I was asked a few years ago, "What do you remember now from before the age of 4?" My first reaction was, "Actually nothing." After a while you start to reflect that question anyway.

Today I am back in my native region. As I pass De Soester Duinen on the train, I remember the stories about when I had lost my father and unknown people would ask, "What is your name?" I had answered, "Marco Borsato." "And your Papa and Mama?" they then asked. I answered them, "Gijsbert and Jacqueline." Of course, those people couldn't do anything with that at all.

I don't remember any of this, but thanks to the story and the pictures, it is still a memory that stays with you.

What I do remember is that when I was a little boy, I walked along a water with a wooden bridge and a weeping willow. I have no idea where it is because I moved away at a young age and never went there again.

It's those nostalgic things. When musing about the old days, I can only look back gratefully at the fine childhood I had. I got to know God thanks to my parents, but through that I myself got to "know" God. Thanks to the difficulties I too have had, it has shaped me into the Marco I am today.

I have been annoying at times, maybe often, who knows. But despite everything, I can quietly say that the upbringing my parents gave me was not bad.

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