I'm a little weepy as I write this, and it's not all due to dust and mold allergy! Some of the heirlooms in our house are going to good homes with family members. We're thrilled that they won't end with us and will live on with others who love them and the people they're connected to.
The cedar chest my grandfather made. He was a cabinet maker and built beautiful furniture. This one wasn't good furniture, it was utilitarian. Yet, made with respect and care because in those days, you did everything that way. It's covered with grime, painted gray, spiders are in it. But the person who is going to get it is going to love restoring it.
A tiny wooden stool. My grandpop was fond of making stools! He'd find a good piece of wood in the trash and start creating. That's also going to be fun for my niece to restore.
A little oak box of some sort. We had to pry the cover off, to find it was really a tiny chest. Opening the drawers I began my tearful journey with my father's rulers. Okay. What's the big deal about rulers? My father had this thing about them. Occasionally he even made his own. When he had his business he ordered hundreds of them with his name on them. Beige color, plastic, beveled edges, they were the staples of my life with him. Underlining in his Bible, making art work, in business as he measured glasses for customers. It took me back to those days when I would watch him study for his turn preaching. I'd ask him what his topic was and he'd always say, "Sin. I'm against it." We're going to keep the little box and restore it. Even if we never use it, it's a memory.
There are other cabinets filled with tools. Hard core woodworking and construction drills and bits. Dad was the consummate builder, like his dad.
David reached up and brought down a wooden box that was high up out of sight. I recognized it right away. Slowly pushed the dust away and opened it... it was my father's art box. That did it with the restraint. Pastel chalks, charcoal pencils, watercolors, oil chalks, gum erasers. The whole vista of memory opened up. Dad was an artist who should have done it for a living. He used his art in ministry. He did 'chalk talks', if any of you over 60 remember them. Illustrating a sermon or talk by drawing a picture in chalks then giving it away to an audience member. I would have my little easel, beside his, he'd put out the chalks and pencils and direct me. He did the big one, I did a little one. Sometimes he'd give me what he had done. For many years I had a chalk picture on the door of my bedroom of the Safe Harbor - a ship coming into the harbor at dusk, red sky, setting sun, safe from the storms of the day. I'd stare at it at night and think of God, my harbor. That picture did more for my acceptance of God than any number of sermons. When we were finished drawing he would insist that I put the materials away correctly. Sometimes I went with him to the art store for supplies and he would buy me sketching pencils or art paper. Once he brought home one of those jointed wooden dolls that an artist uses to sketch form.
I'm reminded of the verse that says, "Lord, you have been my dwelling place through all generations." More than the actual things, it's the memory of my dear parents who taught not by words or strap, but by living out the example.
Friday, October 24, 2014
Date Night at Wawa
Sometimes you forget that your pleasures are regional. We don't have Publix or Piggly Wiggly up here in Pa. Out near Harrisburg they have Sheetz convenience stores. Here in Pennsylvania, we have Wawa. When I first heard the name of the store, 40 years ago, I laughed. What the heck was a Wawa? It sounded like Snoopy's voice. Not sure why the owner named it that but oh well.
Most convenience stores are horrendously expensive, have horrible food and dirty bathrooms. Wawa's do not. They started small, like a 7-11 but over the years, refined the atmosphere. Although the food does cost more than a grocery store, it's not out of most people's league. The sandwiches are reasonably priced and very good. Hot drinks, delicious, well made. The bathrooms are clean. The buildings, while all the same structure, are designed to fit into any environment.
A mile from us used to stand Bally's gym. It was a three story glass building with a huge parking lot, on the edge of the community park. Totally out of tune with the neighborhood. Nobody liked it. Three years ago it went out of business and sat there, annoying everyone. Then, a developer bought the land and we all sighed. What kind of monstrosity was going up there now?
Surprise! It was a Wawa! It took a year of planning and building after six months of knocking down the Bally's building. Everybody wondered if the store would be worse than what was there. Would traffic be a nightmare? How about Manhattan Bagel across the street? Would they be put out of business?
