Remembering Joyce

Joyce had already retired by the time I met her several years ago at my parish church.

Even though it had been decades since she left her roots in war-ravaged Holland for a fresh start in America, she never lost strong traces of her native tongue.

She was the essence of hospitality and Old World grace, and had an upbeat outlook on life despite hardships that would have crippled countless others.

I heard about them over time, during prayer group discussions or lunches she prepared for us – which always felt like a trip back to the Holland of her childhood: wonderful homemade soup, sandwiches and other dishes. I felt like a sponge at such moments, just wanting to savor it and soak it all in.


Though they never met, she grew up in the same city and at the same time as Anne Frank. If I remember correctly, they only lived a few blocks apart, though they never met. Joyce had her own heart-rending experiences during the war: She was awakened in the middle of the night by the Nazis storming into her home and arresting her father. When he told her good-bye, she said, she never realized it would be the last time she would ever see him. She was sleepy, wanted to get back to bed and figured he’d come home again soon. Instead, he was shipped to a forced labor camp somewhere in the East. In his last letter, very late in the war, he wrote that the Russians were closing in from the front and the sea was to his back. She never learned how he died.

It’s difficult for people who didn’t live through it to comprehend how evil the Nazis were, she said. I think that’s why I was all the more impressed by her approach to life: she didn’t let the wounds of war – of unimaginable cruelty – or other painful experiences later on steal her ability to experience joy, to marvel at the wonders of life.

She came to America with her husband, Ray, to build a new life some years after the war. They bonded with other “Dutchies” who had made Wichita their home, and it was a treat for me to see them come as a group to our parish’s sausage dinner every March. I’d hear them speak in Dutch or heavily accented English and could sense the strong, deep ties they shared.

One of her children died and another would never walk, doctors told her. But with fierce love and determination, she worked and worked with her son, and together they proved the doctors wrong. He has a wife, family and successful job in another state now.

Joyce was always quick with a smile and a word of support whenever one of us in the prayer group was going through a painful challenge. It wasn’t a form of denial…more a wisdom and belief borne of a strong faith and the conviction that good people outlast hard times. She was one of those select people I particularly enjoyed hearing talk in our prayer groups, because I always came away feeling enriched. I know I’m not the only one who felt that way. Our group enjoyed each other so much we would meet for lunch or tea just for the pleasure of each other’s company. And it wasn’t the same if Joyce wasn’t there.

Joyce suffered a stroke and left us a few days before Christmas. I have tried to console myself with the knowledge that she is able to be with her daughter, parents and other loved ones now. I’ll miss her, but I’m feeling grateful that she was part of my life – even if it now seems for far too short a time.

Thank you, God.

And thank you, Joyce.