"Pup"

Even when my dad wasn’t working, he was working. For us. At some point in my childhood, I can remember my dad not having a job. He was laid off from his work at the mill and there just wasn’t much work to be had. But what I do remember is my dad getting up in the middle of the night or early morning to go and see if he could pick up random work at different places. For some reason I have this memory of him trying to see if there was work unloading cars on Annacis Island.

And he was so humble about it all; and if being unemployed hurt his pride or affected his ability to be a calm presence in our family, I never saw it. I was young, but I think even then I could recognize positive spirit and perseverance. For Dutch immigrants, quite often, maybe to a fault, their identity was found through their work—it gave them a sense of purpose. But if I think of my dad, I think his sense of purpose came as a disciple of Christ, loving husband, and caring father. This is not to suggest those weren’t difficult times and that it wasn’t a struggle. And like any father, including me, he was far from perfect. But he gave of himself to Christian schools, churches, and the stranger within his gate, and to his family as good as he knew how. And he did it humbly. And while work was important, it wasn’t the end-all-be-all of who he was. That was over twenty years ago, but that ability to keep “pressing on” that my father modeled continues to make a significant impact on my life. And the ability to leave the job-at the job and focus on church, home and school is something I appreciate more now than I did back then.

Today we gathered on the patio with our family and celebrated my dad’s retirement from work—he is 74. I like to tell him it really isn’t retirement but reassignment because the Bible doesn’t actually use the word “to retire”, but my mom points to some Old-Testament Leviticus laws that actually do talk about retirement, so who am I to argue? I mean, he has been working longer than I’ve even been alive, so they may call it whatever they want.

And bless my father for his work routine which makes me smile right now as I am writing this. Every night from Monday to Friday he would prepare his porridge before going to bed and every morning he would wake up at 6:00 a.m. and heat it up and have it for breakfast. Seriously. Rehated porridge for breakfast. It tastes as good as it sounds. I still remember the Dutch word for it was “pup.” And I wouldn’t change that memory for nothing.

And I can remember getting up with him and there I would be in my flannel pajamas eating reheated “pup” with my dad at 6:00 a.m. I can even remember trying to eat it the same way (pretty quick, a breath between each bite, and don’t talk at the breakfast table because it was just too early). Then he would pray silently to himself, and I have this picture I took of my dad’s hands at their 50th wedding anniversary of him flipping through the Bible, and that might as well have been my dad twenty years ago, because that was part of the morning routine. Prayer, porridge, Bible, prayer—and then walk into my the bedroom to kiss my mom good bye, get the lunch kit out of the fridge, and then hop into the 1976 Cutlass and drive to work, wherever that was. And I swear I can still remember the smell of his clothes from when I gave him a hug before he walked down the stairs to put his boots on; those clothes smelled like saw dust and I just loved that smell, still do even today.

Happy retirement dad; and blessings as you are reassigned to some alternative kingdom work. And I hope you enjoy not having to make the “pup” the night before—now that is living free!