Author: chelleren

A main lesson my mother always taught me was: be grateful for little things and search for praises in midst the storms of life. However, I struggled to think this way yesterday.

The call came while I was leaving the grocery store. “We didn’t see your dad at breakfast, so we went looking for him, ” the desk clerk explained. ” We found him on the bathroom floor. The room was in disarray. He was unresponsive, so we called the ambulance who took him to the hospital.” I clutched the phone, in disbelief. “No! This cannot be happening!” I cried. “What hospital?” I sped out of the parking lot and headed to the familiar path on M-6, crying as I drove. “Please, God. Don’t take him”. I couldn’t bear the thought of my dad leaving us, so soon after my mother’s passing. I remembered a friend, describing her parents’ double funeral and how it caused me to burst out in tears. I don’t think I could take it. My mind went back to Sunday. What happened to cause a fall? Was it his low blood sugar? We enjoyed such a wonderful day at my brother’s house. He was quite sad, but I left him at Royal Park on Sunday evening and he seemed better. A myriad of thoughts filled my mind as I frantically drove the familiar highway.

Since the hospital was unfamiliar, my brother met me so I could follow in my faithful van, Salsa. The drive seemed to take forever as we weaved through the Holland streets. Upon arriving, we both found parking spots in the busy lot. Why so many people at the hospital? I found it depressing to think of people spending time at a hospital on a Monday morning. I wished for a school parking lot instead where children with backpacks exited cars, filled with excitement for a new day.

Words were few as we entered the hospital doors and headed to the emergency room area. At first, the security guard told us that he hadn’t arrived yet, causing us to wonder since I had driven from Cutlerville and Royal Park was nearby. Apparently, there was some mix-up with the volunteer who was supposed to find us and we headed to the room. Flashbacks of the summer when my mother fell entered my mind. The scene, eerily familiar, made me shake my head in disbelief. Would that experience repeat with my father?

My dad, in an agitated state, was unresponsive as we talked and encouraged him. “Hi, Dad!” we expressed as we held his hand and patted his head. Unfortunately, his hearing challenges prevented any type of music therapy. The doctor ordered a series of tests and we waited. Each test came back negative– no stroke, no urinary tract infection, etc, etc. For that, we were grateful and I could feel myself calming down.

However, the most difficult conversation came with the neurologist. “Do you know how he takes his medications?” he inquired. I described how Waterford had been dispensing the meds and then we moved my dad back to Royal Park where he resumed taking them by himself. “My brother fills the 30 day supply box and he takes his meds in the morning and evening”, I explained. But as I looked at his face, I knew what he was thinking and felt myself wither. “You don’t think….”I paused and felt the emotion welling up like a water spout, ready to burst. “We have to ask,” he gently responded. “No! I could never forgive myself”, I barely uttered. ” I have wondered, though.” Suicide prevention training, a session I attended this past spring, included information about elderly people who decided that life is too difficult to bear and head this route. As the day continued, however, this did not seem to be the reason for my dad’s fall.

The day ended with me staying the night with my father, a scene that reminded me of July 10 when we remained at the hospital with my mother, awaiting surgery. It was a crazy and sleepless night because my father was confused and disoriented most of the time. I acted like a mother to him at times. ” GO TO SLEEP!” were my instructions. “What? Isn’t it morning?? ” he would ask, genuinely puzzled. My brother’s 5:30 arrival filled me with relief and I headed back home.

The day began as a struggle, but I ended with it gratefulness since my father did not break a bone. They are still not quite sure the reason for his fall, but he is receiving excellent care. It reminded me of my mother’s comments during challenging situations: Always find something for which you are grateful. It reminded me of teaching friends who encourage others with the phrase: Choose joy. It brought back to mind the black, rectangular box we placed on the table at my mother’s funeral: blessed. As the journey continues, I will remind myself of this word.

Good afternoon.  Thank you for coming, thanks especially to those who travelled a ways to be with us.  I am Marcel VandenTop, the son of Marianne VandenTop.

