Eight years later, grief, gratitude, and the legacy of Papa Peter

There is a book called The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel van der Kolk. Though the book explores many layers of trauma, healing, and memory, one truth resonates deeply with me: our bodies hold memory—memory tied to time, place, and event.

So I am not surprised that tonight feels familiar.

Nothing triggered it except the quiet knowing that this was the last evening we spent with my dad on this side of heaven.

My body remembers.

I remember the feelings, the conversation, the laughter, where people were sitting, and what unfolded in a hospital room crowded with Borgdorffs as my dad transitioned from this world to his eternal home.

It was a sacred space I will forever hold dear—held with honesty, transparency, a flood of sorrow, and a river of gratitude. The room was full, the stories abundant, and the unknown of a new normal was too immense to fully consider.

As Arlene, my mom, and I each took our places in the room when everyone else had said their good byes and went home, we listened to his labored breathing, knowing that in time the room would hold an eerie silence.

The silence came sooner than we were ready for.

It was shortly after midnight. We waited a moment before calling the nurse. After all, we knew this moment was coming.

And yet, somehow, it still felt unexpected.

I remember arriving at my parents’ house with my mom—every movement marked by a profound absence. His chair, his routines, the familiar rhythms of home—everything felt (and now was) altered.

Somehow, we settled in for the night and woke to the same reality the next morning:

What will life look like now?
How will my dad’s death change us?
How will we carry his legacy?

Tomorrow marks eight years.

In many ways, it is hard to imagine him in this world now—a world that has changed so drastically, a church struggling to stand above the fray of division, and a family that has continued to grow and change through marriages, the births of nearly eight great-grandchildren, and the loss of family members he loved deeply.

And yet, in other ways, he still feels remarkably present.

It is common for us, when gathered together, to share a story, a phrase, or a reflection about my dad.

Just a few weeks ago, my seven-year-old great-nephew asked Beppe Jannie, “Was Papa Peter alive during World War II?”

What followed was a conversation about Papa Peter as a young boy growing up in Rotterdam during the war and what life was like in those uncertain and difficult days.

My mom and I found ourselves unexpectedly tender in that moment. Moved by a younger generation who asks thoughtful questions about a man they have never met, yet somehow know. Through stories told around tables, familiar phrases repeated in laughter, and the love that still lingers in our family, they carry a quiet affection for Papa Peter—as though they know something essential about who he was.

Eight years later, I still miss him.

But perhaps this is part of what it means to carry a legacy—not only to remember someone, but to continue telling their stories, asking their questions, laughing at the familiar phrases, and showing up for one another in the ways he taught us.

And perhaps that is why tonight feels familiar.

Because love, grief, memory, and legacy have a way of living not only in our hearts, but in our bodies too.

Grace and Peace to you,

Trish

Today I began listening to The Art of Pilgrimage by Phil Cousineau. It is a book I am reading in preparation for a pilgrimage my Mom and I will take with a small group to Iona in late September.

The word pilgrimage has always carried a kind of sacred weight for me. I sensed there was profoundness within it, yet at the same time, the meaning felt somewhat ambiguous and difficult to fully grasp.

Ironically—or perhaps not ironically at all—today was also my first meeting with a spiritual director.

I will spend time with Kate preparing for this pilgrimage, but I am realizing I am seeking something deeper as well. I long to become more attentive to the Spirit and to better discern the invitations and nudges I feel each day.

Perhaps pilgrimage is not simply about traveling to a sacred place. Perhaps it is about becoming more awake to the sacred presence already surrounding us.

One quote from the book particularly struck me:

“If we truly want to know the secret of soulful travel, we need to believe that there is something sacred waiting to be discovered in virtually every journey.”

I am a strong believer that each day itself is a journey, and that the culmination of ordinary days can become a pilgrimage. If that is true, then perhaps we, too, must believe there is something sacred waiting to be discovered.

My sweet great-niece gave me a vivid image of this just yesterday while we played outdoors. She was stepping down from her backyard play structure to go eat her yogurt. In the video, you will notice that something catches her eye during the very short trip from point A to point B. Something hidden within the crack of the steps awakened her curiosity. She paused. She noticed. She explored what might be waiting there to be discovered.

Children seem to understand instinctively what we often forget—that wonder lives in the smallest moments when we are willing to pay attention.

I am only on chapter two of this pilgrimage read.
I am only one session into Kate’s wisdom, discernment, and gentle guidance.

But already I find myself wondering:

Do I carry a spirit of curiosity, wonder, and discernment with me each day?
Am I attentive to the sacred interruptions around me?
Is the Spirit at work in my heart and hands, even in ordinary moments?

Words often shared with someone embarking on a pilgrimage, I now share with you, wherever you may be on your own journey!

Be Safe and Well

Peace, love and courage.

I hang out quite a bit with this sweet child. She is full of energy, love, laughter, deep emotion, and a constant eagerness to share all of her favorite things with Aunt Trish.