David and I were sitting in the back room, reading, when he saw that Wawa had opened that day. We were two excited senior citizens. Wawa's habit is to offer free hot drinks for the first week. I said, "why don't we go over now?" Well that was a thought. Who goes out for fun after ten? We do! And it was really fun! The store is clean and bright, the manager stopped us and explained where everything was, I got a S'more hot chocolate and David his coffee. On the way out, we met a friend who was also excitedly getting her coffee. Traffic in and out was fine and a path led down into the park.
Welcome Wawa to Willow Grove!
Most convenience stores are horrendously expensive, have horrible food and dirty bathrooms. Wawa's do not. They started small, like a 7-11 but over the years, refined the atmosphere. Although the food does cost more than a grocery store, it's not out of most people's league. The sandwiches are reasonably priced and very good. Hot drinks, delicious, well made. The bathrooms are clean. The buildings, while all the same structure, are designed to fit into any environment.
A mile from us used to stand Bally's gym. It was a three story glass building with a huge parking lot, on the edge of the community park. Totally out of tune with the neighborhood. Nobody liked it. Three years ago it went out of business and sat there, annoying everyone. Then, a developer bought the land and we all sighed. What kind of monstrosity was going up there now?
Surprise! It was a Wawa! It took a year of planning and building after six months of knocking down the Bally's building. Everybody wondered if the store would be worse than what was there. Would traffic be a nightmare? How about Manhattan Bagel across the street? Would they be put out of business?
David and I were sitting in the back room, reading, when he saw that Wawa had opened that day. We were two excited senior citizens. Wawa's habit is to offer free hot drinks for the first week. I said, "why don't we go over now?" Well that was a thought. Who goes out for fun after ten? We do! And it was really fun! The store is clean and bright, the manager stopped us and explained where everything was, I got a S'more hot chocolate and David his coffee. On the way out, we met a friend who was also excitedly getting her coffee. Traffic in and out was fine and a path led down into the park.
Welcome Wawa to Willow Grove!
Thursday, October 23, 2014
Happy Birthday Mother!
Today, Mother would have been 101 years old! Now, my dad I can imagine that old. He was robust and active to the last hour. But mother, she was shy, graceful, retiring, Dad's port in the storm. I can't imagine her being any older than she was when she passed away at 83.
My first memory ever is of mother feeding me. I was in a highchair so I must have been a toddler. She was smiling, I threw food on the floor, and she laughed. She thought I was funny. I felt so accepted. Other memories are of watching her bake, clean, do wash, iron, hang the wash, set the table, bring out the food and set it in front of Dad first. She hung wallpaper, gardened, sewed all our clothes, read everything she could get her hands on. The neighbors would get together and give one another permanent waves. And I didn't only watch from my perch under the table or in the corner of the kitchen. She would invite me, rather than make me, come and help so I was doing adult activities at a very young age.
I loved going visiting with her. Mother would put on her hat and gloves, fill a basket with fresh baked goods and tea bags. We would get on the trolley or bus and "call" on a sick or elderly woman. I would sit at her feet while they chatted, either coloring or playing with a doll, then mother would pray with the woman and on the way home, she would stop at the playground and let me play as a reward for being good.
Mother was the consummate storyteller. Every experience was a cause for drama and she would regale us with these little plays, we children acting them out. She was a writer also. Carried a pen and paper everywhere she went and one would see her pull out her little pad and jot down notes. It would later appear as a story. She was never published, rather she did it because the stories were in her and had to come out. Mother would often turn to me and invite my input. We had this plan o write a book together - life from the old and young point of view. We never got to write the whole thing but worked on it throughout our lives together.
Mother honored her husband. Yes, they were human, fought and disagreed vigorously. But when it came down to it, Dad was every bit the head of the home. It enabled him to be the leader and protector a husband is supposed to be. She was adored and supported by him and was able to be much more than many other women in the 50s because of his respect for her. She was progressive because my dad had her back.
Never in my life was I sent to bed, even as a teenager. At bath time mother would sit on the toilet seat and sing Jesus songs and we'd talk. She would lead me to bed and open our current book and spend a good hour reading to me, praying over me, rubbing my back. When I would wake, I would hear the old rocker squeaking back and forth and see her in the corner of the room watching over me.
Mother seldom spanked me. (that was Dad's job). She didn't have the temperament for it. As bad as I was and insistent on my own way, she would talk to me. When mother said that she was disappointed in me because she knew that misdeed wasn't who I really was, my heart melted, more than any strap could do.