It may surprise some of you that I can’t ever remember a time where my dad called my mom by her name ‘Marianne”.  No, dad’s name for mom was MIMI.  Mimi was my dad’s affectionate name for my mom.  The family legend as to the source of that name goes something like this.  Supposedly my cousin Jeff Asma couldn’t pronounce the words “Aunt Marianne” and he came up with Aunt Mimi.  Whatever the reason, my dad thought it was appropriate and it stuck.

My mom on the other hand, never called my dad just Bert.  And never Bertus.  It was always Bertie or Bertje.  Bertje means “little Bert” in Dutch.  (I don’t think I’d like Hope calling me little Marcel all the time)

My parents were the perfect example of two people— becoming one.  There was no separating them.  They were one unit, one person, completely unified.

My mom grew up in a family of 10 in tiny little Andijk, in the northern part of The Netherlands- where the red headed Dutch people are from -where the stubborn red headed Dutch people are from.  The Asma’s didn’t have much in material possessions but they were a family rich in love of each other and love of Jesus.

My mom emigrated in 1948, and she became an American citizen in 1955.  She was proud to be an American, and like all the Asma kids, she learned English quickly and went to work.  She was trained as a physical therapy assistant, and she worked at hospitals in Grand Rapids and Kalamazoo.

Back in the 1950s and 60s, there wasn’t such a thing as online dating.  The closest you’d get to it was a personal ad in the Banner, the magazine of the Christian Reformed Church.  Her dad always told her to pick someone from the “kudde”..the “kudde” is Dutch for “sheep pen”, …in other words, someone with similar values, similar faith.  So she found her Bertie in the back of the Banner.  They dated long distance, my dad at the time was living in western Canada…then they quickly were married in 1965.  They were married 54 years.

My mom, in many public situations, could be defined as a shy person.    But if you got to know my mom really well, she would let her guard down and you would see the side that her family knew.    She loved to joke around, and she never took herself too seriously.   My dad was a perfect match for her–he doesn’t take himself too seriously either.  My mom never really taught me Dutch..the only Dutch words which I learned were slang words…or words I wouldn’t translate here.  After she broke her leg she told me  in the hospital she was a “dumme ezel”.  I’ll let you guess what that means.

My mom was caring, loving, and empathetic.  On more than one occasion in a waiting room at a doctor appointment for my dad or waiting during my dad’s surgeries I’d lose track of her just to find her chatting up some “arme stakker”…(which means poor guy/poor bloke in Dutch)…someone who was hard up, someone who had it harder than she had it.  She would feel very comfortable talking with a total stranger and she wouldn’t come across as shy at all.

My mom was a hard worker.   After Michelle and I were born, she stayed home but she figured out a way to make some spare money by cleaning people’s houses while we were at school.  She quickly developed some really deep friendships with her clients some of those relationships lasted many years after she stopped cleaning for those clients. 

My mom liked to refer to herself as a “sterke vrouw”–that means a strong woman in Dutch.  She definitely had strong opinions and she was a woman who ruled the roost at home…but she didn’t want to come across to others…as someone who ruled the roost or was bossy…if that makes sense.   But behind closed doors she definitely…ruled the roost..  But mom and dad were partners in the truest sense.  There was no way my dad would make a decision without his Mimi 100% on board. 

Besides laughing, and joking, and not taking herself too seriously, my mom had some other loves, too.  She loved music.  She loved artists like Abba, Neil Diamond, John Denver, even some Elton John songs.  But she really fell in love with the Irish crooner Danny O’Donnell.  She saw him in concerts a few times in Branson.  On one of those trips my in laws joined them and they all went together to Branson on a bus trip.   I’ll never forget my father in law telling me he saw her excited like a schoolgirl when he went to a concert with her.  Danny O’Donnell kissed my mom’s cheek and she swore she’d never wash her face again.  

My mom loved her grandkids.  When they were little she would get right down on the floor with them and play with their Barbies, or color with them.  She was thrilled to go to grandparents days at their schools and go to concerts or other school events.  She loved animals too.  She loved her Toby back in the 80s and 90s and she loved every pet  I ever had.  My dogs loved her too!

I have a ton of fond memories of my mom who I loved so dearly.  I will leave you with two memories that I will always treasure.

