Nothing in creation stands entirely alone.

Every person, every act of kindness, every loss, every joy, every meeting and every farewell belongs somehow to a much larger story. No life is an isolated event. Every life sends ripples into the lives of others, often much further than we will ever know.

When we are in the middle of life, it can sometimes look like a confused collection of unrelated events. People come and go. Doors open and close. Plans change. Friendships begin unexpectedly. Other relationships disappear almost without explanation. Some experiences seem deeply meaningful, while others appear completely random.

And yet, looking back over our own story, Anne-Marie and I have increasingly begun to see something else.

What once looked like scattered pieces has slowly begun to resemble a tapestry.

Not a perfectly ordered tapestry. There are loose threads, unfinished patterns, dark colours and places we still do not understand. But there is also a surprising beauty in the way people, places and moments seem to have become connected with one another.

Years ago, when we were living at Appleseed Lodge, someone made an observation about our home that stayed with me.

We had couches everywhere. I think at one point there were seven of them scattered throughout the house. Someone said to us that on every couch there seemed to be another nation sitting.

Of course, they meant people.

People from different countries, cultures and backgrounds. People with different ways of seeing life, different experiences, different beliefs and different stories.

Looking back now, I realize that those people were not merely visitors sitting on our furniture.

Every one of them carried an entire world into our home.

A world filled with memories and dreams, laughter and disappointment, beauty and brokenness, questions and hope. Each person carried a story that had begun long before they ever walked through our door.

And for a little while, their story touched ours.

Perhaps that is one of the great mysteries of being human: our stories keep flowing into one another.

And I have begun to wonder whether something even deeper was happening.

Could it be that whenever we truly encountered another person’s story, we were encountering something of God?

The interesting thing is that not everyone who sat on those couches would have described themselves as a conscious follower of Christ. At the time, I probably made much clearer distinctions between those who were “inside” and those who were “outside,” those who believed and those who did not.

I am much less certain about those boundaries today.

Because what if Christ was present long before we recognized Him?

What if He was already sitting on the couch?

What if the presence of Christ is not limited to the places where His name is consciously spoken, but quietly shines through compassion, vulnerability, friendship, beauty, laughter, longing and even through the wounds we dare to share with one another?

It makes me think differently about the people I meet.

What would happen if I consciously looked for Christ in every person who crossed my path?

That does not mean abandoning wisdom or discernment. It does not mean pretending that everything people do is good, harmless or true. Love can see clearly.

But perhaps discernment and judgement are not the same thing.

Discernment asks, “What is happening here?”

Judgement so easily says, “I already know who you are.”

Perhaps Christ invites us to look again.

To see beyond behaviour, labels, beliefs, nationalities, religions, successes and failures, and to recognize something sacred in the person standing before us.

Maybe that sounds naïve.

But perhaps the greater danger is not that we expect to see Christ in too many people.

Perhaps the greater danger is that He passes before us every day and we fail to recognize Him.

There is a part of the prayer associated with St Patrick that has increasingly become a prayer for the way I want to walk through life:

Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me,
Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ on my right, Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down,
Christ in the heart of everyone who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me,
Christ in the eye that sees me,
Christ in the ear that hears me.

Maybe this is what it means to awaken to a world in which everything is connected.

Christ not only somewhere above us.

Christ within us.

Christ between us.

Christ hidden in the stranger.

Christ reflected in the friend.

Christ present in stories we understand and in stories completely unlike our own.

And perhaps, when we look back over our lives, we will discover that many of the moments we once called coincidence were quiet encounters with grace.

A conversation.

A meal.

A stranger.

A friendship.

A couch.

A wink.

And somehow, through it all, Christ was there.

Keeping Our Hearts Open

Anne-Marie is still writing her stories, and while she was doing so, another thought quietly found its way into my heart.

It has fto do with keeping both our hearts and our minds open—to other ways of thinking, to different belief systems, and to the experiences of other people.

I remember a conversation with my grandmother that has stayed with me all my life. I was barely sixteen years old and had just received the exciting news that I had been accepted after auditioning for the musical Hair in Amsterdam.

She told me something I have never forgotten.

“Follow your heart and your dreams,” she said. “Don’t let other people’s fears determine the course of your life.”

Then she surprised me.

She told me she actually believed that performing in Hair would be a good step for me to take.

So I did.

Looking back now, I can see that only three years later, being part of that musical became the stepping stone into an entirely different life—a life filled with purpose, adventure, unexpected friendships, and a depth of meaning I could never have imagined at sixteen.

I have carried my grandmother’s words with me ever since.

My parents lived out that same openness in their own quiet way.

One day I arrived home with three of my friends from Hair—one from Korea, one from Japan, and one from the Netherlands. They didn’t just come for a weekend. They ended up living with us for almost three months.

Now, my parents were ordinary people. We lived in a modest apartment on the third floor with only two bedrooms. Down in the cellar was a tiny storage room intended for bicycles.

My father looked at that little room, placed a two-person bed inside, installed electricity, and somehow transformed it into a bedroom so two of my friends would have a place to sleep.

Looking back, I smile. He never asked whether it was practical. He never calculated the inconvenience. He simply made room.

Perhaps that is what love does.

There was nothing extraordinary about my parents in the eyes of the world. They weren’t wealthy. They weren’t adventurous in any spectacular way. They weren’t trying to impress anyone.

They simply had hearts that were open.

Looking back, I think that was where I learned one of life’s greatest lessons: stay open to people and remain curious about life.

Fear always makes our world smaller.

It whispers that we should protect ourselves.

It convinces us that those who are different are dangerous.

It teaches us to withdraw, to build walls instead of tables, and before long our thoughts begin to spiral inward.

Love does exactly the opposite. Love enlarges our world.

It opens our eyes to beauty we would otherwise overlook.

It opens our ears to melodies we had never noticed before.

It teaches us to sing songs we thought we had forgotten.

It awakens our senses to taste kindness and discover worlds we never imagined existed.

Love is anchored in hope. It quietly whispers, Don’t give up.

Centuries ago Julian of Norwich, writing in the midst of plague and uncertainty, heard Christ whisper these remarkable words: “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.” She was not denying pain. She was discovering that love is always deeper than fear and that hope has a longer horizon than despair.

Faith often sees what is invisible to ordinary sight but beautifully visible to the eyes of the heart.

As Anne-Marie and I raised our three wonderful children, we discovered that keeping our hearts open was not always easy. We had to learn, again and again, to broaden our horizons, to welcome people whose stories were different from ours, and to allow love—not fear—to become our true north.

After all is said and done, I have become convinced that our relationships, our friendships, our heart-connections are what truly matter.

Even as I write these words, I am not sure I fully understand everything they imply.

I certainly don’t agree with everything people believe, think, or do.

Sometimes our choices are painfully uninformed.

Sometimes they are selfish.

Sometimes they are even destructive.

Love has never required me to call darkness light.

But it has continually invited me to look deeper than the behaviour and see the person. That, I think, is one of the hardest lessons of all.

Throughout our travels we have met people from countless cultures, backgrounds, and belief systems. Some have become lifelong friends. Others crossed our path only briefly. Many challenged our assumptions. All of them enlarged our world.

Again and again I discovered that openness is not about having fewer convictions. It is about having greater confidence that love is stronger than fear.

Over the years, people have lived in our home who had reached the end of their rope. We rarely had answers for them. We couldn’t fix their circumstances or untangle the complexity of their lives.

The only thing we could really offer was a place at our table.

A listening ear.

A bed.

A meal.

An embrace.

Sometimes I wonder whether those simple gifts were enough.

More and more, I believe they often were.

Because people are rarely transformed by arguments.

More often, they are changed by being loved.

Perhaps that is what my grandmother and my parents were teaching me all along.

Not through lectures.

But through the ordinary, often unnoticed choices of everyday life.

I am slowly discovering what Julian of Norwich meant when she wrote, “The greatest honour we can give Almighty God is to live gladly because of the knowledge of His love.” Perhaps faith is less about being afraid of getting everything wrong and more about learning to live from the certainty that we are deeply loved.

After all these years, after the journeys, the friendships, the mistakes, the discoveries, and the countless people who have crossed our path, I find myself coming back to Julian of Norwich’s wonderfully simple conclusion:

Love was His meaning.

Perhaps that has always been the point.

Perhaps every wink, every unexpected encounter, every open door, every stranger welcomed into our home, every friendship that changed us, has been gently pointing us toward that one enduring truth.

Love was His meaning.

More of Our Story in Kelowna

It has been a little while since I last added to our memoirs. Life has been wonderfully full. Traveling back and forth to the Netherlands to spend time with our children and grandchildren always fills our hearts, but it also takes quite a bit of energy. We love every moment of it, yet afterward we usually need a few quiet days to refuel.

Recently I also had the privilege of leading a seminar in the Netherlands on A More Beautiful Gospel. Preparing for that weekend took me back to the beginning of my own journey of rethinking many of the things I had believed for years. Looking back, I realize that many of the changes in my understanding of God were not born primarily from reading books or studying theology, but from asking honest questions, having long conversations, and living life with trusted friends.

One of those friends was Brad Jersak.

During our years in Kelowna we regularly opened our home for evenings of conversation. One evening, Brad spoke about the research that would eventually become his book Her Gates Will Never Be Shut: Hope, Hell and the New Jerusalem. We invited anyone who might be interested, and our home filled with people eager to listen and discuss.

It became one of those evenings that stretched far into the night.

Questions filled the room.

Would a loving God really send people into everlasting punishment? Is God first and foremost a Judge, or is He ultimately a loving Father? What about the second coming of Jesus? The rapture? Was the primary purpose of preaching the gospel really to rescue people from hell before it was too late? Larry Norman had already written the famous song I Wish We’d All Been Ready, and for many Christians that captured exactly how they understood the future.

