I would like to tell you about my dad, Henry Vanderbush. I grew up in an evangelist’s house. People were always asking two specific questions of me which depended on whether or not they knew my dad. If they knew just enough about him to be curious they would ask, “What does your dad do?” I quickly realized that most people didn’t have a clue as to what an evangelist was because when I would identify him as one the common response that would follow was, “No, I mean what does he do as a real job?” So I started identifying him as a preacher instead. But the typical response to that title was kind of like the response a kid would get if he said his dad was a shrink. I had to come up with some response that would correctly identify him to the masses that were ignorant of common Christian vocational terms so I wouldn’t keep having this same conversation over and over again. I settled on the term ‘missionary’. It was accurate since we traveled all over the world and strangely enough people not only saw it as a real job but they were sympathetic towards me as a missionary kid. Either that or they just really felt sorry for me.
The other group of people was those who knew just enough about him to be dangerous and their question went like this. “What’s it like living with your dad?” This was not only welcome to me but was easy and amusing to answer. I don’t know how relevant this will be to any reader for the experiences here are unique but I know they are interesting for the stories I could tell have mesmerized small and large audiences in living rooms, cowbarns, churches, and restaurants for decades. This is one of my favorites.
I came into the world in 1973, just as dad was turning 42 and mom was 32. They had met a few years earlier at a holiness camp, which is just another way of saying that when you made out at this type of camp nobody better find out. Much like living in the Middle East it was improper for a man and woman to spend time alone together especially if they were part of the ministry team. Dad was the shining star of youth evangelists for the Weslyan Methodist church at the time and still unmarried in his late 30’s he was the eternal bachelor. As dad relates it, “Every holiness pastor was throwing his bucktoothed daughter at me with a word from the Lord that I was supposed to marry them.” He described one by saying, “She could bite the core out of an apple through a picket fence. I’d only kiss her if my tonsils were itching.” Truth be told, the God fearing holiness denial of worldly accessories such as jewelry, makeup, decent hairdos, perfume, or regular bathing made it easy for a guy to stay single for four decades.
Then he met my mom. Ronda Brown was an aspiring school teacher who played a mean marimba. As of this writing she can still rock the house playing Beulah Land holding 8 mallets at the same time. She took second place at the Lake Benton, Minnesota community talent show once. Probably would have taken first but the guy juggling chainsaws was just awesome. Her act just lacked the danger factor. I told her that lighting the mallets on fire would have done it. My Blazing Beulah Land idea wasn’t well received.
It was actually a miracle that they allowed the marimba at all at the holiness events because in order to play it you had to hit it which made it a cousin to the demonic drum set which as everyone knew was a tool of the enemy. Some missionary from the Congo had met a guy who knew of a witch doctor who said so. But the marimba was cool and hip with the youth and so it was allowed.
She was popular with the holiness campmeetings because not only could she play the weird looking contraption on the platform but God had blessed her with natural worldly sinful attraction. She had golden blond hair that defied gravity, piercing yet kind blue eyes that reflected the ocean that she loved so much, and a smile that would stop a room. This trinity of worldly enticement was more than my dad could bear. It wasn’t long before they were doing the unthinkable. Sitting in a car together. It was late in the evening and they were sitting in mom’s car on the grounds of the camp when a figure appeared walking in the shadows. It was the director of the camp who would certainly not approve. In a moment of worldly brilliance dad said, “Hit the floor.” To this day he insists it was purely innocent. Nevertheless the evangelist and the blonde were on the floor of a rambler at a holiness campmeeting. Those moments of spontaneous love and laughter between them have never subsided to this day. (To be continued)