“And I remember things I’ve never told anyone… Things that loam large in a child’s mind; like the first time seeing a girl naked. Should it really be mentioned in a family history? Some things are best left as secrets? Or could they be helpful in sorting out the meaningful from the insignificant as we all struggle to make sense of life. An ability to talk about those hidden facts that had an impact on how we learned to see ourselves can be liberating or they can entrap us.

“I remember the old woman who blinked constantly. Mother told us that her blinking started as a habit, now in her old age she was unable to stop. Just so, she warned us, we should beware of forming bad habits, because they would be extremely hard to break. And so it has been. Habits and rituals can possess us. Spontaneity, flexibility, resilience, an ability to look forward and not so much backward, always to think and learn, and the uninhibited love of life are qualities best cultivated. I remember being impressed by the story of Lot’s wife – she was turned into a pillar of salt simply because she looked back. So family histories being a form of looking back can be limiting. These were my ancestors, their limitations – they were quiet, I’ll be quiet. Or they can be liberating, because they allow us to laugh at ourselves and step into another way of doing things. I trust none of you will let this history set unhealthy limits on your aspirations, rather I hope our foibles and follies will inspire you to dream and to go beyond where we’ve been, and maybe even to laugh at the arbitrariness of it all.

“But alas, I did fall into bad habit traps. I used to race cars to the corner on my way home from school threatening myself with all manner of ill if I lost – an idiot’s game; yet our leaders indulge in that same sort of madness upon occasion, as in – “if you don’t turn in a comprehensive list of all the scientists in your country, we’ll bomb you into oblivion.” We make arbitrary rules for ourselves and for those around us, and feel bound by the provisions of those rules. A wise man is able to unfetter himself, to step beyond self-made boundaries. He can discard arbitrary rules that lead him toward violence. I don’t have to embrace ugly anger, and whip my children when they make an error. There are other ways in which I can guide them toward an intelligent decision.

“Alas I do remember Crystal Springs, North Dakota. My mother drove us to church camp. The road from the highway to the camp was narrow and newly graded. My mother, who drove seldom, pulled to the side when another car approached. The shoulder gave way and our car tilted precariously. We crawled very carefully out the left side door. Dear Mother was nearly hysterical, “It wasn’t my fault!”

“Three years before when the car was brand new my mother had driven it back from Zeeland at dusk, didn’t see that the gate was closed, went right through the barbed wire fence. My father said, “Gott och Gott” and contorted his face as if about to cry. The scratches through the new paint pained him, but he didn’t yell at Mother. It was almost as if the scratch on the car had cut deeply, scarring his spirit. I think he’d walked off, away from his normally jovial routine. He really didn’t know how to cope. He’d been so proud of the newly purchased car. Now already it had a blemish.

“His self-esteem was wounded by other failings. Most notable among those was the time when as a sophomore in college, I drove the car, not knowing that it was low on oil. I “burned up the engine”. He was so deeply distressed that he confided his intense pain to our neighbor, Mr. Bagawiezen. My father died a month or two later, and Mr. Bagawiezen informed me that I had killed my father by ruining his car. I’d so badly failed to live up to expectations. (Not likely – an autopsy revealed brain cancer in its late stages. And I was the one he’d called upon to sleep in his hospital bedside, rub his back, get grape juice for him, and hold his hand. I remember running up the back stair well to his hospital room.)

“Back to that church camp to which my mother had delivered me as a nine year old, I remember the intensity of the late evening calls to repentance. “You’re going to hell, if you don’t come forward. This may be your last chance!” It made no sense to me! I was as good as boys can be, or so I thought.