As I listened to the discussions, I found myself reflecting on my own journey.

My understanding of God had not been shaped primarily by books or Bible school. In many ways, it had been shaped by my own father and mother. I grew up in a home where I felt safe, deeply loved, accepted, and seen. Love was never something I had to earn.

Yet during my years in YWAM, through Discipleship Training Schools, revival meetings, and the influence of many wonderful evangelists and revivalists, I gradually absorbed another way of thinking. The message was often clear: God loves you, but unless you make the right decision, your eternal destiny hangs in the balance.

As Brad and I continued talking about hell, judgment, the end of the world, the rapture, and the idea that only a relatively small number of people would ultimately make it while the rest faced unimaginable judgment, something inside me simply refused to settle.

Could that really be what Jesus called “good news”?

Somewhere along the way I had adopted the idea that accepting Christ was the condition for being loved by Him. Evangelism and missions therefore became incredibly urgent. If people didn’t make that one all-important decision, their eternal future was at stake. And if we failed to tell them, somehow their blood would be on our hands.

Looking back, I don’t think I ever completely believed that. Yet it lingered quietly beneath the surface of my thinking for many years.

Around the same time we were also discussing the writings of several well-known prophets. Much of what we heard seemed to produce more fear than hope. Demons, principalities, and territorial spirits were often presented as the dominant forces controlling world events. Spiritual warfare therefore became one of the highest priorities. We were encouraged to pray on mountaintops, research the history of cities, identify ancient curses, and spiritually “break” them over regions.

I remember quietly asking myself a simple question.

Why don’t we ever see Jesus doing this?

He never climbed mountains to break territorial curses. He never instructed His disciples to do so. Nor do we see the apostles practicing these things in the Book of Acts.

Of course, we could always find verses scattered throughout Scripture—especially in the Old Testament—and weave them together into a theological system that seemed convincing. But was that really what those passages were saying? Increasingly, I wasn’t so sure.

Looking back now, I realize that we had embraced a number of ideas and practices that, at least for me, went far beyond what I now see in the life and teaching of Jesus. At the time they seemed perfectly normal. Today they feel strangely foreign.

Then came what became known as the Lakeland Revival.

Someone unexpectedly paid for Anne-Marie and me to fly to Florida. We took that as confirmation that we were meant to go.

The day before we left, however, I climbed onto our roof—not off the roof!—and somehow badly injured my leg. Overnight I became unable to walk. After receiving crutches, I found myself sitting in a wheelchair while Anne-Marie faithfully pushed me from one airport gate to the next until we finally arrived in Lakeland.

Todd Bentley, whom we knew personally, was one of the central figures in the revival and was due to speak.

Before he came on, there was a long time of worship.

And it was loud. Very loud. Now, I love music. But this was loud.

At one point I decided to leave my crutches and wall without them, despite the intense pain in my leg. I wanted to enter into the worship rather than simply observe it.

Something unexpected happened.

Gradually the pain began to lessen. After about half an hour it had completely disappeared, and I was able to walk freely again.

It was all incredibly dramatic—the worship, the preaching, the atmosphere, the long ministry lines, and the laying on of hands.

A few days later we returned home and shared with our friends what we had experienced.

Looking back now, I’m still not entirely sure what to make of those days. Something genuine was happening in many people’s lives—I don’t doubt that. Yet there was also something else beneath the surface that left us increasingly uneasy. We couldn’t quite put our finger on it at the time, but the hype, the celebrity culture, and later the moral collapse of some of its leaders made us realize that not everything shining brightly is necessarily healthy.

Our own church in Kelowna embraced much of what was happening as well. It was during that period that I first heard about what later became known as the New Apostolic Reformation (NAR).

For those unfamiliar with it, the NAR is less a denomination than a theological ecosystem—a collection of ideas about spiritual authority, divine mandate, and the nature of the church that gradually found its way into much of charismatic and Pentecostal Christianity, often without ever introducing itself by name.

Much of its theological framework was developed by C. Peter Wagner, who believed that God was restoring the offices of Apostle and Prophet to the church in a unique way. Within this understanding, apostles were seen as carrying extraordinary spiritual authority—not only over churches, but sometimes even over cities, regions, and culture itself. In practice, that authority often functioned with very little accountability beyond the claim of being directly answerable to God.

There is much more that could be said about the movement, but I’d rather stay with our own story.

It was during this season that we began questioning many of the practices and assumptions we had accepted almost without thinking.

Around the same time, the church where we served as elders entered one of the most painful seasons we had ever experienced. What began as disagreements slowly revealed deeper issues of power, control, and authority, eventually ending in a painful split.

Anne-Marie and I made the difficult decision to leave the church altogether.

One of the hardest consequences was losing friendships that we had treasured for years. Thankfully, a number of dear friends stayed close and helped carry us through that painful chapter.

Although we had learned so much through living in community, witnessed remarkable answers to prayer, formed lifelong friendships, and discovered so much of God’s heart, this difficult season became a stepping stone into an entirely new chapter of our lives.

Sometimes God leads us forward not by giving us all the answers, but by gently dismantling the questions we never thought to ask.

But before we continue that journey, Anne-Marie would love to share some of her own memories from those precious years in Kelowna.

Anne-Marie and I wish all of you — dear friends and readers — a beautiful and meaningful Pentecost.

Today we are enjoying the sunshine, friendship, and each other here in beautiful Beiseförth. Our family is back in the Netherlands at the moment, and we look forward to seeing them again in June.

As I was reflecting this morning, I found myself thinking about what Pentecost might mean for us in the world we are living in today.

Perhaps Pentecost reminds us that: God is not distant. Divine life is shareable.
Ordinary people can carry love, wisdom, courage, healing, and hope.
Spirituality is not about control, but about participation in the life of God.Or as someone beautifully expressed it:

Christmas is God with us.
Easter is God for us.
Pentecost is God within us.

And that changes everything.

May you sense and experience God’s nearness today, as the Holy Spirit continues to move and work — even within the chaos and fragmentation of the world we live in.

Much love,
Peter & Anne-Marie

What Does It Mean That God Is Love — and not some kind of a controll freak?

Living in a community of twelve to twenty people — eating, praying, laughing, and simply doing life together — naturally led to many deep and often philosophical conversations. I think that was one of the things we loved most about our time at Appleseed Lodge: the atmosphere of safety, freedom, and discovery. It felt as if anything could be explored and every question could be asked.

Breakfasts often lasted for hours. Sometimes we simply enjoyed each other’s company; other times we discussed a “hot topic” someone had been reading or wrestling with.

I remember one particular day standing in the Upper Room, looking out through the large windows over the beautiful landscape of Kelowna. A thought suddenly came to me with great force: “God truly is everywhere at the same time. There is no place where God is not.” (Psalm 139:8-12)

And that thought led me even further.

If God is truly present everywhere, then perhaps God is also present in all things. Not that everything is God — but that God is deeply present within creation itself. And if that is true, then God is already very near to every person, whether they realize it or not.

For me, this changed something profoundly.

It meant that God was much closer than I had once imagined — truly never far from any of us, regardless of where we think we are spiritually. Just like Paul preached in Acts 17:28:  “for in Him we live and move and have our being, as also some of your own poets have said, ‘For we are also His offspring.’

At the same time another question began to rise in me:
If God is Love in essence, and if God is everywhere present, does that automatically mean that God controls every event, every action, every detail of life?

Does love dominate, control, and coerce? Or does love create the space for freedom?

That question led me to another:
Is our future completely predetermined, or do we somehow co-create life together with God? Could it be that the future is not entirely fixed in advance? Could our choices genuinely matter?

I found these thoughts both unsettling and fascinating.

What if the future were still an unwritten page — one we are invited to co-write together with the Author of Life Himself?

At the same time, I realized how much these ideas challenged parts of the belief systems I had grown up with.

You mean God does not control every detail?
You mean God does not force every decision or determine every outcome?
You mean God is deeply involved in our lives, yet does not dominate every step we take?

These thoughts felt dangerous at times — but also strangely liberating.

Later I discovered that this way of thinking is often called Open Theism — a relational theological view that emphasizes that God is genuinely loving, relational, and interactive with creation, and that the future is not completely fixed or exhaustively predetermined.

Ironically, living in close community taught us more about love than many books ever could.

When people live in your home, share your meals, occupy your space, interrupt your routines, and are not always the people you naturally would have chosen to live with, you quickly discover whether your ideas about love actually work in everyday life.

Anne-Marie and I decided very early on that we did not want to lead our home like an institution filled with rules, control, and endless do’s and don’ts. We wanted something more relational — built on respect, trust, grace, and mutual understanding.

Since the second year of our marriage, beginning in Amsterdam, we had already lived in various forms of community life. We had seen the good, the bad, and the ugly of it all. Community living was not always easy.

And yet there we were again in Kelowna, inviting people into our home — not merely for a weekend, but often for uncertain lengths of time.

There were moments when Anne-Marie and I looked at each other and honestly thought:
“What exactly are we doing?” 😄

But looking back now, we feel deeply grateful.

Those years taught us invaluable lessons about people, freedom, relationship, grace, and the slow transforming power of love.

It was there that we encountered in a very tangible way that God — who is Love in essence — is profoundly relational and not a controll freak.

And as we grew together as a family and community, we slowly began to realize that the future itself also seemed open. Nothing felt frozen in cement. Nothing appeared mechanically predetermined.

Instead, life began to feel more like an unfolding discovery of what might become possible together with God.

A kind of awakening.

Creativity, freedom, curiosity, and the joy of discovering new possibilities slowly became part of the atmosphere of our lives.

And somehow, deep inside, we sensed that love itself was leading us there.