One of her favorites right now is Ms. Rachel.

“What’s in the box? What could it be?
Do you want to take something out with me?”

The song is simple and repetitive, as toddler songs often are. But somehow, it stayed with me this week.

I was thinking about it as I walked to get the mail.

Even at 56 years old, I realize there is still a small part of me that opens the mailbox with just a little bit of hope. Most days, I expect the same ordinary stack—junk mail, advertisements, bills, paperwork.

And yet somewhere underneath the routine thought is still the question:

What’s in the box? What could it be?

Maybe there will be something sent specifically to me.
Something hand-addressed.
Something thoughtful.
Something personal.

And honestly, stamps are kind of fun these days.

Sometimes there is an envelope with a beautiful flower stamp or an old-fashioned school bus or a carefully chosen design that tells me someone paused long enough to make sending the letter feel special.

When that happens, I find myself sitting down to open it with a surprising sense of anticipation.

I wonder if you know that feeling too.

The quiet joy of realizing someone thought of you long enough to write something down. The unexpected encouragement of being remembered in the middle of ordinary life.

This week, somewhere between sorting the mail and admiring the stamps, I noticed something shift in me.

I moved from receiver to sender.

I set up my little space with cards, pens, cute stamps, and my favorite return address stamp. And suddenly I found myself excited—not about what might be waiting for me in the mailbox, but about what might someday arrive in someone else’s.

A small encouragement.
A thoughtful word.
A reminder that someone sees them.

Maybe that is part of what keeps the toddler jingle lingering in my heart:

“What’s in the box? What could it be?
Do you want to take something out with me?”

Maybe the deeper invitation is this:

Do you want to help carry joy with me?
Hope with me?
Encouragement with me?

Because sometimes the most meaningful things we receive are the things someone intentionally chose to send.

My mother was born in Friesland, The Netherlands, on October 7, 1942.

She grew up one of twelve children in a family shaped by hard work, provision, faith, and the determination to build a future for their family of fourteen. Eventually, that determination carried them across the ocean—from The Netherlands to Sussex, New Jersey—when my mother was just ten years old.

It could have been a story marked primarily by fear, loss, or overwhelming transition.

But when my mother tells the story, that is not the melody that rises first.

Instead, she reflects on a feeling of wonder.

She remembers her first movie.

She remembers the vastness and adventure of traveling aboard the Maasdam.

She remembers exploring the ship and meeting new people.

She remembers that their family had their own table in the dining room and how my Pake requested food that was a bit less rich than what was regularly served.]

Even now, I am struck by this.

A little girl leaving everything familiar behind somehow still noticed beauty. Still noticed adventure. Still carried curiosity alongside uncertainty.

And then came America.

A new school.
A school bus.
A language she did not understand.
Cultural norms that were unfamiliar.
Friendships to build.
A completely different world to navigate.

As a child, she entered spaces every day where she could not fully understand what was happening around her. Yet somehow, she learned. Adapted. Bridged worlds.

And perhaps most remarkably, the children often became guides for the parents.

My grandparents made the brave decision to leave home and begin again, but like many immigrant families, they also depended on their children to help interpret this new world. The children learned the language more quickly. They learned the customs. They became bridges between two cultures while still trying to understand who they themselves were becoming.

There is music in that kind of life.

Not loud music.
Not performative music.

But the steady song of resilience.
The quiet rhythm of adaptability.
The harmony of courage and humility existing together.

I think some of the deepest parts of my mother’s song were formed there—in the crossing, in the learning, and in the becoming.

And those themes continued.

At some point along the journey, my mother asked permission to attend Christian school. My Pake gently explained that they simply could not afford it. There were too many children, too many responsibilities, and too much sacrifice already woven into the daily rhythm of their immigrant life.

But something in my mother had already begun reaching toward possibility.

So she set out to work and pay her own tuition.

Even now, I pause at the courage and determination wrapped inside that decision. She was still young, still learning this new country, still helping navigate life between two worlds, and yet she was already becoming someone willing to work toward the life she sensed unfolding before her.

Another crossing.
Another becoming.

She crossed from public education into Christian education carrying not entitlement, but gratitude. Not certainty, but curiosity. She stepped into new spaces ready to learn, ready to grow, ready to discover who she might become there.

And then the chapters continued to unfold, and the song found new verses.

At a Young Calvinist Convention, my mother was selected to present a paper before a large gathering of peers. For a young immigrant woman who once stepped onto a school bus unable to speak English, this itself feels remarkable to me.

Another crossing.
Another becoming.

She stood before that crowd and spoke her convictions. Somewhere along the journey, the little girl learning a new language had become a young woman with something meaningful to say. She had found her voice—not simply academically, but personally and spiritually as well.

The message she carried that day was powerful—conform or think!

But perhaps even more unexpected was what happened afterward.

Among those present was a young man named Peter Borgdorff. He approached her after the presentation and asked her out on their first date.

And just like that, another verse entered the song.

