Yesterday, Sunday, was his birthday. Were he still among us, he would have been 108 years old, born as he was in 1918. He was a PK, one of ten kids in the family, his preacher/father occupying the pulpit in a Christian Reformed church in Allendale, Michigan when Dad, first of all, opened his eyes to this world. He was 85 years old when he passed away in 2003, as was his wife, my mother, who lived another ten years without him. Strangely enough, he and his only son weren't that close.
Not that we argued. Not that I went out of my way to violate whatever senses of propriety he held dear. I don't think I was ever a real "problem child." But I did run afoul of his perceptions and his politics, and, even though we never fought much, I can't help but think there were moments in his life when he prayed hard for a son whose life might well have seemed moving defiantly away from whatever safe harbors he might have hoped would be my dwelling place.
A cousin of mine, late one night at a family reunion, told me how the marriage counseling she was getting at that time helped her understand what she'd determined were real marital problems. She suffered from having "too good a father," the therapist had told her. I wasn't a kid when she told me that, but I remember thinking, right then and there, that the problem that therapist had identified was a problem my cousin and I shared, children of Schaap brothers.
My novel Romey's Place is spun out of what I was told at that family reunion. My father--and I knew this clearly--was a wonderful man, a man who took his Christian faith very seriously and tried to be the finest servant he could be, not for others to note but to satisfy at least something of the love he'd long ago determined was his, through grace, a gift of the Savior he worshipped. Throughout his life, the life I experienced with him, he truly and sincerely tried to do the right thing, do the thing he believed the Creator of Heaven and Earth wanted him to do. At the visitation before his funeral, dozens of people tried to wrap me in a cloud of good memories--"your dad was a wonderful man," they said, warmly. I knew they meant it because I knew he was.
Even though the two of us were never all that close, I miss him, not as some kind of fount of wisdom or moral character, but as a standard in my life, just to be here. Right now, I'd love to talk with him about getting old, about facing up into the last years. I don't know that he'd tell me anything I don't know, but just to sit beside me--I just wish he'd be here, especially now in late July, when he was born.
Yesterday was his birthday.
Really, I suppose, my spilling all of this out on the page this morning is a witness to what I'm wishing--he's still here somehow. He's not gone for any of his kids, even the ones who he might have thought was walking away.
3 comments:
Grampa Schaap was a good man with a good heart. He poured so much of himself into others especially his beloved wife. When I think of him I think about him carrying Grandma's pillow everywhere making sure that she was comfortable and not in pain. He may have spoiled her too much but I don't think God will look down on him because his heart was in the right place. In a me first society it is good to have memories of a man that was the complete opposite. Thanks for posting this, it was good to think of him again today and ask myself.... who can I serve today like Cal did? You son-in-law Piet
Believe this or not, Cal came along one weekend night with a group of us young bucks when we went out for a meal at Johnny’s Supper Club. That was a move completely unexpected and out-of-character for him. He sat next to me. I was a bit nervous cause I might let a mild slang word slip. What was a good topic to pick for our conversation? As uncomfortable as I was I pensively reached into my shirt pocket and snatched an Old Gold cigarette just to occupy my discomfort. After all, he was my Sunday School teacher back in the day. Then the unexpected happened, he politely asked me (bummed) for a cigarette. I lite a match and lighted both of our smokes. (Piece Pipes) He told me he used to smoke, and I assumed it was when he was serving his country in the military. I about soiled my undies, we bonded sort of. I always thought that Cal was so heavenly minded that he was little earthly good. Bless his soul!
Frequently my wife chides me, "don't read that Schaap stuff, all he wants to do is to piss people off". I always rebuke her by saying "in his heart Jim truly knows better". Today's blog confirms my perspective of him.
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