Tramp for the Lord Read Online Free Page B

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