As a young mother and wife, I would come over, Dad would pour endless cups of tea while she would whip up spetzle, my favorite. When I was very pregnant and sick the whole time, she suddenly flew out the door, stopped the ice cream man and bought me a cone.
I feel so fortunate that I had that week to say goodbye, especially since Dad took a flying leap into heaven. We talked about everything, she solved the mysteries of our family life, passed on family secrets that I was supposed to hold. I apologized for being such a difficult kid and she said, "I thought you were cute and funny. I loved being your mother." I will take those words to my grave.
She made me write down the whole dying experience - a writer to the end. We sang hymns and prayed together. I was writing, in fact, at the moment she passed. I had been singing the hymn, Face to Face with Christ my Savior, and sat down to rest, picking up my yellow legal pad to write the things she had told me I needed to remember, when her breathing just stopped and she was gone.
And yet, not gone. She's with me in my dreams, in this house where she spent 50 years, the old Philadelphia house for the first 8 years of my life, the rose gardens, grape arbor, upholstery, the box of hundreds of buttons in a Whitman Sampler box because you never know when you'll need a button, her thread collection which I'm still using, her Singer which is working well, and in the people who come up to me and tell me how much they loved my mother.
So happy birthday Mother! Love you and miss you but glad that you're enjoying eternity.
Eunice Macdonald was kind, gracious, non judgmental, loving, respectful of other people's journeys in life, progressive in thinking, a deep thinker about God and open to learning something new, not a religious party line thinker. Counselor, children's minister, prayer warrior, artist, Bible teacher, true Christian and friend.
My first memory ever is of mother feeding me. I was in a highchair so I must have been a toddler. She was smiling, I threw food on the floor, and she laughed. She thought I was funny. I felt so accepted. Other memories are of watching her bake, clean, do wash, iron, hang the wash, set the table, bring out the food and set it in front of Dad first. She hung wallpaper, gardened, sewed all our clothes, read everything she could get her hands on. The neighbors would get together and give one another permanent waves. And I didn't only watch from my perch under the table or in the corner of the kitchen. She would invite me, rather than make me, come and help so I was doing adult activities at a very young age.
I loved going visiting with her. Mother would put on her hat and gloves, fill a basket with fresh baked goods and tea bags. We would get on the trolley or bus and "call" on a sick or elderly woman. I would sit at her feet while they chatted, either coloring or playing with a doll, then mother would pray with the woman and on the way home, she would stop at the playground and let me play as a reward for being good.
Mother was the consummate storyteller. Every experience was a cause for drama and she would regale us with these little plays, we children acting them out. She was a writer also. Carried a pen and paper everywhere she went and one would see her pull out her little pad and jot down notes. It would later appear as a story. She was never published, rather she did it because the stories were in her and had to come out. Mother would often turn to me and invite my input. We had this plan o write a book together - life from the old and young point of view. We never got to write the whole thing but worked on it throughout our lives together.
Mother honored her husband. Yes, they were human, fought and disagreed vigorously. But when it came down to it, Dad was every bit the head of the home. It enabled him to be the leader and protector a husband is supposed to be. She was adored and supported by him and was able to be much more than many other women in the 50s because of his respect for her. She was progressive because my dad had her back.
Never in my life was I sent to bed, even as a teenager. At bath time mother would sit on the toilet seat and sing Jesus songs and we'd talk. She would lead me to bed and open our current book and spend a good hour reading to me, praying over me, rubbing my back. When I would wake, I would hear the old rocker squeaking back and forth and see her in the corner of the room watching over me.
Mother seldom spanked me. (that was Dad's job). She didn't have the temperament for it. As bad as I was and insistent on my own way, she would talk to me. When mother said that she was disappointed in me because she knew that misdeed wasn't who I really was, my heart melted, more than any strap could do.
As a young mother and wife, I would come over, Dad would pour endless cups of tea while she would whip up spetzle, my favorite. When I was very pregnant and sick the whole time, she suddenly flew out the door, stopped the ice cream man and bought me a cone.
