more than I did, listening to an old man hold forth in a voice I somehow recognized, in some ways, to be something of my very own.

And for that I’m thankful.