I love thinking about that moment—not only because it became part of our family story, but because it feels so deeply connected to the larger melody of my mother’s life. She kept stepping into new spaces with courage and openness, never fully knowing what might unfold there.

A crossing from one country to another.
A crossing from public school to Christian education.
A crossing from uncertainty into confidence.
And now, a crossing toward partnership, marriage, family, and the generations that would follow.

And so the story continued.

There are countless more examples I could share, but the blog would simply become too long. Yet when I look back across my mother’s life, I see these same themes appearing again and again—crossing, learning, becoming, and discovering connections that could only have been orchestrated by God.

Again and again, the music of her life carried courage, faithfulness, adaptability, humility, and quiet strength.

And perhaps that is what moves me most about my mother’s song. It was never rooted in striving for recognition or applause. The melody was formed through ordinary faithfulness—through showing up, working hard, loving deeply, remaining teachable, and continuing to trust God as each new chapter unfolded.

Her heart is tender and honest.
Her presence steady.
Her influence immeasurable.

I have learned so much from her—not only through the words she has spoken, but through the way she has lived.

And as I grow older, I find myself increasingly grateful for the music she has carried into our family, our community, and the lives of so many people around her.

I am so very glad she is mine.

A number of years ago, I asked Ken Medema to write my Mom’s song.

I share that with you today.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you so!

🎵 Listen here:
Ken Medema – My Mom’s Song

The phrase “it takes a village to raise a child” has always felt true to me. Children flourish when surrounded by people who nurture, guide, protect, encourage, and simply remain present.

But the older I get, the more convinced I become that the saying is incomplete.

It does not only take a village to raise a child.
It takes a village to live a life.

And perhaps what I really mean by village is community.

One of the more difficult questions I find myself wrestling with at this stage of life is surprisingly simple:
Who is my village/community?

Not who do I know.
Not who knows me casually.
But who walks with me closely enough to help carry life when it becomes difficult? And whose burdens am I willing to help carry in return?

I think our culture often measures community in numbers. How many friends. How many followers. How many invitations. How many people fill the room.

But I am learning that the health and depth of a village is rarely about quantity.

It is about how we show up for one another.

And honestly, I think I learned that first from my Dad.

This was written by my sister and shared at his funeral

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He taught us:
Show up.

Show up to church when your community gathers to worship.
Show up for your friends when hard things happen.
Show up for your family when they perform in a concert, play in a game, celebrate a milestone, or lock their keys in their car again.

He loved solving problems.

And if someone he cared about was stirring the pot for a just cause, he would grab a spoon, show up, and stir that pot right alongside them.

He was with us—and I dare say with many of you too—in real and tangible ways when we needed someone exactly like him to show up.

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The older I get, the more I realize community is often less about grand gestures and more about faithful presence.

The people who text when they know something heavy is sitting on your heart.
The people who stay through grief instead of disappearing in discomfort.
The people who celebrate goodness without envy and sit beside pain without needing to fix it.

And perhaps community is not simply about finding people who will show up for us.

Perhaps it is equally about becoming the kind of people who show up for others.

Because true community asks something of us.
It asks for vulnerability.
Consistency.
Time.
Patience.
Forgiveness.

Yet when we experience it—even imperfectly—it becomes one of the clearest expressions of grace we encounter in ordinary life.

Maybe that is because we were never meant to carry life alone.

Not as children.
Not as parents.
Not as aging adults.
Not in seasons of joy.
Not in grief.
Not in uncertainty.

It takes a village to raise a child.

But even more than that—

It takes a village to live a life.

There is a mystery to living life—both on the best of days and on the days that feel deeply difficult. That mystery draws me into curiosity, asking why I have been the recipient of such deep love, abundant grace, unwavering support, and unexpected peace.

These questions rarely come with answers. Instead, they linger quietly, inviting my heart to reflect and wonder.

And often, I land on a recurring thought—one that begins in my mind and settles deeply into my heart:

For such a time as this.

The questions on harder days are not filled with the same goodness. They are often more complicated, shaped by thoughts that do not feel nearly as hopeful:

Why is life so complicated?
Where am I supposed to find peace in these spaces?
Why can’t I stay on track with the goals I long to accomplish?
How do I dismantle the thoughts that stand in the way of goodness?

And yet, when I begin to unpack even these difficult questions, the answer somehow remains the same:

For such a time as this.

Sometimes this phrase becomes a statement of trust—a reminder that I am deeply loved and held by a radical Savior who knows and understands these moments far better than I ever will. And so, for such a time as this, I am held, loved, and cared for.

Sometimes “for such a time as this” becomes a statement of assurance—that the goodness I am experiencing is real, trustworthy, and full of promise.

But always, “for such a time as this” becomes a statement of comfort. It reminds me that this very moment is not accidental. It reminds me that I am called to a life of continual growing and changing, and that if I simply keep taking one step at a time, all will be well.

Not easy.
Not always clear.
And likely not what I anticipated.

But still, for such a time as this, all will be well.