I feel so fortunate that I had that week to say goodbye, especially since Dad took a flying leap into heaven. We talked about everything, she solved the mysteries of our family life, passed on family secrets that I was supposed to hold. I apologized for being such a difficult kid and she said, "I thought you were cute and funny. I loved being your mother." I will take those words to my grave.
She made me write down the whole dying experience - a writer to the end. We sang hymns and prayed together. I was writing, in fact, at the moment she passed. I had been singing the hymn, Face to Face with Christ my Savior, and sat down to rest, picking up my yellow legal pad to write the things she had told me I needed to remember, when her breathing just stopped and she was gone.
And yet, not gone. She's with me in my dreams, in this house where she spent 50 years, the old Philadelphia house for the first 8 years of my life, the rose gardens, grape arbor, upholstery, the box of hundreds of buttons in a Whitman Sampler box because you never know when you'll need a button, her thread collection which I'm still using, her Singer which is working well, and in the people who come up to me and tell me how much they loved my mother.
So happy birthday Mother! Love you and miss you but glad that you're enjoying eternity.
Eunice Macdonald was kind, gracious, non judgmental, loving, respectful of other people's journeys in life, progressive in thinking, a deep thinker about God and open to learning something new, not a religious party line thinker. Counselor, children's minister, prayer warrior, artist, Bible teacher, true Christian and friend.
Friday, October 3, 2014
Where's Mama?
Missed me? Of course you did! It's been a year of adventure, and unfortunately, no way to publish it on my blog!
Our old computer, good girl that she is, slowly died. Taking facebook and blogs with it. Thank you Uncle Sam - able to get a new one this year! Checked it out - Mama's Musings is back!
Things we said we'd never do - along with the computer, Dave and I got tablets. I swore they were useless to me - never say no. It goes with me everywhere. Camera - facebook - google, oh what fun to watch a tv show and look up the stars and plot! "Hey, who was the second Darren?"
Library app - any book in library circulation - for 3 weeks and automatically returned. What could be better for a reader like me? And if you're one of those who told me I would love it - please hold your judgy look! You were right, okay?
So Mama is back! Hope you'll visit often and find out what soap box I'm on that day.
Our old computer, good girl that she is, slowly died. Taking facebook and blogs with it. Thank you Uncle Sam - able to get a new one this year! Checked it out - Mama's Musings is back!
Things we said we'd never do - along with the computer, Dave and I got tablets. I swore they were useless to me - never say no. It goes with me everywhere. Camera - facebook - google, oh what fun to watch a tv show and look up the stars and plot! "Hey, who was the second Darren?"
Library app - any book in library circulation - for 3 weeks and automatically returned. What could be better for a reader like me? And if you're one of those who told me I would love it - please hold your judgy look! You were right, okay?
So Mama is back! Hope you'll visit often and find out what soap box I'm on that day.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
Mother's Prayers
It's 11:30 pm, I've brushed my teeth and taken my medication. Lights are out in the bedroom, David is snoring. I lay there with pillows plumped for a half hour and then got up, came in here to write more on the stories I have going. Why? Because nothing but dark thoughts are going through my head. Depressive thoughts. Things I should have done, things I did do that were wrong, regrets, scenarios of what I wish had happened in certain circumstances. Does this happen to you too? I bet it does.
In other days I would write a story in my head. Or think of a Bible verse for every letter of the alphabet, or girl's names, or favorite foods. I usually never got farther than G. But it doesn't work for me anymore. Maybe something about aging when the stories have been written, no new Bible verses to surprise myself, don't care about girls' names and I'm on a strict diet so shouldn't think about food.
So I get up and see if Joel or Joyce are on the religious channels. Or go to my trusty computer and write or blog. I have a memory of long ago. This is the house I grew up in. I was often frightened in the night but terrified to get up and face the monsters that lurked for me in the dark. But when I did, I found comfort in the living room. Mother would be lying on the sofa covered in an afghan that she had made, a radio at her eat tuned to the Family Bible Hour music. She would be murmuring. It wasn't a bad dream, she was praying. An insomniac (is that where I get it?) and often having depressing thoughts (she told me on her death bed) she would go into the living room. Dad would have set up her nest with the blankets and radio. He would make her toast and go back to bed. Mother would lie there in the dark praying.
