“Conny, she wants to have a tract,” I almost shouted.
Conny gave her one, but it was not the same one as we had given her the first time. She looked at it, shook her head and pointed again at the bag.
“Conny, she wants to have ‘The Way of Salvation.’”
I got up, rummaged through my bag and found the original tract. I smiled and handed it to her. She looked at it, and her face burst into the great light of joy. Smiling and nodding in appreciation, she backed out of the room.
I was beaming with joy too, for God had answered my prayer. I had not claimed too much after all. The first prayer had already been answered, and now I was sure that the second prayer, the one the Holy Spirit had prayed through me without my first thinking up the words, was going to be given a yes answer too.
Conny, who was as excited as I, took her Bible and read, “For the earth shall be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the Lord, as the waters cover the sea” (Hab. 2:14). What a promise—the whole of Russia under the waters of God’s glory!
There was another knock at the door. There stood our cleaning woman again. She entered and put a long loaf of fresh white bread on the table. Her face was still wreathed in smiles as she refused payment for it. It was her thank offering to God.
I had never had such a good breakfast in all my life.
But I hold this against you, that you have left your first love.
Revelation 2:4
25
Leaving My First Love
After twenty years of wandering the world as a tramp for the Lord, I was ill. At seventy-three years of age, my body had grown tired. A doctor examined me and said, “Miss ten Boom, if you continue at the same pace, you cannot possibly work much longer. However, if you will take a furlough for a year, then perhaps you can work for another few years.”
I consulted my Lord. He said very clearly that this advice of the doctor was in His plan. It came to mind that I could live during that “Sabbath Year” in Lweza, a beautiful house in Uganda, East Africa. Several years before I had contributed to this place so it could be used as a house of rest for missionaries and other workers in God’s kingdom. Now the bread I had cast upon the waters was coming back to me. I made my plans, and soon Conny and I were safely ensconced in Africa.
Lweza was a paradise. Built on a hill in the midst of a garden that must surely resemble Eden, it looked southward out over Lake Victoria. The climate was ideal. Since there were many universities, churches, prisons and groups in Kampala, the nearby town, I was able to speak in two or three meetings a week. So while my body rested, my spirit remained active.
The greatest pleasure was to sleep every night in the same bed. During the last twenty years, I had slept in more than a thousand different beds, always living out of my suitcases. This year I rested. I put my clothes in a drawer, hung my dresses in a closet, and best of all, each night I laid my head on the same pillow.
In November the Sabbath Year had gone by. Conny and I took a map of the world and stretched it out across my bed, following our usual method of making plans for the next year—the same method I had used for the last twenty years. First, we listened to God’s plan, then we signed it. This was unlike the method I once used when I made my own plans and then asked God to sign them. Our desire was to be “planned” by the Holy Spirit.
God’s plan looked very good to Conny. There would be three months in different countries in Africa, two months in America and then three months in Eastern Europe behind the Iron Curtain. “Thank You, Jesus,” Conny said. But inside I was not so thankful. Conny was young, much younger than I. She loved to travel, but I was getting old and was still rather tired.
After Conny left I turned to the Lord. “I prefer to stay here,” I said stubbornly. “There is so much to do in Kampala and Entebbe, the two nearest cities. I will work for You. I am willing to have meetings every day, counseling, writing books; but please, let me sleep every night in the same bed. Everyone can understand that at my age I should take it a bit easier.”
I got up rejoicing. This new plan of mine made me really happy.
Then Conny called. An African minister from far away Rwanda had come to visit. He started immediately to welcome me: “We are so glad that you are willing to come to Rwanda again. Five years ago you helped us so marvelously when you told what the Lord had been to you in your great need. You said that it was not your faith that helped you through three prisons, for your faith was weak and often wavering. You said it was the Lord Himself who carried you through and that you knew from experience that Jesus’ light is stronger than the deepest darkness.”
The African brother continued, “Five years ago, however, that was just theory to us. None of us had ever been prisoners. Now there has been a civil war in our country. Many of us have been in prison. I, myself, was in prison for two years. It was then that I remembered everything you had said. I did not have the faith of Corrie ten Boom, I did not even have faith for myself, but I knew to look to the same Jesus who gave you faith. He has also given it to me and that is why we are so happy that you are now coming again to Rwanda.”
But I was not happy at all. His words were different from what I wanted to hear. I knew that in such situations I could change the subject by asking a question. Perhaps this would make God stop reminding me of His plans and leave me alone so I could follow mine.
“How is the church in Rwanda?” I asked. “What kind of message do they need now?”
