Crônicas do Cotidiano

Guarulhos airport, São Paulo, Brazil.

Neto and Isabel had gone there to meet a Dutch cousin of hers. He, together with his wife, was making a tourist excursion through Brazil. When they discovered that they would have a four-hour wait, they had written to suggest that they meet. So, after the initial greeting, they took care of the check-in for the next phase of the trip and then went to drink guaraná in the restaurant of a well-known fast food chain, sitting down way in the back. Isabel and Lia sat on a sofa with their backs to the wall and Neto and Alex placed themselves on the other side of the table. They joined hands and closed their eyes while Neto asked God’s blessing on the food, on those moments together and on the remainder of the couple’s trip.

The couples pulled out albums with the photos that represented their lives and stayed there showing them to each other and talking animatedly. At a certain point, cousin Alex pulled out two photos, with relatives that they shared, to give to Isabel. Since she wanted to remember the name of each person, she put out her hand to take her pen from her purse. Startled, her eyes met Neto’s.

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As we are gathered together here, this afternoon, we remember Gilbert Zekveld, our beloved father, grandfather, brother, uncle and friend.

Gilbert was born as Gijsbertus Zekveld, on January 13, 1928, on a farm near the town of Aarlanderveen in South Holland, the second of seven children. Most of his childhood encompassed the years of the great depression, while the Second World War raged in and around his country throughout much of his adolescence, ending shortly before he reached military age. His character was forged during these difficult years, as he watched his Godfearing parents act and react with courage to the difficult circumstances around them, and as he learned to be frugal and to work diligently on the family farm.

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But you, when you pray, go into your inner room, close your door and pray to your Father who is in secret,
and your Father who sees what is done in secret will reward you.
–Matthew 6:6

It was the first week of January (in São Paulo, Brazil) and Isabel had just closed the lid of her Christmas trunk (a large chest made of Dutch cedar). Inside, she had again placed the artificial tree and its ornaments, together with the objects that always made up the family atmosphere at this time of the year. The house now seemed empty and cold, without the colourful glitter of the decorations and devoid of the happy presence of the relatives and friends that had been part of the celebrations of the birth of Christ and the arrival of the New Year. She was already missing them. Nevertheless, after so many days of shopping, planning and serving meals, taking care of guests and participating in services and programs, she now seemed to have finally reached the peace and quiet she needed to start keeping her “New Year’s Resolution”.

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Lord, once more I have eaten and drunk in your house. I stretched out my hand and brought bread to my mouth. The taste of the wine still lingers. They are reminders of the body and blood of your only Son, broken and shed for me.

Father, I have done this so often, in various churches, cities and even countries. Now I wonder if at any time, in any of these places, I ever truly “discerned the body” of my broken Master. And when I participated today, was it “worthily?” Why did my heart not cry when I thought of the broken body and of the death that I should be “showing” while I swallowed twice?

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