And then one night, I heard my name. "Bless little Martha..." Little Martha was 13 and wild, rebellious, heedless and thoughtless. Had nothing to do with God. Was scaring my gentle mother to death with my antics. But I heard my name in prayer. My mother, who couldn't stop me, knew who could. I felt so loved.
So in a few minutes I'm going to close up shop here and try again, if David's snoring doesn't keep me up. I'm having a routine blood test in the morning and cannot eat anything until 10 tomorrow morning and if I sit here long enough, I'll eat and that will be the end of my blood test. What will I do to get to sleep? Stay tuned!
In other days I would write a story in my head. Or think of a Bible verse for every letter of the alphabet, or girl's names, or favorite foods. I usually never got farther than G. But it doesn't work for me anymore. Maybe something about aging when the stories have been written, no new Bible verses to surprise myself, don't care about girls' names and I'm on a strict diet so shouldn't think about food.
So I get up and see if Joel or Joyce are on the religious channels. Or go to my trusty computer and write or blog. I have a memory of long ago. This is the house I grew up in. I was often frightened in the night but terrified to get up and face the monsters that lurked for me in the dark. But when I did, I found comfort in the living room. Mother would be lying on the sofa covered in an afghan that she had made, a radio at her eat tuned to the Family Bible Hour music. She would be murmuring. It wasn't a bad dream, she was praying. An insomniac (is that where I get it?) and often having depressing thoughts (she told me on her death bed) she would go into the living room. Dad would have set up her nest with the blankets and radio. He would make her toast and go back to bed. Mother would lie there in the dark praying.
And then one night, I heard my name. "Bless little Martha..." Little Martha was 13 and wild, rebellious, heedless and thoughtless. Had nothing to do with God. Was scaring my gentle mother to death with my antics. But I heard my name in prayer. My mother, who couldn't stop me, knew who could. I felt so loved.
So in a few minutes I'm going to close up shop here and try again, if David's snoring doesn't keep me up. I'm having a routine blood test in the morning and cannot eat anything until 10 tomorrow morning and if I sit here long enough, I'll eat and that will be the end of my blood test. What will I do to get to sleep? Stay tuned!
Friday, April 26, 2013
A Sweet Hobby
I remember the day, around 1962, when my mother came into this very living room and sat beside me on the sofa making me turn off the TV. I was not pleased. She had a sampler she had sewn when she was a child. Why she would think I, her wild pre teen would care, I don't know. I still see it - a home made counted cross stitch design that said 'Search the Scriptures'. Of all the lame things to say, mother asked me if I would like to make a sampler too. I think she was in the mood to share something with her daughter and that was what she came up with. In a burst of uncharacteristic cooperation, I said I would like that.
Mother got out a piece of fine muslin from her fabric box. Together we used a pencil to mark Xs in the shape of words. Mine said, 'Love One Another'. I was given a hoop and red thread and set to work. Mother and I had a great afternoon together, laughing and sharing.
And that was the start of one of my favorite hobbies. I loved cross stitch. And it didn't take me long to finish a piece. When I was thirteen my Pioneer Girl leader announced that she had started a business - glory be, a sampler company!! And it was just up the street. My father drove me over and I thought I would faint from the joy of it. A warehouse full of printed cross stitch kits. I chose two and remember that they cost about $3 each. They were finished within two weeks. He took me back. And I picked the biggest, hardest one there - St. Francis of Assisi Prayer, 16x20, half inch letters. It took a year off and on. It hung in my parent's house until I got married and it moved to my house. I have no idea where it is now. Then I did an alphabet sampler with a flower for every letter. My daughter has that one. In my thirties, depressed, overwhelmed, my father knew just what would perk me up. He bought me a crewel kit of a Hummel child thinking it would give me encouragement. That was followed by three more Hummels. In the following years I would take a piece of muslin or lawn and draw a picture or a poem and just free lance it. I carried a 5x7 square of aida cloth with me at all times and would sooth my social anxiety by doing poems and Bible verses. I can see myself, my busy hands on my lap, weaving the needle in and out, while trying to look like I was listening.