Reflective Questions

• What kind of image of God did you grow up with — and has life, love, relationship, or suffering changed that picture over time?

• Does love truly control and coerce… or does real love create space for freedom, growth, and relationship?

• What if your future is not a fixed script already written for you, but an unfolding journey you are invited to co-create together with God?

Dare We Ask Questions?

Our oldest son came to stay with us at Appleseed Lodge together with his family. Some of his friends joined him for part of that time as well. All of them were involved in various forms of Christian ministry and church life back in the Netherlands, and they wanted some space simply to reflect, rest, ask questions, and spend time together with us. Kelowna was the perfect place for that.

During those weeks, we also invited Brad and Eden Jersak to join some of our conversations and gatherings. Those were beautiful times — but also confronting ones. All of us were going through different stages in life where we had begun to question some of our fundamental beliefs as Christians.

I especially remember our oldest son courageously voicing some of those questions. Looking back now, many years later, I realize how important that season became for all of us. What started there impacted us deeply and still influences the way we see life and faith today.

Some of the thoughts we wrestled with back then have only become clearer over time. And sadly, we also see what can happen when people never question their belief systems at all.

Sometimes people ask me:
“Are you still a Christian?”
“Have you lost your faith?”
“Do you still believe what you used to preach and teach?”

To be honest, I certainly don’t teach everything exactly the same way I once did. I have gone through some major shifts in the way I see God and spirituality. And I actually think that can be healthy — because God is not static, and neither are we. Life has a way of teaching us.

When I look back, one of the biggest changes in my spiritual life began the moment Anne-Marie and I got married.

We were newlyweds living in the Red Light District in the heart of Amsterdam. Our apartment was tiny. The kitchen was so small that barely one person could stand in it at a time — either cooking or washing dishes, but certainly not both. Our bedroom was upstairs in the attic, just large enough for a bed. When you opened the window, you could practically shake hands with the neighbors across the alley.

One day, some friends of Anne-Marie called and asked if they could come visit. They hadn’t seen her for a while and had never met me before. Of course I said yes.

The only problem was: they decided to come right during “my quiet time” — my sacred spiritual moment of prayer and Bible reading.

They rang the doorbell while I was upstairs “communing with God.” 😄

As they climbed the stairs and entered our living room, while I was still sitting upstairs on the bed trying to be deeply spiritual, I could literally feel my spirituality draining away and frustration taking its place.

For the next thirty minutes I simply refused to come downstairs.

Needless to say, my “time with God” was completely ruined. I felt guilty, irritated with the visitors, frustrated with Anne-Marie — and honestly, not very spiritual at all.

Looking back now, I realize how small and limited my picture of God still was. Somehow I imagined God as existing mainly inside my spiritual moments, my discipline, my quiet times, my religious routines.

And I suspect that legalistic image of God also flowed into much of my preaching and teaching during those beginning years.

Life, however, has a way of teaching us where the rubber truly meets the road.

Living together with Anne-Marie transformed my spirituality. Then having three children, dogs, cats, birds, responsibilities, interruptions, noise, relationships, disappointments, laughter, and ordinary life — all of that changed me even more.

Did my view of God change?

Yes… and no.

Perhaps God didn’t change, but life slowly helped me come back down to earth. It taught me to ask real questions and to learn how to love and live from the heart, not merely from theological scripts or systems I had inherited.

Over time I realized that my preaching, teaching, and sharing had to reflect something genuinely lived — not merely ideas I had learned in Bible schools or books.

Back at Appleseed Lodge, Anne-Marie and I definitely began questioning some of the belief systems we had embraced for many years.

One major area was our view of the end times.

Early in my Christian journey I had read books like The Late Great Planet Earth and later the novels by Tim LaHaye. I listened to Larry Norman singing:

“I Wish We’d All Been Ready.” (By the way, Anne-Marie always thought these particular books were all utter rubbish! She was definitely a step or two ahead)

And of course, the movement I had been part of strongly believed that the second coming of Christ was imminent.

The rapture was deeply woven into our belief system although I secretly always had severe doubts about it.

But gradually I began to struggle with the logic and spirit behind it all.

How could Jesus suddenly come back and remove all the people who had the “right beliefs,” while leaving everyone else behind to suffer through unimaginable tribulation?

I began wondering: How could anyone celebrate in heaven while knowing their children, parents, friends, neighbors — all those “others” — were supposedly going through hell on earth?

Something about it no longer reflected the heart of Christ to me.

We also started questioning how we interpreted the book of Revelation and the rigid prophetic timelines we had been taught.

These kind of “End-Time Views” shaped the way we watched the news:
“What is happening in Israel?”
“Are these signs of the end?”
“Is this the antichrist spirit?”

Everything seemed filtered through fear and urgency:
Evangelize now.
Warn people.
Repent before it is too late.
Escape the coming judgment.

But over time the picture of God that emerged from those systems began to feel increasingly disturbing — less like Jesus and more like some cosmic dictator, harsh judge, or even a monster.

During those years, Brad Jersak especially helped me rethink many of the ideas I had inherited since becoming a Christian. And reading books by Brian McLaren gave language to much of what Anne-Marie and I had already begun sensing deep inside.

It felt like the end of certain theological worlds we had once lived in — but also the beginning of entirely new horizons we were only beginning to discover.

Reflective Questions

• Have there been moments in your own life where ordinary relationships, interruptions, marriage, children, disappointment, or suffering challenged the picture of God you once carried?

• Are there beliefs you inherited that you have never really questioned for yourself?
  And if so, what might happen if you dared to ask honest questions without fear?

• Does the image of God you carry today look and feel like Jesus — compassionate, relational, and loving — or is it still shaped more by fear, control, or religious systems?

• What if spiritual maturity is not about becoming more certain about everything… but becoming more loving, more humble, and more deeply human?

Changes and restoring beauty in the prophetic…

Traveling, meeting new friends, encountering other cultures, and living in community with people from all over the world constantly coming in and out of our home inspired many conversations and deep reflections about life — about how life works, or at least how it seemed to work for us.

Over time, one inevitably begins to examine what one truly believes.

I have become convinced that our view of God — even if someone does not believe in God at all — profoundly shapes the way we live our lives. Questions began to surface more and more:

Does God already know every detail of the future?
Has He predetermined every step we take?
Do some people possess special gifts that enable them to see future events more clearly than others?

Throughout many years of teaching in churches, conferences, and YWAM schools, I often shared prophetic words over people. By that I mostly mean encouraging people, helping them lift their eyes beyond their immediate circumstances, reminding them that life is meaningful and that their lives deeply matter.

There was something incredibly beautiful about that. To see hope awakened in people brought enormous joy and fulfillment to me. That is why I found the prophetic so inspiring.

At the same time, however, I also became increasingly concerned about some of the pitfalls and dangers that can emerge when people begin depending too heavily on what “others” — especially supposedly “specially anointed” people — say about their lives, their future, or even about God Himself.

One evening at Appleseed Lodge, during one of our open gatherings in what we called our “Upper Room,” we devoted an entire session to this very topic.

During those years, Anne-Marie and I had developed a deep and precious friendship with Brad Jersak and Eden Jersak. Their friendship helped us tremendously as we re-examined many of our assumptions, wrestled with difficult questions, and slowly began rethinking aspects of our faith and spiritual practices.

The following devotional is based on edited notes from that evening at Appleseed Lodge. Looking back now, it became an important step in our journey toward a healthier, more Christ-centered understanding of the prophetic and spiritual life in general.

I trust you will find it helpful — and perhaps even recognize some of your own questions along the way.

Beyond Cynicism – Rediscovering the Heart of the Prophetic

(Reflections from a conversation between Brad Jersak & Peter Helms at Appleseed Lodge, October 4, 2009)

In the early 2000s, many within the prophetic and renewal movements began to feel a growing unease. What had once brought genuine life, freedom, worship, and spiritual awakening was increasingly mixed with hype, celebrity culture, exaggeration, political agendas, strange manifestations, and untested prophetic claims.

At Appleseed Lodge, during an open evening gathering in our “Upper Room,” Brad Jersak and I sat together with friends to ask an honest question:

How do we remain open to the Holy Spirit without losing our grounding in Jesus?

We knew we did not want to retreat into cynicism or lifeless religion. We still believed deeply in the presence, voice, and power of God. But we also sensed the need for purification — a returning to the simplicity and beauty of Christ Himself.

One of the Scriptures that shaped our discussion was:

“The words of the Lord are pure words, like silver refined in a furnace.”
(Psalm 12:6)

We began to realize that every prophetic word, every spiritual experience, and every ministry practice must ultimately pass through the refining fire of the character of Jesus — through humility, mercy, peacemaking, truth, and love.

Over time we recognized several unhealthy tendencies that had crept into parts of the prophetic movement:

• A fascination with spectacular experiences while drifting away from the Jesus of the Gospels.

• A reluctance to test prophetic words or question leaders.

• The elevation of “anointed personalities” above authentic community and accountability.

• Treating the “anointing” as a spiritual commodity carried by special people rather than the indwelling presence of the Holy Spirit given to all believers.

• Chasing manifestations, impartations, and spiritual “hotspots” while neglecting the slow and beautiful journey of discipleship and transformation.

• Confusing the glory of God with mystical experiences rather than seeing His glory revealed in Christlike love, humility, and service.

Again and again we returned to one central conviction:

The testimony of Jesus is the spirit of prophecy.

True prophetic ministry does not draw attention to itself. It reveals Jesus.
It leads people toward truth, humility, love, repentance, healing, and deeper union with God.

We also realized that discernment is not cynicism. Testing prophecy is not quenching the Spirit. In fact, Scripture calls us to “test everything and hold fast to what is good.” Discernment, when rooted in love, protects the beauty of authentic spiritual life.

