Corrie ten Boom, Her Story (continued)
Behold, God is my salvation, I will trust and not be afraid: for the Lord JEHOVAH is my strength and my song... .
Isaiah 12:2
4. A Song in the Night
THE WAR WAS over. Even before I left the concentration camp, I knew I would be busy helping those who had lost their way. Now I found myself starting just such a work in Bloemendaal. It was more than a home for the homeless; it was a refuge for those who had lost their way spiritually as well as physically.
Yet, because I had lived so close to death, looking it in the face day after day, I often felt like a stranger among my own people—many of whom looked upon money, honor of men, and success as the important issues of life. Standing in front of a crematorium, knowing that any day could be your day, gives one a different perspective on life. The words of an old German motto kept flashing in my mind: What I spent, I had; what I saved, I lost; what I gave, I have.
How well I understood the feeling of the artist who painted the picture of the corpse of a once wealthy man and entitled it, Sic transit gloria mundi—So passes the glory of this world. The material things of this world no longer excited me— nor would they ever again.
It was during this time that I visited Haarlem, the town where I had spent more than fifty years of my life. It was late in the evening as I walked through the streets. Waiting before a traffic light, I had a strange feeling that the people should fall in line five by five, as in the concentration camp. Instead, they chatted about insignificant things and when the light changed, they moved on without anyone shouting at them.
Walking the streets that night, however, I felt growing in me a tremendous desire to tell all men, especially those in bondage to material things, of the One who can set us free from all prisons: Jesus.
It was after midnight when I finally made my way to the Barteljorisstraat. There were few streetlights but the moon and many stars were visible above the ancient rooftops of the familiar houses on the short street. I paused in front of the Beje on the corner of the small alley that came out in the midst of the street. I let my fingertips run across the door of the watchmaker's shop. Even though the Beje was no longer my home, it was still part of my heart. Little did I dream that one day it would be set aside as a museum to commemorate my family and the hiding place of those precious Jews who had been saved from certain death at the hands of the Nazis.
I stood alone in the darkness, allowing myself the sweet luxury of remembering. How often had I put the shutters before the show window. Through this door
I had walked on my first day of school, almost fifty years ago. Oh, what an unwilling pupil I had been, crying in fear of leaving the dear old house whose warmth in winter had protected me, whose windows had kept out the rain and mist, whose cheery fire had welcomed me and others in the family each night after the dinner dishes had been put away. Yet my father, knowing my fear, took me by the hand and led me through this door and out into the world of learning, into an unknown world of teachers and classrooms.
Now Father was dead. Only my Heavenly Father remained. I ran my hand over the door, letting my fingers explore the cracks. It was no longer my hiding place. Others lived here now, and the world was my classroom, and my only security came in knowing that underneath were the Everlasting Arms. How thankful I was for my Heavenly Father's strong hand around mine.
I looked into the small alley. It was almost pitch dark. I strained my ears, and in the far off recesses of my heart, could imagine the voices of Father, Betsie, and the others. Had it been only a year ago? It seemed like centuries. "What an honor," Father had said, "to give my life for God's chosen people, the Jews."
I felt the wall with my hands, then gently pressed my face against the cold stones. No, I was not dreaming. It was reality. The old Beje, the old hiding place, was no longer mine. Ravensbruck had taught me much I needed to learn. My hiding place was now in Jesus alone. Even though I was wandering the streets at midnight in a town that used to be my home but was now only a town, I knew the Presence of the Heavenly Father.
Suddenly the cathedral started to play its nostalgic chimes. Day and night through my lifetime I had heard the beautiful music from the Grote Kerk. It was not a dream, as I had often experienced in the concentration camp. It was real. I walked out of the shadows of the alley and made my way down the Barteljorisstraat to the Grote Markt. I paused to look at the cathedral which was silhouetted against the dark sky, framed into place by a million twinkling stars.
TRAMP FOR THE LORD 203 "Thank You, Jesus, that I am alive," I said.
In my heart I heard Him reply, "Lo, Iam with you always, even unto the end of the world" (Matthew 28:30).
I stayed there for long minutes as the hands on the face of the great clock moved toward the hour. Then the chimes in the cathedral tower pealed forth once again, this time with the sounds of Luther's famous hymn "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God." I listened and heard myself singing the hymn, not in Dutch, but in German: "Ein' feste Burg ist unser Gott."
"How like You, Lord," I half-chuckled, "that You would remind me of Your grace by letting me hear a German hymn."
A policeman passed, looked at me, and spoke a friendly word. I said, "Good-night, Policeman. A mighty fortress is our God."
I was free.