My parents still got down on their knees for morning prayers. It was a fixed formula that could not be changed. I was about nine years old when I asked if I could pray something. When it was my turn I read a poem by Huub Oosterhuis from the tear-off calendar note. I expected reproach and rebuke. There was a serene silence. A new beginning.
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A version of this article also appeared in the newspaper of April 12, 2023.