Dec 06 | Spruitje, mijn hoop (Letters from the Coast)

In 2017 my best friend from my university days had a baby girl, and I became a godparent. Her parents are fairly private with photos and information, so to respect that, I’ll refer to her as “Spruitje,” a nickname I gave her which means “little sprout” in Dutch. This was a natural progression from my first nickname for her, which was “Boontje,” or “little bean.” The first time I ever met her, she was only two weeks old and often curled up, very like a wee bean. Perhaps when she is an adult I’ll switch to “Boomtje,” or “little tree,” although I suspect that despite my best efforts she will always be “Spruitje” to me.

My mother’s elder sister married a Dutch man, and so I knew some of the peculiarities of Dutch culture in a very peripheral sort of way before I met my friend. I marveled over my uncle’s wooden gardening clogs, learned the correct pronunciation of the name Marijke, and received many hand-knitted sweaters from my cousins’ Oma at Christmastime.

My best friend was born to a Dutch mother and an American father, and proudly taught me more Dutch traditions, including some lullabyes (“Slaap, kindtje, slaap!”), the word for “rogue” (schurk), the joys of boterkoek and stroopwaffel, and finally the yearly celebration of Sinterklaas.

Sinterklaas is held on the Feast of St. Nicholas (today, if you’re wondering why I’m writing about this) and is a day of gift giving and festivities. The part my husband and I have been most privileged to enjoy so far has been the receiving of chocolate letters in the mail from my best friend, who now lives with her partner and Spruitje in Utrecht.

This will be Spruitje’s second Christmas. On a video call the other day, it seemed that she recognized me, giggling and pointing, and something happened inside me that has never happened before.

This little person, who came into my life at a time where I had barely managed to escape from an emotional abyss by the skin of my teeth; who was so small and fragile that no matter what happened I wanted to be there for her even across an ocean and a continent, to try in my own small ways to help her grow into something far beyond what I could ever hope to become…

This little person was now growing and would one day be able to say my name, to tell me about her day at school, to maybe ask me questions she doesn’t dare ask her mother, to grow from tiny boon to little spruit to towering boom (and her mother is 6 feet tall so you know she’ll truly be a boom), to seize the treasures of life on her very own having been raised up by everyone who loves her.

There is something special about this little person connected to me not by blood or marriage but love alone. The notion that what I feel for her is merely a biological imperative to protect is so much straw and feathers in the face of the love I felt last summer, staring together down a slowly darkening forest path out beyond her grandparents’ house as we were caressed by an evening breeze and (tipsily emotional), I whispered, “Everything around you is alive. Everything around you is your family. You are a part of all things.”

In the season of Advent, we are called to contemplate the return of the Messiah, who will wake us from our sleep and invite us into a restored world of justice and peace. St. Nicholas, heavily sanitized in secular culture, was actually a saviour of children and young women, rescuing them from abuse and degradation in countless stories. He is also the patron saint of seafarers, those who sail into the unknown seeking adventure, and those who brave wind and waves to bring those of us on the shore the things we need every day to survive.

This little person with whom I share only love is surely the only gift worth thanking St. Nicholas and God for on this Sinterklaas feast and in this season of Advent as I look ahead to an unknown future which can surely not be without hope, having such a child (and indeed, so many children) in it.

Woorden kunnen mijn liefde voor jou niet omschrijven, Spruitje. Prettige sinterklaas!