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.