At the same time, we did not want to throw everything away. Many of us had genuinely encountered God in worship, prayer, community, and renewal gatherings. We had seen lives changed and hearts awakened. The answer was not rejection of the Spirit, but rediscovering the Spirit through Christ-centered simplicity.

One thought especially stayed with us:

If we chase signs and wonders, we may lose the path of Jesus.
But if we follow Jesus, signs of His kingdom will follow in their proper place.

Looking back now, that season became an important turning point for us. It marked a gradual movement away from performance-driven spirituality and toward a quieter, healthier, more relational faith — one rooted not in hype, fear, or spiritual ambition, but in the self-giving love revealed in Jesus Christ.

For me, this was not the end of the prophetic.
It was the beginning of learning how to hear again — more gently, more honestly, and more Christ-centeredly.

Anne-Marie speaking

Now I want to go back quite a few years…

We had just moved to Canada from the Netherlands, into a small house—but with a very large garden. It was the summer of 2001.

We organized our first Faith, Fun & Fellowship—a holiday with content.
Forty-five people came from all over the world… and for a whole month they were eating meals we cooked in the garden.

It was like a mini school.

At its heart, it was about relationship and fun—with teaching in the mornings and evenings.

A really beautiful time.

At the same time, we were trying to buy the house we were renting… but the owners really needed to sell. (Just a bit of background—stay with me…)

We were about three or four days into the FFF when we heard that there was a very serious buyer for the house.

So I (Anne-Marie) began talking to the Lord about it all… about our thoughts and ideas.

And then I heard God speak very clearly—I believe it was almost like an open vision.

He said:
“I promised you a country of refuge—that is Canada.
I promised you a house of refuge—that is this house.
Now I want you to be a refuge, and to have a house of refuge.
This house is too small.”

At that exact moment, I looked up—and there was a real estate agent hammering a SOLD sign into the front garden.

Then God continued speaking to me.

He asked:
“What does this house not have that you would want?”

And I answered:
“More bedrooms… more bathrooms… an upstairs and downstairs… double fireplaces… more living rooms… a spacious kitchen… a view of the lake… a view of the mountains and forest… a cul-de-sac with plenty of parking…”

And God said:
“Is that all?”

So I continued:
“I would really love a vegetable garden.”

And again He asked:
“Is that all?”

And I said:
“It has always been my greatest desire to have a glass house…”

Then I heard God say:
“This is only a stepping stone.”

And I saw where we live today.

And then… the stepping stones continued.

I saw a large, round building—multi-purpose, multi-functional, multi-cultural—with little bungalows or chalets scattered around it. It was a very large property.

To make a long story short, we ended up in a much larger house not far from the small one we had been renting.

Through friends—and even someone from the U.S. we didn’t know—we received a private loan to buy it.

We called it: Appleseed Lodge.

(Funnily enough, God had spoken to me earlier and said that any ministry I would do should be called “Appleseed,” because:
“You can count the seeds in an apple… but you cannot count the apples in a seed.”
It was about multiplication and fruitfulness.)

The Appleseed Lodge had everything I had listed.
Every single thing.

Even the glass house.

Oh—and I had also asked for fruit trees… and we had eleven different kinds.

Over the years, as we hosted schools and other activities, we often had 10–20 people living with us—very much in a community, family-style setting.

Altogether, around 1,000 people passed through our home—staying anywhere from one night to two years.

From time to time, I would ask the Lord about that “other stepping stone”…

But that is another story….

Looking back, our time in Kelowna was quite amazing.

It was such a gift for both of us to live for almost twelve years on the other side of the pond—making new friends, tasting a different culture, and expanding our spiritual horizons.

In fact, being part of a local fellowship introduced us to people who would become some of our closest friends. Some of them even helped mentor us—perhaps especially me—out of a few unhealthy religious mindsets we had picked up along the way, particularly within what was known as the “prophetic movement.”

It certainly wasn’t all bad. We learned so much during that time.

But gradually, something else became more and more real to us:

Friendship matters. People are precious.

And that is exactly where we began to notice a growing tension.

At times, it almost felt like it had become more about selling CDs and books… and somehow climbing a ladder toward recognition—maybe even celebrity. Some so-called “prophets” were elevated to a place where whatever they said was accepted without question. Questions of moral integrity and the way we treated one another also became more visible.

It made us deeply sad.

We began to feel that we could no longer truly be part of that kind of environment.

As I started to look more closely into things—and through many conversations with trusted friends—I realized that much of this movement had become quite hierarchical. Leadership was often seen as especially “anointed,” carrying titles like apostles and prophets. It became increasingly experience-driven… and, at times, quite dysfunctional.

Without going into too much detail, both Anne-Marie and I felt it was time to step away from all of that—and simply continue with what we had always loved: walking with people, building real relationships, and living life together.

It was strange, though…

The moment we stepped out of our role as elders, quite a number of friendships seemed to fade.

That, too, was a lesson.

Some seasons are just that—seasons.

And once again, we learned so much.

It did leave us quite tired.

And yet, at the same time, we began to sense that our journey in this beautiful part of the world might be coming to a close… and that somehow God had something new ahead of us.

Perhaps another step. Perhaps even a return to Europe.

We had lived in Kelowna for twelve years. Our children had come regularly from Europe to spend holidays with us, to celebrate Christmas. Our home, which could host all of our children—and even my parents—was such a gift.

So many sweet memories. So many new friendships.

And yet there was this growing sense: this was only the beginning of something more.

Before we take you into that next step, I would love for Anne-Marie to share some of her memories—going back to when we first moved to Canada, and what led into that next step into the unknown.

🌿 What if this is a dream?

I am reading some of my old journals which I wrote during our time in Kelowna. It’s interesting to find a lot of writings on faith and what I learned during those days.

Here are some of the things I wrote down then:

“We are God’s choice and His desire, and we are the custodians of God’s joy.”

And this is what we actually saw happen as both of us went out to get some furniture for our new home.

We needed all kinds of things, and so we happened to see a furniture shop/warehouse sale that was having a big clearance.

But I’d better let Anne-Marie tell that story…

One thing that Canada has that you don’t really see in Europe is Garage sales. They are usually held in the garage or the driveway, with a couple of tables displaying all kinds of things that people hope will interest passersby to stop and buy. Bargaining is very much part of the game. It’s a popular Saturday morning activity when you’re looking for something — be it furniture, garden tools, books, clothes… literally anything at all.

And oh how we loved them!! We loved browsing thru, finding treasures..

We were downtown Kelowna and happened to stumble across a huge tent spread out over the pavement. There was a large sign with those glorious words: “Garage Sale — Everything Must Go!”

Ohhh, how exciting…

This was not just any garage sale — this was a well-known furniture store/interior decorating warehouse sale… what treasures would be inside?

No sooner had we stepped in, our eyes alight with anticipation, than we were approached by a smiling man who said:

“Hello there… anything you would like, just tell me and I will save it for you… and when you’re ready to pay, I’ll help you!”

We had to furnish our house — tables, chairs, coffee tables, pictures for the walls, etc..I had a long list..

What we saw was lovely. & very much the style we liked..ecclectic..Some things were slightly damaged, but nothing that was an eyesore.

A pile of things began to build up in a corner of the tent… coffee tables, throws, bedside tables, chairs, mirrors, even a picture or two..etc.

(I was beginning to panic inside, thinking:

“How much will this all cost?”

We had $1,000 Canadian set aside… but surely this huge pile was much, much more…)

At a certain moment I said,

“This is enough… let’s stop.”

Gasping under my breath…I whispered…

“Peter, you go and pay, and I’ll wait outside.”

I was sure he was going to have to put things back, and I wanted to avoid that embarrassment if at all possible!

A little while later, Peter emerged, happily carrying a receipt…

Everything — for just under $1,000.

(And we hadn’t bargained at all!)

I could hardly believe it.

And that price even included delivery!

Our newly bought things would arrive later that afternoon… so home we went.

The delivery truck arrived, and now all the furniture was  piled up in our home.

I began to compare the prices on our receipt with the original prices on the furniture.

The more I counted, the more flabbergasted I became.

I checked and rechecked (using a calculator)…

and discovered that we had been given a $6,000 deduction!

How utterly, mind-blowingly amazing!

The next day, I said to Peter:

“I saw a colourful throw that I really wish we had bought… let’s go and see if it is still there.”

We walked in and looked around for the man who had helped us the day before… but he was nowhere in sight.

We asked the person in charge if he was there.

The answer was WHO?

We described him and mentioned his first name (unfortunately I don’t remember it anymore)… but the answer came back:

“We don’t have anyone by that name or description working for us.”

I was puzzled…

We looked around, and there wasn’t anything else that really appealed to us (nothing new had been added since the day before).. — but the colourful throw was still there.

So I took it to the counter to pay (still thinking of the discounts from the day before)… only to be told that it was full price — the price on the tag..no discount at all.

I was a little surprised… but I really, really loved the colours and the weave of the throw.

So we bought it.

On our way home..we talked about the happenings the previous day & it really made us wonder…

WHO helped us the day before…?  That question still holds…?

The same throw still graces our bed all these years later…

Peter reflects:

🌿 Just imagine this was a dream…but I assure you it wasn’t a dream….it was definitely real!

There are moments in life that don’t quite fit into our neat explanations.

Moments that feel… given.

Prepared.

Almost as if someone quietly went ahead of us.

This story is one of those moments.

“We are God’s choice and His desire and He longs to surprise us with goodness”

And then — without planning it — we step into a situation where everything seems to echo that truth.

Not through theology.

Not through a sermon.

But through experience.

At first glance, this is a story about provision.

A good deal. A surprising discount. A moment of favor.

But if we look a little deeper… it begins to whisper something more.

