Legacy of a missionary couple

Lesly Derksen

My parents, Otto and Adelaide Derksen, felt the call to be missionaries while living in southern Saskatchewan. In 1951, they departed for the West Indies, taking with them me and my three-year-old sister. Until 1965, when we left the West Indies due to my mother's ill health, we lived on the islands of St. Lucia, St. Vincent and Bequia. Interspersed during those years were several furloughs, moves to many different homes and the birth of three more siblings. My parents were primarily involved in church planting and the development of a Bible school.

In October 1997, with my wife and two sons, I took a month-long trip back to the islands where I had been raised. This was my first trip back, and arriving at the airport on St. Lucia was an emotional experience.

For nine days, we explored St. Lucia. In Vieux Fort, on the southern tip of the island, I sought directions to the evangelical church. It appeared much smaller, older and less significant than I remembered. Yet it brought back memories of sitting on hard wooden benches every Sunday morning and evening in a white shirt and tie listening to my father sing, his voice sonorously rising above the singing of the entire congregation. Then he would preach a rousing sermon with great enthusiasm and vigour. One of my "chores" was to play the piano for congregational singing for some Sunday evening services, something I always faced with trepidation, as my repertoire was limited to songs in the key of C or three flats. My parents had invested in years of piano lessons for me, and I felt some obligation to make their sacrifices bear fruit.

The street on which the church was located was much the same as before--crowded, poor and decrepit by Canadian standards--but vibrant with the energy of a small village. While the immediate appearance was one of poverty, once we adjusted, we realized that we were imposing an artificial standard of poverty. The people were healthy looking and well dressed, and generally exuded a sense of well-being.

Leaving St. Lucia, we flew to St. Vincent, then took a motor launch to Bequia, an island nine miles away. I had heard many harrowing tales from my parents about their crossings on schooners. On the trip to Bequia, I began conversing with a man about my age about the changes which had occurred on the island during the last four or five decades. When I identified who I was and who my father was, he recollected him. He stated that in those years there were no paved roads and no electricity on the island.

I had few memories of Bequia, as I had been there during my preschool years, but I did remember living right by the ocean, as well as attending a street meeting with my parents. To start the church, street meetings were held. This would involve my mother playing a folding organ while my father would sing and then preach. The first convert was a woman named Iris. In time, a church was built.

We attended the two evangelical churches in Bequia. Both have been led by Pastor St. Hilaire for the last 30 years, a man who spent four years being taught by my father at the Bible school. It was fascinating hearing his sermon, as he had the same mannerisms as my father, and I could imagine my father preaching the same sermon.

In Port Elizabeth Church, we met Iris, who warmly identified herself as the first convert. I also went to see a man named Eric Farrell. When a young man, he had helped carry items to the street meetings for my parents. After he became a Christian, his life enormously changed. He related how my father would regularly visit the Christians and teach them Christian values. The custom was for a man to have children with a number of women and not take seriously his parental responsibilities. My father taught basic family values--loving and being faithful to one wife and bringing up the children in the way of God. Mr. Farrell had done this with his wife and 11 children, and expressed great appreciation for the teaching and guidance he had received.

I met a number of people in Bequia who knew my family. They pointed out where we had lived, and recollected with amusement my father's sermons on "wishy-washy Christians". In those days, there was no mechanization, and all construction work was done by hand. My father was admired for the enormous physical labour he contributed in the building of the church. His physical labour gave him credibility, as the people could see that he gave everything he had to his mission. When my father left Bequia, the church was full of people, and four lay leaders had been trained. The evangelical church there is still known as the "Docksen Church".

The last island to visit was St. Vincent, the place that felt most like home to me. We drove up the mountain to the Bible school where we had lived for our last several years. The road, which I remembered as being quite remote, now had houses all the way along. When we arrived, we were warmly greeted by a man named Nathaniel Stanley, who related that he had been baptized by my father. The Bible school property was now owned by the government and was used as a centre for 30 boys who could no longer live with their parents. The buildings were ugly and rundown, but we were invited to meet the boys. My wife asked them to tell us their names and what they loved about their island. With considerable emotion, I talked to them about what their home had meant to me. Being with the boys was reassuring, as we saw that they were being loved and cared for.

A couple whom my father had married in 1953 kindly granted us the use of a house they owned in the village of Barroullie, one of the the earliest places my family had lived. Attending the local church a short distance up the narrow street was an unforgettable experience. When we arrived, the evening meeting was in full swing, with three young people exuberantly performing a special number to a packed congregration. Two of them then continued to lead the congregation in exultant singing for 40 minutes until the minister brought the sermon.

On Sunday morning, we attended the large main church in Kingstown, where we were warmly received. A man named Johnathan Pitt asked us to his home for a delicious meal after the service. He sensitively expressed his concern for the children of missionaries, as he observed that they often had losses which went unnoticed and could be under particular attack by Satan.

We visited Troumaca, a town on a high mountain crest above the ocean, where my parents had first started their church building efforts. Now an attractive church building stands there. We marvelled at the fortitude of my parents, as in those days the roads were virtually impassable, and travel was done by boat. It was a long, steep walk up from the ocean at the time, and travel to the outlying areas was done on foot, at least until my father procured a horse for a while. The place still felt isolated. What must it have been like over 40 years ago?

The trip having come to an end, we returned home feeling enriched. This had not been simply a holiday to an exotic location. I returned with a new appreciation for my parents. As a child, I did not recognize what an impact they and the message of the gospel were making on people's lives. I knew that my father was very busy, worked extremely hard and was not available to the family as much as I would have liked. Now I saw that the message he and my mother had brought was life-transforming for many people, and that their vision had born great fruit. Although many years have passed, my parents are remembered with love.

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