Memory number one goes like this.  My parents came home from a parent teacher conference at Kelloggsville Christian School.  I was probably in sixth or seventh grade.  My mom said, “Marcel, you have ok grades but you always have to remember, you can do anything you put your mind to.”   She told me that many times and I truly came to believe it.  I still do.  Elyssa, Gavin:  If you remember anything from today, remember me telling you that I too, truly believe you can do anything you put your mind to.  Oma believed it too.

Favorite memory number two goes like this.  When my mom was at Freedom Village after her broken leg, and with my dad at her bedside, I decided to read a Bible passage and read question and answer one from the Heidelberg catechism.  She had dementia, and there were lots of things she couldn’t remember anymore, so I thought,  as a little experiment,  I’d see if she remembered Q&A 1. 

I said mom, do you remember what is your only comfort in life…and in death?  

Silence. 

I started to read the answer…. That I am not my own…

Silence.

And there came the voice we loved so much. 

And she said…. That I am not my own but belong…. to Jesus Christ.

Thank you for coming.

Writing this blog allows me to remember details from my mother’s funeral I know I would forget. I don’t want to forget the memories: my high school friends who surprised me by attending, my sister-in-law’s friends and family, neighbors from my parents’ former neighborhood, church members from Lafayette, church members from First Cutlerville CRC, and wonderful stories shared by my cousins. But most of all, I want to remember standing by my father and holding his hand tightly while singing, “It is Well with My Soul”. I don’t want to forget it, ever.

It’s hard to describe the day after a funeral. Reality sets in and the laundry pile, forgotten during the week, beckoned. Life, with its many tasks and obligations, goes on.

I found myself driving to Blaine Cemetery to view my mother’s gravesite. Red roses lay on the freshly covered area. Another person was nearby, pulling weeds near a tombstone. How often do people visit a gravesite of someone they love? Is it only at Memorial Day? Am I supposed to weed? I saw a lawn care worker in the distance. How often do these people take care of a cemetery?

We spent the afternoon trying to keep my father busy. I located a pile of coins in his closet and instructed him to count them. He resisted at first and then found himself enjoying the task as he sorted the currency. He marveled that he allowed $60 worth of coins to lay around in a plastic bag. ” I could have made interest on it!” he commented. We also created a daily schedule and posted it near his door. ” You need to look at this every day, Dad,” I reminded him. He agreed. The broken ceiling light distracted him as well. Mitch fixed it, with my father watching his every movement. Household tasks definitely distract. At the end of the afternoon, we decided to take him out for supper. Our niece joined us. When he arrived, he broke down, remembering that it was his first time eating at a restaurant without my mom.

My favorite part of the day was, when parting ways for the night, he lovingly said,

” You are a good daughter” to me and “You are a good son-in-law” to Mitch. It was a memorable way to end ” the day after”.

The rectangular box, included in the display, said it all: blessed. It summed up my mother’s life, a life of eighty-eight years. It described my mother’s life, filled with happy memories with my father. It is the perfect way to summarize the day of my mother’s funeral/ celebration of life.

Pouring rain greeted us as we woke up and reminded us of the countless blessings of my mother’s life. Her Dutch family, Christian heritage, marriage to my father, and good health for most of her life are only some of the blessings. I know that many more could be listed.

Setting up for a funeral reminded me so much of different school events. We created nine different photo boards, spaced out in the church foyer as people entered the building. The wall hanging showcasing Heidelberg Catechism, Question and Answer #1 presented a little bit of a challenge. Where could we place it where people would see it? The easel stands worked for the rest of the displays, but were too small for the wall hanging. We ended up using a large white board as an easel. It wasn’t perfect, but it was okay. My brother didn’t like having the cousins’ wedding invitations, papers found in my mother’s cedar chest, as part of the display because some cousins could be offended that their program wasn’t included. We removed them, but I secretly thought it was rather trivial. Just like at school, working with other teachers, you let some things go.

Before the visitation began, we filed into a separate room to see my mother for one last time. The white casket, despite its expense, seemed fitting. The 48 red roses, arranged on top, included three ribbons: wife, mother, and Oma. My father cried and cried. Surprisingly, my eyes stayed dry.