A good friend of mine told me to ask myself the question in any situation:

“What if this is a dream? What would it mean?”

So reflecting on this story that actually really took place, is what we came up with:

We had a budget.  $1,000

What we received: Something worth far more.

Without bargaining.

Without striving.

Without earning it.

Does that sound familiar?

It echoes something at the very heart of the Gospel:

✨ We receive what we could never afford. Life is a gift……

And then we have “The Mystery of the Unknown Man”

A man!

Present.

Helpful.

Generous.

And then… gone.

“No one by that name works here.”

It leaves us with a big question:

Who was that?

Now, we don’t need to have an answer.

But sometimes, life gives us these surprising mysterious moments…

Where grace feels personal, unexpected and surprising:

As if heaven quietly touched earth —

not to impress us,

but to reveal something.

Because at the center of this story is not furniture.

It is who we are, Gods beloved children. After all “We are God’s choice and His desire…”

Not because we performed well.

Not because we negotiated cleverly.

Not because we earned it.

But because… ✨ we are wanted, loved and cherished!

🔥 So this is what I see as I reflect about this story:

There are moments where:

things are prepared ahead of us

grace meets us before we ask

and we receive more than we understand

And instead of trying to explain everything…we simply allow it to speak.

🌸  Some thoughts you could ponder

What if what you experience now is a dream? What does it tell you?

And where in your life have you received something you could never have earned — and could it be a quiet reminder of how God sees you?

✨ Good Friday – A Tree Between two Worlds

Good Friday…

is a strange day.

It is quiet.

It is heavy.

And yet… somehow, it carries a hidden beauty.

we are not trying to understand everything.

We are here… to come close.

Paul once said:

“I resolved to know nothing among you except Jesus Christ—and Him crucified.”

(1 Corinthians 2:2)

As if to say:

If we miss everything else,

but we see this—

we will have seen the heart of God.

The Journey Through the Psalms

There is a movement…

almost like a journey through three Psalms.

Psalm 22:

“My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?”

The cry of abandonment.

The raw, human experience of distance…

of pain…

of unanswered questions.

And Jesus takes those words upon His own lips.

He doesn’t stand outside our suffering.

He steps into it.

Then Psalm 23:

“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…

You are with me.”

Something shifts.

Not the circumstances…

but the presence.

The valley is still there—

but we are no longer alone.

And then Psalm 24

“Lift up your heads, O you gates… that the King of glory may come in!”

From abandonment…

through presence…into glory.

This is the movement of the cross.

The Cross – The Tree Between the Worlds

I once heard it described like this:

The cross of Christ is the tree between two worlds.

The world that was…

and the world that is to come.

And in between those two worlds…

stands a tree.

Not the tree of knowledge that brought division—

but a tree that begins to heal it.

What the Cross Reveals

The cross is not the place where God changes His mind about us.

The cross is the place where God shows us who He has always been.

Not distant.

Not violent.

Not needing to be persuaded to love.

But self-giving.

Forgiving.

Near.

As Paul says:

“God was in Christ, reconciling the world to Himself,

not counting people’s sins against them.”

(2 Corinthians 5:19)

God was not somewhere else on Good Friday.

He was in Christ.

Right there.

In the suffering.

In the injustice.

In the pain.

Not stepping away from humanity—

but stepping fully into it.

A God Who Stands With Us

This is what we see on the cross:

God…

• standing with the broken

• standing with the rejected

• standing with the accused

• standing with the victims

• standing even with those who don’t understand what they are doing

A God who would rather enter our darkness

than remain distant from it.

Two Trees, One Story

In the beginning, there were two trees.

A tree of life…

and a tree of knowledge.

One leads to life.

The other… to division, blame, and death.

And the first blood in the story of humanity

was not Adam or Eve—

but Abel.

Violence… entered early.

And in many ways, it still shapes the world we see today.

But that is not the final word.

Because before the foundation of the world,

there was already a Lamb.

God was never reacting.

He was always responding with love.

The Cross as the Turning Point

The cross is where all of this comes together.

Where human violence reaches its peak—

and divine love meets it… without retaliation.

Where hatred exhausts itself—

and forgiveness refuses to stop.

Where death does its worst—

and life quietly begins to rise.

The Open Table

And this is where it becomes personal.

Because the cross is not just something to believe in—

it is something that invites us in.

Into an open table.

A table where no one has to qualify.

A table where reconciliation has already begun.

A table where we are not counted by our failures—

but welcomed in love.

Living Between the Worlds

We still live in between.

Between the world shaped by fear, control, and violence…

and the world that is coming—

a world shaped by love.

But something has already changed.

That new world…

is already within us.

A quiet life.

A different way.

A new creation… beginning to breathe.

Love refuses to give up

The cross…

is not the end of the story.

It is the place

where death begins to lose its voice.

Where love refuses to give up.

Where God says—once and for all:

“I will not live without you.”

Reflective Question

What does it mean for you…

that God did not stay distant from your pain—

but entered it?

Faith Happens When You Encounter Good News in Others

Sometimes faith does not arrive through certainty…

but through encounter.

Not through answers neatly explained,

but through glimpses of goodness

in the lives of others.

A kindness you didn’t expect.

A patience that holds you.

A presence that feels like home.

And somewhere in that quiet exchange,

something begins to awaken:

What if there is more?

What if the good news is not just something to believe…

but something to behold—in each other?

We loved our time together, Anne-Marie and I,—especially those early mornings. Sitting on the sofa, reading, sharing, learning from one another… those were precious moments. It was as if our eyes were slowly opening, discovering in new ways what it means to walk this journey—not driven by effort, but shaped by what we were beginning to understand deep in our hearts.

Living with ten—and sometimes many more—nationalities under one roof was, of course, not always easy. We had people from Germany, Switzerland, Canada, Norway, Italy, the USA, Japan, Australia, Austria, and the Netherlands sharing life together. That alone could have been a challenge.

And yet, because it was our home—not an impersonal organization or institution—there was a sense of harmony. Most of the time, it was peaceful.

Anne-Marie carried so much of the heart of the home through her cooking, often together with others who loved to cook. Our meals became a beautiful mix of cultures—Italian, Japanese, Swiss… each dish telling its own story.

And then there were the moments around the table.

For some, it was something entirely new—to sit, to linger, to truly talk with one another. Not everyone came from a family where time together like that was normal. But it was there, around the table, that something quietly formed between us. We began to bond—not through perfection, but through presence.

One of the things we learned was this:

not to judge ourselves—or others—so harshly.

We all make mistakes. That is simply part of being human. But even there, there is something to learn—if we are willing.

A good friend once said to me:

“If you’re right-handed and try to draw with your left hand, it will probably look ridiculous.”

And yet… you still gave it your best. And sometimes, that is what truly counts.

Instead of focusing on each other’s mistakes—while we ourselves often feel not quite on top of things, a bit worn out, or even like a failure on our worst days—it takes courage to see differently.

To see that each one of us is a story.

A story that somehow connects with yours and mine. Together, we form something larger—a living tapestry of color, texture, and artistry.

I’m reminded of a picture Corrie ten Boom often used in her sermons. She described our lives as a tapestry, woven together with many threads—different colors, different patterns.

From the backside, it can look like chaos—a swirl of knots and threads that don’t seem to belong together.

But when you turn it around…

you suddenly see the beauty.

A pattern. A purpose. A work of art.

Yes, there is good news in every one of us. Something beautiful to behold.

But we need to develop eyes to see it.

And that is what we began to learn at Appleseed Lodge—

as we learned to do life together

in the midst of our shared incompleteness.

🌱 Reflective Question

Where have you recently caught a glimpse of something beautiful—unexpectedly—in another person?

Appleseed Lodge – Where Questions Found a Home

It felt as though we had stepped into an entirely new chapter of our lives.

Canada had quietly, yet unmistakably, become home — a place we knew we would remain for a while. And yet, part of our hearts continued to stretch across the ocean. We returned to Europe often, especially to spend time with our children, who were now beginning to find their own paths in life.

We sometimes smiled at the irony of it all.

Usually, children leave their parents’ home.

But in our case, it felt as though we, the parents, had left — setting out in search of another home.

“Home is where your heart is,” people say.

And perhaps that was part of our journey… and our tension.

Because our hearts seemed to be scattered across many places.

And yet, over time, we began to understand something deeper:

Home is not only a place.

It is found wherever hearts meet.

And that is exactly what we experienced in Kelowna.

Kelowna became more than a location — it became a meeting place of hearts.

We encountered beautiful people there. People who deeply shaped our lives. People who walked with us through one of the most transformative seasons we had ever known.

Because alongside the beauty, something else began to surface.

Our entire belief system started to shift.

Being part of a church — and even stepping into leadership — exposed us not only to genuine love and community, but also to belief systems that felt, at times, deeply unhealthy.

And that is where friendship became essential.

Not the kind of friendship that fixes or instructs…

but the kind that simply stays.

Around a table.

By a swimming pool.

In long, honest conversations.

Or sometimes, just in silence — with someone willing to listen.

It is surprisingly easy to become locked into a way of believing.

Not because we are convinced it is true…

but because we have never learned to question it.

One of the earliest lessons I learned during our time with YWAM was this:

You don’t have to agree with everything you hear.

Just don’t become disagreeable in your heart.

Stay open.

Even when something sounds unfamiliar.

Even when it feels uncomfortable.

Even when it challenges what you’ve always known.

At Appleseed Lodge, the name we gave our home, this became part of the culture we longed to create.

Whenever we led schools there, we would often begin with these words:

“I hope this school will not give you all the answers…

but that you will learn to ask the right questions.”

Because questions require something sacred:

A safe space.

A place where you are not judged, but received.

Not defined by what you believe, but embraced for who you are.

And that kind of space…

is rare.