And then I stopped. Never picked up the needle again. I think life got too busy and overwhelming for hobbies. When the girls were here last summer and we went through the cedar chest, they exclaimed over the many needlework pieces, almost fifty, that were stored there. When they went home, I couldn't get embroidery out of my mind. So I went out and bought a large length of aida cloth and looked up some counted cross stitch patterns online (something my mother didn't have). And started to stitch. And stitch. And stitch. Pictures and words and alphabets. I have a quilt made of embroidered Bible verses, 14 samplers of all kinds. Just started #15. I love going to Michael's and ruminating over thread colors. So many more than I had in 1965. What am I going to do with them? Nothing. Roll them up in a tube and when I'm dead my girls will find them and say, "What the heck?" Or maybe they'll value them as I did my mother's work.
I know that at some point, like Forrest Gump, I'm going to be done and just stop. I only have one piece of aida left so maybe the time is coming. How sad. But until then, I'm having a ball. Thanks Mom.
Mother got out a piece of fine muslin from her fabric box. Together we used a pencil to mark Xs in the shape of words. Mine said, 'Love One Another'. I was given a hoop and red thread and set to work. Mother and I had a great afternoon together, laughing and sharing.
And that was the start of one of my favorite hobbies. I loved cross stitch. And it didn't take me long to finish a piece. When I was thirteen my Pioneer Girl leader announced that she had started a business - glory be, a sampler company!! And it was just up the street. My father drove me over and I thought I would faint from the joy of it. A warehouse full of printed cross stitch kits. I chose two and remember that they cost about $3 each. They were finished within two weeks. He took me back. And I picked the biggest, hardest one there - St. Francis of Assisi Prayer, 16x20, half inch letters. It took a year off and on. It hung in my parent's house until I got married and it moved to my house. I have no idea where it is now. Then I did an alphabet sampler with a flower for every letter. My daughter has that one. In my thirties, depressed, overwhelmed, my father knew just what would perk me up. He bought me a crewel kit of a Hummel child thinking it would give me encouragement. That was followed by three more Hummels. In the following years I would take a piece of muslin or lawn and draw a picture or a poem and just free lance it. I carried a 5x7 square of aida cloth with me at all times and would sooth my social anxiety by doing poems and Bible verses. I can see myself, my busy hands on my lap, weaving the needle in and out, while trying to look like I was listening.
And then I stopped. Never picked up the needle again. I think life got too busy and overwhelming for hobbies. When the girls were here last summer and we went through the cedar chest, they exclaimed over the many needlework pieces, almost fifty, that were stored there. When they went home, I couldn't get embroidery out of my mind. So I went out and bought a large length of aida cloth and looked up some counted cross stitch patterns online (something my mother didn't have). And started to stitch. And stitch. And stitch. Pictures and words and alphabets. I have a quilt made of embroidered Bible verses, 14 samplers of all kinds. Just started #15. I love going to Michael's and ruminating over thread colors. So many more than I had in 1965. What am I going to do with them? Nothing. Roll them up in a tube and when I'm dead my girls will find them and say, "What the heck?" Or maybe they'll value them as I did my mother's work.
I know that at some point, like Forrest Gump, I'm going to be done and just stop. I only have one piece of aida left so maybe the time is coming. How sad. But until then, I'm having a ball. Thanks Mom.
Sunday, April 21, 2013
The Impossible Hand of Understanding
Corrie Ten Boom was a Dutch christian, an ordinary person, in an ordinary family, strong papa, dear mama, loving sisters. Their lives were flowing by with nothing of any great importance happening. And Corrie had every reason to believe she would reach the end of her life having lived a quiet, humble life. Then World War 2 happened and the Nazis swept into Holland and occupied it, dispatching the Jews and anyone who aided them. The quiet life ended. Corrie joined the underground, at age 45, and her family ended up hiding Jews in a secret space in their home. One of those women became so frightened she left the hiding place and made it known to one of the boy soldiers in their neighborhood. He was their childhood friend. And he gave them up. The family was arrested, thrown into a train with the town's Jews, and landed at Auschwitz. Papa, Mama, sisters, brother, nieces, nephews - all were sent to the ovens upon arrival. Only Corrie and her sister Betsy survived to go through events that even a horror writer's imagination couldn't conceive. Betsy died two years later, and Corrie survived until rescued by the Americans. She went on, for the rest of her life, as a speaker, healer, recounter of the Holocaust from her perspective as a Christian.