Without hesitating one moment the brother opened his Bible and began to read:
Write this to the angel of the Church in Ephesus: These words are spoken by the one who holds the seven stars safe in his right hand, and who walks among the seven golden lampstands. I know what you have done; I know how hard you have worked and what you have endured … I know your powers of endurance—how you have suffered for the sake of my name and have not grown weary. But I hold this against you, that you [have lost your first love]. Remember then how far you have fallen.” (Rev. 2:1–5, PHILLIPS)
This arrow penetrated my heart. Not only Rwanda needed that message, but also Corrie ten Boom. I had lost my first love. Twenty years before I had come out of a concentration camp—starved, weak—but in my heart there was a burning love. It was a love for the Lord who had carried me through so faithfully—a love for the people around me—a burning desire to tell them that Jesus is a reality, that He lives, that He is victor. I knew it from experience. For this reason I went to Germany and lived in the midst of the ruins. For this reason I had tramped the world for twenty years. I wanted everyone to know that no matter how deep we fall, the Everlasting Arms are always under us to carry us out.
And now? Now I was interested in my bed. I had lost my first love. I asked my African brother to continue to read.
Repent and live as you lived at first. Otherwise, if your heart remains unchanged, I shall come to you and remove your lampstand from its place.
Suddenly joy came in my heart. I could bring my sin, my cold heart, my weary body to Him who is faithful and just. I did it. I confessed my sins and asked for forgiveness. And the same thing happened that always happens when I bring my sin to God in the Name of Jesus: He forgave me. Jesus cleansed my heart with His blood and refilled me with the Holy Spirit.
As God’s love—the fruit of the Holy Spirit—was poured out into my heart, I set out again on my journeys—a tramp for the Lord.
What a great joy it was to experience the love of God, who gave me rivers of living water for the thirsty world of Africa, America and Eastern Europe. Of course, it might be the will of God that some old people retire from their work. In great thankfulness to the Lord, they can then enjoy their pensions. But for me the way of obedience was to travel on, even more so than ever before.
Jesus warned us in Matthew 24:12 that the love of most men waxes cold because iniquity abounds. It is very easy to belong to the “most men.” But the gate of repentance is always wide open. Hallelujah!
But if we walk in the lig
ht, as he is in the light, we have fellowship one with another, and the blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth us from all sin.
1 John 1:7
26
Walking in the Light
Our last few weeks in Lweza proved to be the most fruitful of our entire time spent there, for it was in these weeks that I learned another valuable lesson—the lesson of walking in the light.
One afternoon Conny and I were sitting in the garden looking at the monkeys jumping from one tree to another. The trees and shrubs were a mass of color and sound, causing my heart to be filled with the glory of God’s grace.
Yet Conny was discouraged. She had started a girl’s club in the YWCA in Kampala and had spent many hours’ work with it. However, the girls were not interested. I was concerned about her discouragement, feeling it went far deeper than the problems she was having with her class.
I started to ask her about it when we were interrupted by a man walking toward our hill. Conny squinted her eyes into the sun and then shouted, “It is William Nagenda!”
What a joy it was to meet that dear African saint again. I never met an African with whom I could laugh so much and yet learn so much at the same time.
After we exchanged greetings William said, “When I saw you sitting here together, a question came to my mind: Do they walk in the light together?”
We answered almost simultaneously. “Oh yes, we do walk in the light together. We are a team.”
Just at that moment a boy from the house called that there was a telephone message for me. I excused myself while Conny and William remained behind to talk.
Conny was sitting in a cane and wicker chair while William squatted on his haunches beside the path, his brown knees poking up beside his face.
“I have something to confess to you,” Conny said to William.
“And what is that?” he answered gently.
“Your question gripped my heart. I must tell you that I do not really walk in the light with Tante Corrie.”
William’s face broke into a wide grin, and his eyes began to sparkle. “So that is why God had me ask that strange question.”
Conny was serious. “Tante Corrie is so much more mature than I,” she continued. “She has walked with Jesus for so many years. She has suffered much for Him in many ways. Thus, when I see things in her life that are not right, I hesitate to speak them out to her.”
“Oh,” William said, startled. “That is not right. The Lord wants you to be very honest with Tante Corrie. That is one reason He has put you with her. Since she is walking in the light, then when you also walk in the light, you will help shed light for her path as well as yours.”
That night, after we had gone to our room together, Conny sat on the side of the bed and said, “Tante Corrie, this is very difficult for me to say, but I now realize I must walk in the light.”
I turned and looked at her. Her face was drawn and solemn. One by one she began listing the things in my life which bothered her—the things I did which she did not believe glorified God. It was not easy for me to hear the things which I had done wrong—things which had caused a shadow to come in Conny’s heart. But how wonderful it was that Conny was being completely honest with me. I apologized for the things she had listed and then thanked her for bringing them into the light. “Let us always walk in the light together,” I said seriously.
But it was still hard for Conny. She was much younger than I and felt she was still learning. Even though I wanted her to continue to correct me, she found it very difficult. The final breakthrough came after we left Africa and flew to Brazil.