Sometimes it felt uncomfortable to be around people who saw the world very differently than we did.

But slowly, something began to shift in me.

If I could look beyond the differences…

and truly see the heart of the other…

I would almost always discover something beautiful.

Something worth honoring.

That kind of seeing is not easy.

It requires patience.

Humility.

And a willingness to stay — even when it would be easier to walk away.

But it is always worth it.

Creating environments where people feel safe to be themselves —

that may be one of the most important callings we have.

Because it is in safety that we begin to grow.

To question.

To heal.

To become.

And so, life at Appleseed Lodge unfolded in simple, beautiful ways.

We ate together.

We shared life.

We laughed and had our differences

We hosted house concerts…

gathered around fires…

shared meals at potlucks…

And sometimes, we simply went to the lake —

sat together in the sun…

and talked about life.

And somewhere in the midst of all that…

Seeds were being planted.

Quietly.

Unseen.

But full of life.

🌿 Reflective Question

Where in your life do you feel safe enough to ask honest questions… and where might you be invited to create that space for someone else?

🌿 Discovering More

Anne-Marie and I have always carried a quiet sensitivity toward spaces that felt overly shaped by performance—places where spirituality seemed to put on a costume.

Over the years, we found ourselves in many prayer gatherings and spiritual meetings. And somewhere along the way, I began to recognize a subtle shift that can happen in such spaces:

how easily we step into a role…

how gently we begin to reach for words that sound a little more holy, a little more elevated than what is actually alive within us.

Not intentionally.

Not even consciously.

And yet, something in us notices.

And still—

I have never resisted prayer.

Never resisted worship.

Quite the opposite.

I love music.

I love sacred atmosphere.

I love those moments where something softens within us…

where heaven feels close, almost tangible.

But what my heart longed for

was something quieter.

Something more at home.

A place where the spiritual and the ordinary

could sit together like old friends—

without striving,

without pretense.

During our “Faith, Fun & Fellowship” gatherings (FFF), we shared many beautiful moments of worship, prayer, and reflection.

And yet, my inner leaning was always toward simplicity.

Not to make things less sacred—

but to allow the sacred to appear in its truest form.

Because I had begun to sense:

Holy Spirit does not flourish in performance,

but in presence.

She is not summoned by effort,

nor drawn by intensity.

She moves where there is space.

Where there is trust.

Where something in us exhales.

And here, something deeper began to open in me.

Holy Spirit is not an “it.”

Not merely a force or influence.

She is Person.

She is God.

Part of that eternal movement of love—

Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—

distinct, yet never separate,

held together in one indivisible communion of love,

as Baxter Kruger so beautifully describes.

In the Hebrew language, Ruach—Spirit—carries a feminine resonance.

And while God is beyond all our categories,

this gentle insight opened something in my heart:

to encounter Her as comforter,

as nurturer,

as breath—

the One who hovers softly over chaos

and calls forth new creation.

In moments of encouragement or prophetic expression,

I began to notice how easily sincerity can be replaced by subtle performance.

How words meant to bring life

can slowly become something else—

a display…

a reaching…

a quiet need to sound significant.

And yet—

the moments that truly carried life

were always the simplest ones:

a kind word, spoken without effort,

a quiet affirmation,

a gentle reminder of who someone truly is.

“The testimony of Jesus is the spirit of prophecy.”

This became something like an inner compass for me.

If Christ is not revealed—

His gentleness,

His mercy,

His restoring love—

then no matter how impressive the words may sound,

something essential is missing.

FFF became, for me, a space of longing.

A longing for what is real.

For presence over performance.

For connection over spiritual display.

And I began to trust:

When space is given,

when hearts feel safe,

when love is allowed to lead—

Holy Spirit,

She who lives within the eternal communion of love,

will move as She desires.

Softly.

Faithfully.

Quietly transforming.

And once again, I found myself noticing:

The most sacred moments

are often the most ordinary ones.

A shared meal.

A quiet song.

A spontaneous prayer.

A laugh rising from somewhere deep within.

Moments that might easily be overlooked—

and yet are gently touched

by the Breath of God.

🌿  A gentle question

Where might the Breath of God already be resting quietly in my life…

waiting not for performance, but for my attention?

✨ Kelowna – Where Rest Became a Place

There are seasons when life unravels…

and seasons when something deeper begins to weave again.

Sometimes all it takes

is a place to breathe,

a table to gather,

and the quiet realization:

You were never meant to carry it alone.

We were offered hospitality in a small house right on the lake.

The view was breathtaking.

The water lay still — like a promise.

When we asked about the cost, the answer came without hesitation:

“Stay as long as you like.”

No rent.

No conditions.

Just gift.

For the first time in a long while, we felt permission to breathe.

Rest was no longer an idea.

It had become a place.

We read.

We prayed.

We talked.

And slowly, gently, the layers of exhaustion began to loosen their grip.

A Gentle Rebirth

In those days, we found our way into a local fellowship called New Life.

The name almost felt too fitting.

And yet, it became true.

Friendships began to form.

We rediscovered how vast and surprising God’s family really is.

While Anne-Marie leaned into restoration and healing, my own travels continued — even increased. Europe called. Mercy Ships called. The African coast still held part of our story.

Our hearts remained connected to our calling.

But something within us knew:

That season in the Netherlands — the conferences, the movement, the constant activity — was coming to a close.

It was time to entrust it to others.

A Home Begins to Whisper

What began at the lake slowly took root in the rhythm of Kelowna.

Canada no longer felt temporary.

It felt… like home.

Safe.

Warm.

Strangely familiar — to both a Dutchman and an Australian.

Long summer days by the water.

Quiet, snow-covered winters that carried their own kind of peace.

We found ourselves sitting at tables where we were no longer guests, but family.

And for Anne-Marie, something beautiful awakened:

Her voice.

In her own language, without translation, without effort — she could simply be.

And in that, something deep within her came alive again.

Abel Place

Then came another unexpected gift.

Friends were moving out of their home.

They offered it to us — to rent, with the possibility to buy later.

It felt almost too good to be true.

The street name was Abel Place.

As if something was being spoken over us:

Ability is returning.

Possibility is opening again.

The house carried an old English charm — warm, inviting, quietly waiting for roots.

Within weeks, we moved in.

Slowly, piece by piece, it became ours.

And somewhere in that unfolding, we sensed it:

A whisper.

“This is home.”

Not perfect.

Not permanent.

But deeply grounding.

A place where healing could become more than a moment —

where it could become a way of life.

When Healing Becomes Community

Out of that stillness, a quiet thought began to rise.

Almost playful.

Almost innocent.

What if we invited others into this?

What if healing was not only something we received… but something we shared?

So we wrote an email.

Forty-five, to be exact.

It was 2001.

No social media. No instant connection.

Just words, sent out like seeds into the unknown.

We invited friends to come.

To live with us for a month.

To share life.

Meals.

Worship.

Laughter.

Presence.

We called it: Faith, Fun & Fellowship.

Simple.

Almost naïve.

Completely sincere.

And Then They Came

We expected a few responses.

Instead, they all replied.

Yes.

Yes.

We’re coming.

All forty-five.

And suddenly, our small dream outgrew our capacity.

Able Place — generous as it was — became beautifully insufficient.

So we improvised.

The garage became a bedroom.

Mattresses filled every corner.

Rooms reshaped themselves around people.

And when space ran out, grace expanded it.

Our new friends from New Life opened their homes.

Beds were offered.

Doors unlocked.

Strangers became hosts.

Hosts became friends.

Friends became family.

The Table Becomes Sacred

And then came the question:

How do you feed forty people every day for a month?

Once again — grace.

Two young women from New Jersey, Italian at heart and fearless in spirit, stepped forward.

Together with Anne-Marie — whose gift for hospitality was already quietly becoming legend — they created something extraordinary.

The kitchen became a sanctuary.

Garlic and laughter.

Bread and stories.

Chopping, stirring, praying.

Meals were no longer just food.

They were communion.

We ate in the garden.

Under the sky.

Together.

And something holy settled into the ordinary.

A Holy Kind of Chaos

Those days unfolded like a living tapestry.

There were moments of deep prayer.

But also silliness.

Games.

Music.

Long dinners that turned into even longer conversations.

Yes, there was chaos.

But it was a holy chaos.

A sacred disorder —

that somehow felt aligned with heaven’s rhythm.

Restored from Within

And in the midst of it all, something deeper was happening.

Not just around us.

Within us.

We were not simply hosting.

We were being restored.

After seasons of striving, exhaustion, and quiet fragmentation…

this month became something else entirely.

A mirror.

Community without agenda.

Love without pressure.

Presence without expectation.

Faith, once again, felt like breath.

Shared breath.

A Subtle Wink of Grace

Looking back, I see it more clearly now:

Faith, Fun & Fellowship was never just an event.

It was a signpost.

A glimpse of the life God was gently inviting us into.

Relational.

Grounded.

Spacious.

Real.

Because the Kingdom of God so often looks like this:

People around a table.

Breaking bread.

Telling stories.

Laughing.

Praying.

Simply being together.

And in that gentle rhythm…

I sensed it again.

That subtle wink of grace.

As if God were smiling and saying:

“This…

this is what I meant all along.”

🌊  Reflective Question

Where have you learned to live independently…

when, in truth, you were created for connection,

for table,

for belonging?

You may discover… you were never outside of it to begin with.

Our house wasn’t messy… and yet suddenly, dust balls showed up everywhere.

Even in the cutlery drawer. (Yes, really.)

Turns out… they had something to teach us.

✨ Dust Balls – When Letting Go Becomes a Doorway

There are seasons in life when something within us knows:

This cannot continue the same way.

After 27 years in the Netherlands, we found ourselves there.

Not suddenly. Not dramatically.

But quietly, deeply… undeniably.