At eleven, the visitation began. What a blessing to see so many people come to share their condolences! One of my best memories was when my high school friends surrounded me with hugs. Some of them were part of our cheerleading squad!

As the visitation ended, we gathered in the back room, one more time, for a time of prayer with the pastor. My mother’s sister and sister-in-law gathered with us. The director instructed us on seating.

As we entered the sanctuary, I felt an incredible sense of joy. Here we were, gathering together to praise God’s name. My mother’s death, although sad, brought a group of people together to praise Him!

My brother and I led several parts of the service. I shared the background and reason for the hymns chosen, played “How Great Thou Art”, and read two Psalms with my brother. Psalm 136, the echo reading, made me grin at times when my brother repeated the same line so many times. “His love endures forever”. I asked him to practice last night, but he cockily answered that he was perfectly capable of reading. The teacher part of me thought that he needed to use more expression at times AND look at the audience! Ha! After the pastor’s message, my brother entertained everyone with a time of remembrance of my mother. It was well-done and caused the audience to laugh from time to time.One of my favorite memories was passing out King Peppermints to the the audience. This was part of my mother’s church traditions. As soon as the pastor started preaching, she would take out a roll of Kings and offer it to others.

After lunch, we headed to the cemetery for the burial. Mitch forgot to turn off the oven before we left, so we ended up driving home first. The burned up chicken landed on the back deck, but we were thankful that we didn’t arrive home to burning embers. The burial service, short and sweet, concluded the day. We headed back to our house with the rest of the family where we sat around, discussing the day’s events and remembering funny stories about my mother.

As we ended the day, I couldn’t help wondering about this journey. For some reason, it feels like it’s only the start. I feel like God is going to reveal Himself in even bigger ways, but only time will tell.

It feels like I am expanding my writing genres– a blog, sports write-ups, and now.. an obituary. How do you write one?

It actually is not difficult thinking about my mother, her family, and what she contributed to this society, so I found myself enjoying the task while crying at the same time. I agreed with my brother’s words,” I often read rather impersonal obits and want it different for Mom”. Many times, the brevity is due to the cost of printing it. The $500 quote cost for printing it in the press seemed exorbitant, so we chose the online version with unlimited word count. He and I wrote it together, so here it is:

VandenTop, Marianne Janet (Asma), 88, passed into the loving arms of her Savior on September 9, 2019. She leaves behind her husband of 54 years, Bert, as well as daughter Michelle Tuinstra (Mitchell) of West Lafayette, IN, and son Marcel VandenTop (Hope) of Holland, Michigan. Marianne loved and faithfully prayed for her five grandchildren: Chloe, Caden, and Corey Tuinstra; Elyssa and Gavin VandenTop. She was preceded in death by her parents, Willem and Wijntje (Trompetter); sisters, Elisabeth (Kees) Groenewegen, Jacoba (Pete) DenHartigh, Gre (Piet) Visscher, and brothers Neil, John, Nick, and John. She is survived by her sister Janie (Chuck) Quist,  brother Al (Mary) Asma, and sister-in-laws, Dinah, Donna, and Nancy Asma as well as numerous nieces and nephews.

Born on September 24, 1930, in Andijk, the Netherlands, Marianne immigrated with her family to the United States in 1948 and became a United States citizen in 1955. Marianne worked as a physical therapy assistant in Kalamazoo and Grand Rapids.  She met the love of her life, Bert, via a pen pal program through the Banner, the magazine of the Christian Reformed Church. Both were immigrants from the Netherlands and they married on April 17, 1965. 

Marianne lovingly supported Bert’s work as a self-employed owner of Bert’s Electronic Shop.  She was an expert homemaker, and also shared those skills with a few other families whose houses she cleaned.  

Marianne and her husband Bert always highly valued education and encouraged their children and grandchildren in pursuing their educational goals.  She knew her Savior personally and her faith wasn’t a theoretical thing–she would say “ora et labora” meaning “pray and work”–a fitting expression for someone who worked hard all of her life.  “Just pray about it!” was a common phrase she uttered when faced with life’s challenges. 