This is one of the stories she tells in her book, The Hiding Place. She was speaking at a meeting in America, four years after the war, telling her story. Urging the audience to forgive as God forgives us, not to hold hatred or grudges against the wicked, but to seek to bring them back from their darkness. When she was finished, a handsome young man came up to her and in a German accent told her this - he had been a guard at Auschwitz and had done evil. After the war he had come across some Christians who had ministered to him and he had completely repented and changed his life. He put out his hand and said, "I would like to ask your forgiveness and shake your hand as a brother in Christ." Corrie looked closer. She saw that he was indeed one of the guards who had beaten her sister and taken pleasure in the inmate's pain. Corrie was paralyzed. She felt hatred well up, pictures of the vile things he had done to her and her sister. She had visions of revenge. She most certainly was not going to shake his hand as if nothing had happened. And then, a strange thing happened. She thought, "God I can't shake his hand. If you want to, fine, but I won't." And with that, without any conscious motion on her part, her arm rose, her hand went out, the man took it and burst into tears. "Please, please, forgive me!" he begged. Corrie said everything changed. The coldness broke open and she embraced him as a brother.
This week, two young men, ordinary boys, living ordinary lives, friends, parents, extended family, education, a wife and child came to a boundary. They could choose this way or that way. One way to a constructive life, the other to destruction. For whatever reason, they chose destruction. Six months ago, a young boy, mentally ill, consumed by video games, executed 26 children in a school. He too had a choice at some point in his life, as did his parents, and he too chose the way of death instead of life.
We're supposed to hate them. I know what I think 'they' should do to them. I know what popular knowledge says should happen. But I just can't. Not because they aren't evil, and deadly, because they are and the events they caused are going down in history as holocausts. I don't take that lightly. But I don't want to be the person who hates, or judges. I can't carry that around with me. On a smaller scale, I've been a criminal, making the choice to do the destructive thing, stepping over that boundary with terrible consequences for someone else. And along with the regret I will always carry, I can't also carry the burden of knowing I'm not forgiven even though I've repented.
So I do the motion. I put my hand out. And hope the emotion follows.
This is one of the stories she tells in her book, The Hiding Place. She was speaking at a meeting in America, four years after the war, telling her story. Urging the audience to forgive as God forgives us, not to hold hatred or grudges against the wicked, but to seek to bring them back from their darkness. When she was finished, a handsome young man came up to her and in a German accent told her this - he had been a guard at Auschwitz and had done evil. After the war he had come across some Christians who had ministered to him and he had completely repented and changed his life. He put out his hand and said, "I would like to ask your forgiveness and shake your hand as a brother in Christ." Corrie looked closer. She saw that he was indeed one of the guards who had beaten her sister and taken pleasure in the inmate's pain. Corrie was paralyzed. She felt hatred well up, pictures of the vile things he had done to her and her sister. She had visions of revenge. She most certainly was not going to shake his hand as if nothing had happened. And then, a strange thing happened. She thought, "God I can't shake his hand. If you want to, fine, but I won't." And with that, without any conscious motion on her part, her arm rose, her hand went out, the man took it and burst into tears. "Please, please, forgive me!" he begged. Corrie said everything changed. The coldness broke open and she embraced him as a brother.
This week, two young men, ordinary boys, living ordinary lives, friends, parents, extended family, education, a wife and child came to a boundary. They could choose this way or that way. One way to a constructive life, the other to destruction. For whatever reason, they chose destruction. Six months ago, a young boy, mentally ill, consumed by video games, executed 26 children in a school. He too had a choice at some point in his life, as did his parents, and he too chose the way of death instead of life.
We're supposed to hate them. I know what I think 'they' should do to them. I know what popular knowledge says should happen. But I just can't. Not because they aren't evil, and deadly, because they are and the events they caused are going down in history as holocausts. I don't take that lightly. But I don't want to be the person who hates, or judges. I can't carry that around with me. On a smaller scale, I've been a criminal, making the choice to do the destructive thing, stepping over that boundary with terrible consequences for someone else. And along with the regret I will always carry, I can't also carry the burden of knowing I'm not forgiven even though I've repented.
So I do the motion. I put my hand out. And hope the emotion follows.
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