We were depleted.

What had once been full of life — conferences, travel, ministry, connection — now felt heavy.

As though the walls were slowly closing in.

Anne-Marie described it best:

Her soul longed for open horizons.

For space.

For room to breathe again.

🌿 An Invitation into the Unknown

Through the years, we had met people from Canada.

And oh, how they spoke of their land…

Lakes that stretched like mirrors.

Warm summers.

Orchards and vineyards.

And always the same invitation:

“Come… come and see for yourself.”

Something in us began to stir.

And with it came a quiet, radical thought:

What if we didn’t hold on to anything?

What if we didn’t store our life away somewhere… just in case?

What if, instead, we stepped into the unknown —

and trusted God for what would come next?

✨ The Mystery of the Dust Balls

Then something unusual began to happen.

Anne-Marie had a strange impression:

“Everywhere there is a dust ball… give it away.”

Now, to be clear — our house was not messy.

Not dirty. Not neglected.

And yet… suddenly…

dust balls began to appear.

Everywhere.

Not just in corners —

but in the most unexpected places.

Even in the cutlery drawers.

It was almost comical.

And yet… it felt meaningful.

As if something unseen was gently whispering:

Loosen your grip.

Let go.

Trust the flow.

🪶 Letting Go, One Object at a Time

Around that time, a friend of ours had just gotten married.

He and his wife were moving into a larger place and needed furniture.

So we invited him:

“Come and take what you need.”

He walked through our home, pointing to this and that.

And the list grew…

and grew…

Until I thought:

That’s almost everything.

And then another thought came:

Why not offer him something he hasn’t even asked for?

So I did.

I thought of a dinner set we loved —

a beautiful, cream-colored set.

“Would you perhaps like a dinner set as well?” I asked.

He paused.

Looked at me.

And said:

“What colour is it?”

“Cream,” I replied.

He stopped in his tracks.

“That,” he said quietly,

“is my wife’s greatest wish.”

🌊 The Joy of Release

In that moment, something inside me smiled.

A simple, unexpected act…

had landed exactly where it was needed.

As we packed things up, I found myself pausing often.

Holding an object.

Remembering.

The many dinners.

The laughter.

The people who had sat at our table from all over the world.

And quietly, almost playfully, I found myself saying:

“Thank you… for being part of those moments.”

And beneath it all —

a deeper gratitude:

Thank You, God, for Your provision.

And may this now become a blessing to someone else.

🚗 A Car Full of Blessing

When the day came, his little car was filled to the brim.

Furniture sticking out of windows.

Things strapped to the roof.

Laughter in the air.

We hugged.

And off he went —

overflowing, joyful, grateful.

And we stood there… lighter.

🌙 What We Carry… and What Carries Us

Looking back, those “dust balls” were never really about dust.

They were invitations.

Small, almost humorous nudges of grace,

leading us into freedom.

Because sometimes, what we think we need to hold onto…

is exactly what is holding onto us.

And sometimes, letting go is not loss at all —

but the doorway into something wider, freer, more alive.

🌊 Reflective Question

What are you still holding onto…

that might quietly be asking to be released?

✨ Closing Whisper

And what if letting go

is simply making room

for what has already been prepared for you?

Sometimes the Spirit leads us forward not by opening a door, but by gently loosening our grip on the place we once called home.

Shifts in our lives rarely happen all at once.

More often they are prepared quietly, over many years, through places, people, and experiences that shape us without our fully realizing it at the time.

All the extraordinary conferences and events we were part of, and the many places we called home, formed a remarkably dynamic season in our lives. Our eventual arrival in Kelowna would be preceded by quite a long preparation.

Our journey began in the very heart of Amsterdam. From there we moved to Heidebeek, where we became part of a large international community with YWAM. Later we lived in Kasteel Croy, where our work increasingly connected us with the Catholic Charismatic movement in the Netherlands.

From there we moved to De Hooge Paaschberg in Ede, and later to the Bijlmer in Amsterdam, where we became more deeply involved with emerging Dutch charismatic churches. During that time we helped organize conferences together with a team of pastors and leaders known as Kana.

Eventually we moved to Hoofddorp, to a very ordinary Dutch rijtjeshuis. Around that time our involvement with YWAM slowly gave way to more independent ministry initiatives. Anne-Marie increasingly travelled to Eastern Europe, organizing conferences under the Kana banner, while I focused more on worship with our band Recabite, sharing music in congregations throughout the Netherlands and abroad.

Looking back now, I can see that the rupture we experienced later was necessary.

It marked the end of an entire era—twenty-three intense years of life and ministry woven together. Without fully realizing it, we were being led into both an ending and a beginning. Some of our former understandings needed to die so that new ones could be born.

What felt like collapse was, in truth, a threshold.

Slowly we began to glimpse new horizons and dared to take small steps into unfamiliar territory.

I remember vividly the day we left our rented home in the Netherlands, where we had lived for just over a year. We gave away our entire set of plates, cups, and cutlery to one of the musicians in our band. Even our dog went with him. He just got married, he loved our dog, and he could use every bit of help he could get. (And there is more to this part of the story, but Anne-Marie will share that in our next episode)

It felt like surrender.

And yet, looking back, it was also a quiet act of faith—a symbolic release of things that had served us well but could not accompany us into the next chapter of our lives.

For many years we had spoken about home as a sacred place. Home was where love dwelled, where God’s presence met the ordinary rhythms of life around a kitchen table.

But in that moment, home became something far less tangible.

It was no longer defined by a street address, by walls and furniture, or even by the familiar sound of our dog’s paws crossing the floor.

Slowly we were discovering that home could also become a calling rather than a location.

Home could be a future we had not yet seen.

The crisis exposed how tightly we had clung to roles, expectations, and a definition of ministry that once made perfect sense. Those things had shaped us. They had carried us across nations and through countless stories.

But they were no longer wide enough to hold the people we were becoming.

Leaving the Netherlands was therefore more than a change of residence. It was the quiet recognition that we could no longer remain where we had been—spiritually, relationally, or emotionally.

Every great transition in Scripture seems to begin with a departure.

Abraham left his father’s house without knowing where God would lead him.

Israel stepped into the wilderness with nothing but a promise.

Even Jesus spoke of losing one’s life in order to truly find it.

Our own crisis carried a quiet echo of those journeys.

Something familiar had to fall away so that something truer could emerge.

Home was no longer behind us.

It was ahead.

We had become pilgrims again, carrying only what truly belonged to us. The rest was left behind, like plates and cutlery that had served their purpose.

One chapter had closed. Another had begun.

We did not yet know what story we were stepping into, but we sensed that we could not go back. Even through uncertainty we were being led forward—toward a deeper understanding of love, of family, and of the God who builds homes out of broken places.

From Amsterdam we flew to Calgary and then on to Medicine Hat, where we spoke in a small church over the weekend. From there we continued to Kelowna, a place none of us had ever even heard of.

And yet once again we were welcomed as though we were long-lost friends. Our Canadian friends introduced us to people who would become vital companions during the first years of our new life there.

One friend who visited us many years later still laughed at the improbability of it all.

“How did you ever end up here?” he asked. “It feels like the end of the earth.”

Perhaps that was precisely the point.

The end of one world had quietly become the beginning of another.

For the God who calls us to pilgrimage

also walks beside us

until the unfamiliar becomes home.

Reflection

Sometimes the posture required for the next chapter of our lives is not control, certainty, or even understanding.

Sometimes it is simply letting go.

And trusting that the God who leads pilgrims

also knows how to build a home

in places we have never imagined.

Learning to Listen Again

Change is rarely easy.

Sometimes it arrives because of circumstances beyond our control.

But sometimes the reason for change lies closer to home—

in our own misunderstandings, our own longings,

and the mistakes we make along the way.

There was a season in our lives—almost a year, I think—when I no longer felt confident that I was truly hearing the voice of the Holy Spirit, that quiet whisper in the heart.

One of the most important lessons I had learned during my years with YWAM was precisely this:

to listen for God’s voice.

And yet in that season, that certainty seemed to shatter.

It began when we were still living in Hoofddorp, The Netherlands. I had become convinced that somehow the Lord would provide us with a house of our own. From a practical perspective it made little sense. Without a steady income or financial security, getting a loan from a bank was out of the question.

But still, I believed.

In many ways, that period was a high point in our ministry. Anne-Marie was organizing women’s conferences, and I was traveling with the Recabite band, speaking in churches and YWAM Discipleship Training Schools etc. There was a sense of momentum, almost a spiritual high.

Then we met some people who seemed to be the possible answer to the quiet hope we had carried in our hearts.

And just when everything appeared to be falling into place, it began to fall apart.

Yes, we moved. We left Hoofddorp and settled into a lovely house in another city in the Netherlands. At first it felt like confirmation—like God Himself had opened the door.

But within a year it became painfully clear that what we had believed was God’s voice had not been that at all.

Looking back, I began to realize how easily our own desires can disguise themselves as divine direction. My hopes, my ideas, my dreams—I had unknowingly woven them together with what I thought was the voice of God.

And so began a deeper lesson:

learning to discern where my longing ended and where His Spirit truly began.

It was not an easy lesson.

But even through our missteps, something mysterious was happening.

For Holy Spirit has a remarkable way of weaving redemption into the very places where we feel we have failed.

During that turbulent time we made a bold decision.

We would take a sabbatical.

We would leave the Netherlands for a while.

We would give up the house we were living in, let go of nearly everything we owned, and create space to breathe again—to rest, to heal our marriage, and to rediscover the quiet voice of God.

Only later did I begin to see that something deeper was happening beneath the surface.

The Hands of the Gardener

We often assume that everything in life depends on our choices.

And in a sense that is true.

