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, 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, every movement marked by a profound absence. His chair, his routines, the familiar rhythms of home—everything felt 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 they 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