A celebration of Marianne’s life will take place on Friday, September 13 at First Cutlerville CRC. 1425 68th Street SW, Byron Center, MI 49315.​ Visitation will take place at 11 followed by a celebration of life service at noon. A luncheon will be provided. The 2:15 burial service will conclude the day. In lieu of flowers, donations for  tuition assistance at Holland Christian or South Christian schools will honor Marianne’s appreciation for Christian education.

2 Timothy 4:7-8 I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day—and not only to me, but also to all who have longed for his appearing.

It’s amazing to think of all the moves I participated in this summer. At the beginning of the summer, I found myself decluttering my classroom. Most people gasp when I say it took me nine days. “What kinds of things did you have in there?” they ask. I can tell that they place me in the hoarder category. Chloe moved from her apartment to home which meant more decluttering and rearranging. July 10, the day of Mom’s fall, meant that we moved items to Metro. From Metro, she moved to Freedom Village. Waterford, the next destination, meant that we moved my parents to a new facility. Although we didn’t bring too many items, we still made an effort to create a homey environment. Our family moved from Indiana to Michigan. Caden moved from our Indiana home to the Purdue dorms. And, now…. today… the last move.

At 1:27 AM, the phone rang, causing me to jump out of bed. “Your mom passed, Michelle. I’m sorry.” Trying to remain rational, I asked her the time. When she answered, my only thought was, ” I wasn’t there.” Why? Why couldn’t I have been there? Why didn’t I sense that Sunday was her last day? I easily could have stayed at Waterford. Hurriedly, I raced out the door, hoping that my father would still be sleeping when I arrived. I couldn’t bear the thought of him waking up alone. Thankfully, he was still sleeping so I was able to be right by his side when he woke up, realizing that his wife of 54 years completed the final move. We spent the rest of the early hours in the realization that she was gone. I rationalized her death, hoping it would help. ” Dad, Mom was so skinny. There is no way she could continue in that manner.” He acknowledged the truth in my statement. We read the Bible, prayed, and planned her funeral. ” I want it to be a message of hope, ” he remarked. His tears continued to flow.

My brother arrived at 6: 30, ready for the move. “We want to move Dad back to Royal Park today, ” he instructed. “We don’t want him here any longer than needed.” I agreed. Later, in the morning, I sadly packed up the rooms. It was so strange, packing her clothing for the last time. Various staff members stopped by the room, offering condolences. I somehow kept the emotions at bay, politely said my thanks for their excellent care, and then wheeled the items down the hall to my van, parked in the front.

Seeing my father back at Royal Park gave a sense of comfort. It was just like old times. The furniture, located in the same place, welcomed me. We quickly realized, however, that it was important to move Mom’s clothing out as quickly as possible to help my father navigate the sea of emotions. We hurriedly pulled clothing off hangers and shelves, hoping he would not notice.

The afternoon ended with the funeral director arriving to discuss the funeral plans which were surprisingly funny at times. Learning that my mother chose a white casket when she met with the director back in 2015 caused us to laugh and laugh. She was the one who always mocked my father for choosing white. A piece of paper from a cemetery stated that my father purchased 4 cemetery plots for $1.00 each. The director phoned the cemetery only to learn that the plots were located in an undeveloped area, but it was possible to purchase additional plots for a high price. The laughter felt so good after so many tears.

My mother’s move is over. Her journey is complete. I rejoice in knowing that her suffering is over.

My mother always enjoyed picnics. While living in Indiana, we would often meet in Michigan City for a family picnic near Lake Michigan. When we were younger, we often attended summer concerts where we listened to music and ate a picnic supper on the grassy field.

Last Friday, Waterford held a picnic. Even though my mother could not attend, Corey and I joined my father and the residents for a wonderful meal by the lake. Each resident received a box lunch and even a piece of cake to celebrate a resident’s 93rd birthday. The weather was perfect and it seemed to cheer my father, even though he wanted my mother to join us.

The conversation with other residents, although short, reminded me of how simple things like a picnic, can bring joy to those who live in a sad world as they watch a spouse decline in memory or physical skills. Maybe our world needs more picnics!

