Tramp for the Lord (4 page)

I had rarely cried during all those months of suffering. Now I could not control myself. My life had been given back as a gift. Harmony, beauty, colors and music. Only those who have suffered as I, and have returned, can fully understand what I mean.

I knew my life had been given back for a purpose. I was no longer my own. This time I had been ransomed and released. I knew that God would soon be sending me out as a tramp for the Lord. But right now, He was letting me enjoy the luxury of thanksgiving. I was drinking from a fountain I knew would never run dry—the fountain of praise.

One of the first places I visited, after my release from the concentration camp, was the
Grote Kerk
in Haarlem. Since it was so close to where I had grown up in the Beje, I counted it as much of an old friend as I did the watchmaker’s shop.

“May I show you through?” the old usher said as he met me at the door.

“If it is all right,” I said. “I would like to be alone.”

He nodded, understandingly, and disappeared into the shadows of the sanctuary. I walked over the gravestones that formed the floor of the ancient building. My shoes made a strange, scraping sound that gave forth a hollow echo in the empty cathedral. I remembered the many times I had played here as a child.

My cousin Dot was my closest friend. She was the youngest daughter of my Uncle Arnold who was the previous usher—the caretaker—of the
Grote Kerk
.

Dot and I did everything together, but our favorite pastime was to play hide-and-seek in the big church. There were many wonderful places to hide: pews, old doors giving entrance to spiral staircases, and many closets. There was a world-famous pipe organ in the cathedral; and sometimes when there was a concert, Uncle Arnold would allow members of his family to come into the church, sit on a wooden bench without a back and lean against the cold, moist stone wall to hear the magnificent music.

The cathedral was a symphony in gray tones during the day, both inside and outside. In the evening, when the gas lamps were lit on the side transepts, we could see the pillars and ceilings pointing upwards, as the shadows danced about in a mysterious glow.

Only one place was absolutely “off limits” as we played hide-and-seek. That was the old pulpit. We never went there, but for the rest—what a playground that old church was! When we shouted, the echo would ring from transept to transept, and our laughter never, never seemed to be sacrilegious.

Unlike some of the stern adults who sometimes frowned on our frolic, I had always thought that the laughter of little children in an empty cathedral was the most beautiful of all hymns of praise. And so we grew up, knowing only a God who enjoyed our presence as we skipped, ran and played through this building which was built for His glory.

One afternoon we played very late; and before we knew it, the darkness of the cathedral swallowed us up. I looked around. Through the beautiful stained-glass windows I saw a little light coming in from the streets around. Only the silhouettes of the Gothic pillars stood out in the darkness as they reached upward and upward.

“Let’s go home,” whispered Dot. “I’m scared.”

I was not. Slowly I went to the usher’s door that opened out to where Uncle Arnold lived. There was a Presence that comforted me, a deep peace in my heart. Even in the darkness, smelling the dust and dampness of the church building, I knew that the “Light of the World” was present. Was the Lord preparing me for some time in the future when I would need to know that His light is victorious over all darkness?

It was forty-five years later. Betsie and I walked to the square where roll call was being held in the concentration camp. It was still early, before dawn. The head of our barracks was so cruel that she had sent us out into the very cold outdoors a full hour too early.

Betsie’s hand was in mine. We went to the square by a different way from the rest of our barracks-mates. We were three as we walked with the Lord and talked with Him. Betsie spoke. Then I talked. Then the Lord spoke. How? I do not know. But both of us understood. It was the same Presence I had felt years before in the old cathedral in Haarlem.

The brilliant early morning stars were our only light. The cold winter air was so clear. We could faintly see the outlines of the barracks, the crematorium, the gas chamber and the towers where the guards were standing with loaded machine guns.

“Isn’t this a bit of heaven!” Betsie had said. “And, Lord, this is a small foretaste. One day we will see You face to face, but thank You that even now You are giving us the joy of walking and talking with You.”

Heaven in the midst of hell. Light in the midst of darkness. What a security!

Behold, God is my salvation; I will trust and not be afraid: for the L
ORD
JEHOVAH is my strength and my song
.

Isaiah 12:2

T
he 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; 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.

“Thank You, Jesus, that I am alive,” I said.

In my heart I heard Him reply, “Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world” (Matt. 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.

By faith Abraham, when he was called to go out into a place which he should after receive for an inheritance, obeyed; and he went out, not knowing whither he went
.

Hebrews 11:8

W
hen my parents were married many years ago, they claimed Psalm 32:8 as their “life verse,” the promise which they felt was God’s assurance for them:

I will instruct thee and teach thee in the way which thou shalt go: I will guide thee with mine eye.

Now that Father and Mother were gone, this promise became the special directive for my life as well—God’s pledge to guide me in all my journeys. It was especially needed as I set out for my first trip to America.

The war had only been over a short time, and many Europeans wanted to go to America. However, few, if any, wanted to go for the same reason I did—to carry the gospel as a missionary to the Americans. For all of us, however, it was the same story when we applied for passage to America: “It is impossible to obtain papers.”

I prayed, “Lord, if it is Your will that I go to America, then You must provide the necessary papers.”

I soon discovered that man’s importunity is God’s opportunity. He uses our problems as building materials for His miracles. I began to understand that this was my first lesson in learning to trust Him completely, my first steps on the path to complete dependence on, and obedience to, His guidance. How much I had to learn!

At last all my papers were approved, except the final one—the most important one. I sat alone on a hard wooden bench in the hall of the Immigration Office in The Hague. Everyone coming out of the office warned those of us waiting in the hall, “That fellow in there is as hard as flint. He passes no one.”

“Lord,” I prayed silently, “I am willing to go or stay. It is up to You.”

“Hello, there! Don’t we know each other?” It was the voice of a middle-aged woman standing in front of me. I looked up into her face, trying vainly to recognize her.

“You’re Corrie ten Boom,” she laughed. “I’m one of your cousins, and this is Jan, my husband. I haven’t seen you for years, and of course, Jan has never seen you since we were married only six years ago.”