Herman died. I miss him. Hadn’t seen him for years and now it won’t happen anymore for the rest of my life. He’d been married nearly 60 years to the same wife. Quite a record in modern times. When I was a little girl he was already old in my eyes, but he was never about to die. I suppose I expected him to always stick around.
He was a man I enjoyed talking to when visiting the church of my childhood. He was a down-to-earth type from the province North-Holland. When he opened his mouth, the sound was in contrast to that of the man next to him. He had lived in the most southern province for many years, where the people are mildly shocked at his kind of no-nonsense attitude. To me it sounded like home, because my family comes from the same region.
I know we’ll meet again and until then he’s even better off than I am. There will always be a special place in my heart for him. His wife is still there and she’s a prayer-warrior. The type of warrior that is threatened to die out with her generation.
I wrote this to honour those who are too easily forgotten, because they’re ministry has been a quiet one for many years.
“Dag, Herman, ik zie uit naar ons weerzien...”