The house that Jake built

(Jacob) Reuben Derksen

It was the summer of 1975, and while most other teenage girls were searching for ways to pass the time in our quiet prairie community, my older sister and I spent the time fulfilling our parents’ dream – the dream of building and owning a house. And in the process, my father, (Jacob) Reuben Derksen, shared with me a blueprint for life.

In the spring of that year my mother fell in love with an old farmhouse. I shouldn’t say she fell in love with the house because as soon as we moved it into town, we tore most of it down. What she fell in love with was the oak staircase, preserved through many years, which she felt could not be duplicated. Some hint of nostalgia pleaded her case to my father.

It was a monumental project but my father was not known to back down from a challenge. Born of Mennonite farmers, he was engrained with a strong work ethic. He also had no qualms about teaching his daughters skills that others thought only sons should learn. He had us stripping laths, pulling nails, pounding nails, and carrying lumber all summer. It was glorious!

My father was not a vocal man. However, when the blueprints came out, curiosity drew me in and Father became the patient teacher: decoding the dots, dashes, and lines; demonstrating the proper hammering technique; explaining 2×4s, 2×8s, bearing walls, and crossbeams. He satisfied my inquisitive mind and I shared in his vision of the final product.

I remember rising early. Dad would entrust us to the day’s project before he went to his own job, only to return to the site to work until the sun eased into sleep under the horizon’s comfort. His drive was relentless. I witnessed a man who pushed himself to do his best, to finish what he started. We did not question his integrity, but learned from it.

A specific incident from that summer is branded in my memory. Saturday afternoon. Scorching heat. The three of us – my father, my sister, and I – were nailing on the second-storey flooring. We were nearing the end of the day’s project and our physical stamina. Dad went down to ground level to pass up the last 4×8 foot sheet of plywood.

My sister and I gripped the dense board but it kept slipping away. Dad attempted to extend it further above his head. Those seconds of futility seemed to stretch to eternity as I envisioned him being crushed.

He did not falter, however. He trusted us to persevere and succeed, and we did, with exhausted sighs. Later, Dad confessed already seeing stars under the weight of the wood. We laughed about it over lemonade without as much as a whisper of what might have been.

The house that Jake built.

When I left my teen years behind, I began to understand his amazing belief in me. It rested on a greater trust that controlled his quiet spirit – a trust in a personal, faithful God to whom he could entrust his children in peace.

My father, (Jacob) Reuben Derksen, built a house with a firm foundation. But it was not a house of concrete blocks and wooden trusses. It was a house of integrity, perseverance, and faith, and it was filled with life and peace and love. I was allowed to grow in it, and eventually leave. But it is still the house that welcomes me home.

Connie Inglis and her husband Doug work with SIL in Thailand. She is a member of Borden (Sask.) MB Church.