But I have come to believe that even the foolish, impulsive, or misguided choices we make are often the very places where the Gardener of our lives—the precious Holy Spirit—begins Her most beautiful work.

Sometimes the process feels painful.

Yet hidden within it is a strange mercy:

a transformation that slowly turns our miseries into something we could never have imagined.

When things fall apart, we often assume we have ruined everything.

We imagine God must be disappointed.

We fear we have reached the end of the road.

And the enemy of our souls is quick to whisper those lies—

to accuse, to drain our courage, to suggest that all is lost.

But Jesus once told a parable that reveals a very different truth.

In John 15 He says:

“I am the vine, and My Father is the gardener.”

Most of us have heard the next verse translated like this:

“Every branch in Me that does not bear fruit He cuts off, and every branch that bears fruit He prunes so that it will be even more fruitful.”

But a closer look at the language reveals something far more tender.

The word Jesus uses—airei—does not first mean to cut off.

It means to lift up.

Picture a gardener walking through his vineyard.

He finds a vine branch that has fallen into the dust. Its leaves are muddy, its grapes close to the ground where insects crawl.

The gardener does not immediately reach for a knife.

Instead, he kneels.

He gently lifts the branch out of the dirt, washes it, and ties it to a support so it can breathe again—so it can reach the sunlight and live.

That is the heart of the Father.

That is the heart of Abba.

And that is what Holy Spirit was quietly doing in our lives during that difficult season.

He was lifting what had fallen.

He was binding us again to the life-giving Vine.

He was restoring what we feared had been lost.

Looking back now, I see how many of the things I once called failures were actually the Gardener repositioning our lives.

He was not punishing us.

He was giving us air again.

Light again.

Life again.

It took time.

And in the beginning it did not feel gentle at all.

But it was mercy.

A mercy that did not condemn, but lifted.

A mercy that realigned us with the true source of life.

That season became a deep turning point for both Anne-Marie and me. What we had thought was the collapse of our calling turned out to be a quiet pruning—a re-anchoring into something truer and deeper.

Holy Spirit was not cutting us off.

She was training our hearts to grow upward again.

And it was right in the middle of that uncertain season that an unexpected invitation arrived—

a simple email that would lead us far from the familiar.

We had no idea then that it would take us halfway across the world,

to Kelowna,

to the edge of a quiet lake,

where the Gardener’s hands would continue the work He had begun.

Reflection

Have you ever mistaken your own hopes for the voice of God?

Perhaps what feels like failure is not the end of your story.

Perhaps the Gardener is simply lifting your branch out of the dust—

so it can breathe again

and reach for the light.

I remember a conference in Karlsruhe, right at the threshold of the year 2000—the turning of a century, even a millennium.

In those days many people were uneasy about what might happen when the clocks rolled over. Some feared computers would fail, planes might fall from the sky, perhaps even the world itself might stumble into chaos. One of our singers canceled at the last moment, convinced that something terrible might happen.

But the rest of us came.

Musicians arrived from the Netherlands, Great Britain, Germany, Italy—and even a dancer from South Korea. We were part of a vast gathering of people from many nations, some nine thousand in all. Around us were instruments from different cultures: didgeridoos, bagpipes, percussion, drums, guitars, violins.

And quietly in my heart, I carried an idea.

I was supposed to lead the band—to “direct,” as they called it. In truth, my directing often consisted of gestures and half-formed images, trusting that the musicians beside me would translate those impressions into sound. My dear friend, the musical director, stood faithfully next to me, somehow turning my vague pictures and emotions into real notes and rhythms.

We had rehearsed a few songs.

But what I felt stirring inside was something different.

For weeks the story of Ruth had been living in me.

Her journey—from loss to belonging, from emptiness to abundance—felt strangely close to the human story itself. A woman standing in a foreign land, carrying grief yet refusing to let go of love. Somehow her path seemed to echo the quiet work of God among us—gathering people from different nations, different pasts, and weaving them together into a new family.

As the musicians took their places, I shared only a few words.

Then I asked the sound technician to play a recording by the St. Petersburg Chamber Choir—Alleluia, Behold the Bridegroom. Suddenly those ancient voices filled the entire hall through the immense sound system. The sound rose like incense, deep and haunting, unexpected for most of the nine thousand people present—except for us musicians who were waiting inside that moment.

I had no score. No written arrangement.

Only a sense.

Let’s begin the story here.

And so I started to read the story of Ruth aloud—slowly, like someone opening an old and treasured book.

As the words moved through the air, I asked the musicians simply to listen.

To the silence.

To one another.

And to the Spirit.

Slowly, almost shyly, the music began to grow.

A gentle piano line emerged first, like the first light before dawn. Then a single violin entered, carrying a lament that held both sorrow and hope. The deep heartbeat of drums followed—steady and patient, like footsteps on a long road.

Another instrument joined, like wind moving softly through barley fields.

Then voices.

Not words—just sound.

Longing made audible.

And as the story unfolded, something remarkable happened.

Our Korean dancer stepped forward.

She wore a beautiful traditional costume that seemed to catch the light as she moved. Her dance flowed through the music like a living prayer—graceful, expressive, almost as if the story itself had taken bodily form.

Only later did she tell me something that astonished me.

She hadn’t heard a single word of the narration.

The monitors near her were silent.

She had simply danced what she felt the Holy Spirit was expressing through the music.

Word and sound and movement—each one telling the story, yet each in its own language.

It was no longer a performance.

It felt like prayer.

As Ruth’s story unfolded—the grief, the loyalty, the quiet courage—you could feel the room becoming still. The music deepened, widening like a river. And then came the moment when grace entered the story, when Ruth was no longer seen as a stranger but as someone beloved.

The music lifted.

Light seemed to enter the sound.

Some people in the audience stood quietly. Others wept. Many simply swayed in silence.

And when the final notes faded away, something even more powerful remained.

No applause.

Just stillness.

That rare kind of silence that feels fuller than sound itself.

Later several musicians told me they had never experienced anything like it. One of them said softly,

“It felt like the music was playing us.”

I knew exactly what he meant.

There are moments when we step aside and the Holy Spirit conducts something far beyond our reach—moments when skill and surrender meet, and heaven borrows our instruments for a little while.

That evening changed the way I understood worship.

I realized that true worship is not the perfection of sound or the mastery of form. It is the yielding of the heart. It is when musicians, dancers, listeners—even the silence between notes—become part of a single conversation with God.

From that day on, I began to see gatherings differently. It was no longer about organizing events or building platforms.

It was about creating space.

Space where heaven could breathe through human art.

Space where people could recognize themselves in the melodies of grace.

Perhaps you are not a musician.

But music is everywhere.

In the wind moving through trees.

In the rhythm of footsteps on a quiet road.

In the breath that moves gently in and out of your lungs.

And if you listen carefully in the stillness, you may hear it—

The quiet symphony of grace.

And suddenly you realize something beautiful:

You are not merely listening to the music.

You are part of it.

Reflection

Where in your life have you sensed a moment when something larger than yourself was at work—

a conversation, a piece of music, a quiet encounter—

where heaven seemed to whisper through ordinary things?

Perhaps grace was already composing a melody around you…

and inviting you to listen.

Some moments in history whisper more than they shout.

Moments when old wounds loosen their grip, when strangers begin to see each other again as human beings, and when something deeper than politics or memory quietly moves among us. In 1995, fifty years after the end of World War II, such a moment unfolded in the Dutch city of Arnhem—carried not by speeches or negotiations, but by music, laughter, and the surprising joy of people discovering one another again.

That year marked the fiftieth anniversary of the end of World War II. The soil around Arnhem and Ede still carried the memory of conflict and liberation. The stories of suffering and courage had not disappeared—they lingered in the land itself.

And yet, fifty years later, thousands of people gathered in that same place for the Kana “In Your Presence” conference.

Nearly three thousand people came from many nations. Musicians joined us from Lapland, Great Britain, Germany, Norway, and beyond. Friends like David Ruis and Brian Doerksen stood with us, and together with the Recabite band we formed a tapestry of voices and sounds.

Something remarkable began to unfold.

Among the crowd were around 800 Germans. Watching them worship, sing, and laugh alongside Dutch believers felt like witnessing a quiet miracle. At one point a Bavarian accordionist led the crowd in a joyful German dance. The room erupted in laughter and celebration.

For a moment, history loosened its grip.

Where there had once been division, there was dancing.

Where there had once been suspicion, there was singing.

Music has a mysterious power. It slips past the guarded places of the mind and reaches the deeper places of the heart. When people sing together, they begin to remember something ancient: that we were never created to live in separation.

We were made for harmony.

Perhaps that is why the Spirit of God so often moves through song. Music reminds us that we belong to one another before we belong to our opinions, our histories, or our fears.

As if heaven wanted to underline the moment, the skies above Arnhem remained clear and blue throughout the entire conference. The weather system was named Raphael—“God has healed.”

And that was exactly what it felt like.

Healing in the air.

Joy in the room.

The quiet presence of God weaving hearts together again.

Looking back, I realize Kana was never just a conference. It was a glimpse of what the Church can look like when people make room for the Spirit: imperfect, passionate, joyful, alive.

Anne-Marie carried her own beautiful vision within Kana. Through the women’s conferences she later organized, hundreds upon hundreds of women gathered—mothers, daughters, leaders, seekers. Their stories filled those spaces with laughter, tears, courage, and renewal.

Today the banners of those conferences are long gone.

But the sound remains.

The sound of people from different nations singing together.

The sound of old wounds loosening their hold.

The sound of heaven whispering that reconciliation is not only possible—it is already beginning.

Because at our deepest level, every human heart longs for the same thing:

To belong.

To be seen.

To live in harmony again.

Reflecting:

Where could my life become a small “sound of reconciliation” in a world longing for harmony?