We had been in Rio de Janeiro, one of the most beautiful cities of the world, for a few weeks. As we prepared to leave—to fly south to Buenos Aires—we discovered our suitcases were overweight. The kind people in Rio had given us so many presents we were more than twenty kilograms overweight. It was going to cost us a great deal of extra money to go on to Argentina.
I unpacked my luggage and made three piles: one to send to Holland by sea, one to give away to the poor in Rio and the smallest one to go back in my suitcase to carry on to our next destination. Finishing my repacking, I hurried next door into Conny’s room and unpacked her suitcase also. I went through the same procedure, sorting her belongings into three heaps and then repacking only her necessary items. I was in too much of a hurry to notice that Conny said nothing.
A week later, after a beautiful time in Buenos Aires, we were walking along a lonely stretch of beach near our cabin. I was enjoying the beautiful view over a quiet bay when Conny began to talk. Her voice was strained.
“I promised God I would walk in the light,” she said, “and that means that I must get something settled with you. When you repacked my suitcase and decided what things to send to Holland and what to leave with me, I was not happy about it.”
How stupid and tactless I had been to rush in and interfere with Conny’s life! I reached out and took her hand. “How thoughtless I have been,” I said. “Forgive me for not leaving it up to you.”
“I do forgive you,” Conny said. Like myself, she had learned not to play lightly with sin, but to hear another’s apology and then, instead of passing it off, to forgive it. We walked on for a long time in silence, and then Conny spoke again.
“Are you unhappy, Tante Corrie? You are so quiet.”
Now it was my time to walk in the light. “There is something hindering me,” I said. “Why did you not tell me immediately that you were disturbed? That way it could have been settled on the spot, and you would not have had to carry this darkness for all these days. From now on let us both ‘speak the truth in love’ and never let the sun go down on our misunderstandings.”
It was a good lesson. From then until Conny married in 1967 and went to live with her husband, we walked all over the world—always trying to walk in the light.
I say therefore to the unmarried and widows, it is good for them if they abide even as I.
1 Corinthians 7:8
27
Secure in Jesus
It is Satan who tries, in every way, to spoil the peace and joy that God’s servants have in their work.
Ellen, my new traveling companion, had gone with me to a lonely mission field in Mexico. Our hostess was a lady missionary, unmarried, in her forties. One evening while we were alone in her little adobe, she confessed her bitterness and resentment over being unmarried.
“Why have I been denied the love of a husband, children, and a home? Why is it that the only men who ever paid any attention to me were married to someone else?” Long into the night she poured out the poison of her frustration. At last she asked me, “Why did you never marry?”
“Because,” I said, “the Lord had other plans for me than married life.”
“Did you ever fall in love and lose someone, as I have?” she asked bitterly.
“Yes,” I said sadly. “I know the pain of a broken heart.”
“But you were strong, weren’t you,” she said in biting tones. “You were willing to let God have His way in your life?”
“Oh, no, not at first,” I said. “I had to fight a battle over it. I was twenty-three. I loved a boy and believed he loved me. But I had no money, and he married a rich girl. After they were married he brought her to me and putting her hand in mine said, ‘I hope you two will be friends.’ I wanted to scream. She looked so sweet, so secure and content in his love.
“But I did have Jesus, and eventually I went to Him and prayed, ‘Lord Jesus, You know that I belong to You 100 percent. My sex life is yours also. I don’t know what plans You have for my life, but Lord, whatever it may be, use me to realize Your victory in every detail. I believe You can take away all my frustrations and feelings of unhappiness. I surrender anew my whole life to You.”
I looked across the little table at the bitter woman in front of me. Her face was furrowed, her eyes hard with resentment. I sensed she had been trying to run away from her frustrations. Perhaps that was even the reason she was on the
mission field.
Sadly, there are some of God’s children who go to the mission field to escape the pain of not having a husband. I know others, back home, who spend every evening away from their families, attending Christian meetings, because they are unhappy and frustrated in their marriages. Work—even mission work—can become a wrong hiding place.
“Those called by God to live single lives are always happy in that state,” I said. “This happiness, this contentment, is the evidence of God’s plan.”
“But you loved and lost,” she exclaimed. “Do you believe that God took away your lover to make you follow Him?”
“Oh, no,” I smiled. “God does not take away from us. He might ask us to turn our backs on something, or someone, we should not have. God never takes away, however; God gives. If I reach out and take someone for myself and the Lord steps in between, that does not mean God takes. Rather, it means He is protecting us from someone we should not have, because He has a far greater purpose for our lives.”
We sat for long minutes in the semidark room. Only a small kerosene lamp gave its flickering light, casting faint shadows on the walls and across our faces. I thought back—remembering.
I had always been content in the Lord. Back when I was in my thirties, God gave me children—the children of missionaries whom I raised. Betsie, my sister, fed and clothed them while I was responsible for their sports and music. We kept them in our home in Holland, and I found deep satisfaction in seeing them grow to maturity. I also spent a great deal of time speaking and sharing in various clubs for girls.