“Your dad isn’t doing well,” the nurse said on the phone. “He has been crying and crying since breakfast. I told him I would call you,” she explained. I hurriedly hung up the phone and raced out the door to Waterford.

Upon entering the room, I found him sitting on his walker, hands covering his face. My mother, barely responsive, was lying in bed. The room was dark and depressing.

“Dad!” I sat down, ready to share my thoughts. I tried to provide him with anything I could do to keep him from crying. ” Here, eat an orange,” I instructed. I gave him a tissue box and opened the window to provide light.

He began to express his feelings as I listened. He described my mother who seemed to be declining. Her breaths seemed labored and slow. He was frustrated that she barely ate at breakfast. He could sense a change. Not knowing what else to say, I pulled out family photos to distract.. This calmed him down for a while.

While Dad ate lunch, I met with the hospice nurse who examined my mother. Her comment indicating that death would come in the next 72 hours wasn’t surprising, but it still hurt. “She was so alert yesterday,” I remarked. “What a change!” The nurse went on to describe the differences we would observe as death grew closer. “She’s transitioning,” she explained.

I returned to the dining area to eat with my father where our discussion centered on my mother’s declining condition. He acknowledged that her imminent death but broke down crying again. Despite my attempts to urge him to eat, he only ate half his meal. Unfortunately, minutes later, he started vomiting causing the nurse to come and help. We managed to grab the nearby trashcan in the nick of time.

Thankfully, the vomiting stopped and Dad was distracted with his computer project: card-making. Dad wanted to send a card to someone from the church who sent correspondence. Focusing on others is a great way to distract.

Music always distracts, so I headed over to the piano to play while my father sat nearby. We left the bedroom door open, hoping that Mom would hear the familiar hymns she loved. Unfortunately, the C note is STILL broken.

The arrival of my brother and his wife encouraged him and allowed us to spend moments remembering good times with Mom.

I would periodically check on my mom and urge her to drink, but the efforts seemed pointless. Instead, I would hold her hand and say hello. Her grip was surprisingly strong, but her glazed eyes seemed distant.

At one point, the nurse brought in a cart of goodies. “It’s the comfort train,” she explained. Drinks and snacks filled the cart. Food can definitely comfort during moments of sadness.

We ended the day, deciding to take day shifts staying with my father as we wait and see how it will end. I wish we would have had a family prayer time, but it slipped my mind. Tomorrow is another day as the journey continues.

Sunday, May 29– We rode our bikes to church- International Christian Fellowship– for a time of worship with about 25 believers. The singing was led by John, a student from Ghana. It was wonderful being able to sing English songs! He prayed long, heartfelt prayers that rose to a loud pitch and then descended to a mere whisper. We saw our American friends, the Wares as well. We met Samson, a student from Ghana, who was going to ask around to see if he could find a Dutch translator for my Backyard Bible Club idea.

Sunday, June 5- Amid the rain, AGAIN!– we rod our bikes to the Baptist church. They provided headphones for simultaneous translations. We felt very alone, though. After church, we were not greeted by anyone. Nix that church. No wonder many unbelievers do not want to attend church. We were welcomed to this house by our neighbors, presumably unbelievers, better than the people of this church! It was obvious we were visitors since we used the headphones. Cute little Corey fell asleep on Mitch’s lap during the service, but it did little to attract any kind of welcome. What does this say about Christianity? Obviously not much!

Sunday, June 12- We tried a new church today, Kerk on Huis, and found it much friendlier. We wore headphones for translation. The kids enjoyed Kinderdienst (Sunday School). We met a wonderful person, Marije, . We went to the Vellemas for coffee and sandwiches. It was a great day.

As I reread my entries from the 2005 sabbatical, I marveled at how God provided while in the Netherlands.Other entries included a description of Frans and Gisela, also church friends, who still send us Christmas cards. He also provided a Dutch translator for the Bible Club held in our sabbatical rental.

Now, here in Caledonia, God provided again. Today, I learned that a person I met at church mentioned my name to a school principal. He and I met to discuss substitute teaching. God provides. I just need to watch and wait. He is faithful.