Secrets She Kept (39 page)

She leaned toward me. Part of me wanted to pull away.

“Do you know what this showed me, what this means, Hannah? This is proof that Jesus does not expect us to forgive in our own strength
 
—that the hurts in this world are not healed by us, not forgiven by us, but by His great love. Jesus said to love our enemies . . . and with that command He gives us the love to do it.”

We left Miss Ten Boom twenty minutes after meeting her. A car waited to take her to the next city on her tour, where she would again preach that evening about her experiences and God’s extraordinary power to forgive and to heal.

The question she’d asked me . . .
“Do you want that healing?”

Yes, of course.

“Are you willing to surrender your anger, your desire for revenge, in order to get it?”

I’d replayed Miss Ten Boom’s question twenty times in my brain. If Daddy’s and Grandfather’s sins had been paid for by the lifeblood of Jesus, how could I ask for more? That was the question Miss Ten Boom had asked when the former guard from Ravensbruk assumed her forgiveness.

But that man had repented, had already asked forgiveness. Neither Daddy nor Grandfather ever asked forgiveness
 
—not even on their deathbeds. Didn’t that make it different?

As Carl and I drove to the airport, I knew I was leaving Berlin with a new set of hatreds and anger
 
—no longer directed toward my mother, but toward her persecutors, and mine.

It must have been the same conclusion Mama came to
 
—that she could not forgive them, that they did not deserve it, that they’d never repented, never tried to make amends. But what had that led her to but a life of bitterness?

Miss Ten Boom had said in parting that it was one thing to believe in Jesus and another to accept the abundant life He freely offered. “The only cost to you, to me,” she’d said, “is complete surrender of our own notion of our rights and leadership
 
—total abandonment into His love and grace.”

Mama had never surrendered that. I knew from her letters
 
—the ones Aunt Marta gave me. I knew from the grim line of her mouth each time I pictured her
 
—that prison of her own making . . . the one others built. But did she hold the key and refuse to use it? Did she understand that freedom could have been hers
 
—in her heart if not in her circumstances?

I didn’t want that bound-up, angry, agonized life. But the cost of surrender . . . what would that leave me? If I didn’t keep the injustice close to my heart, who would I be? It had defined my life so long . . . toward Mama, and now toward Daddy and Grandfather. I understood Mama better in that moment than I ever had. I could not
 
—would not
 
—risk such vulnerability. And still, there was no peace in my soul.

I checked my ticket and luggage while Carl parked the car; then we hurried through the terminal together. I kissed Carl good-bye at the gate, but was reminded of Miss Ten Boom’s inability to raise her own arm to greet the man from Ravensbruk. Carl had been my friend and confidant, the one who’d walked with me every step of this journey. I wanted to love him, did love him . . . and yet, something was missing. He read the confusion, the lack of response to his passion in my face. I saw the flicker of disappointment in his eyes.

“For you, for later,” he whispered and slipped a package from his coat pocket into mine.

“What?”

“
Nein
 
—don’t open now. On the plane . . . after you leave Frankfurt.”

I hugged him one last time. “I’ll see you in a month for the meetings in Brooklyn and Woodbine.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” He smiled.

I wanted to tell him not to read more into that than I intended, but he took me in his arms and tenderly kissed me again. I tried to push him away, but he lingered, and when he finally stepped back, I didn’t want him to.

The plane taxied to the end of the runway. I’d waved to Carl, standing in the terminal, as long as I could.

It had been one thing to keep him at arm’s length, quite another to walk on without him.

Is this how you felt, Mama? Alone? Always alone with your secrets?

I didn’t want that life sentence, didn’t want that prison of my own making. I couldn’t compare it to Mama’s or to Miss Ten Boom’s, whose enemies arrested them, tortured them. My enemies were all dead, and still they haunted me, threatened to ruin my life. And there stood Carl, ready and willing to love me with all my faults and failings. He asked only that I choose freedom by choosing surrender to Christ
 
—what we both knew would make me truly happy.
Why is it so hard?

I leaned back against the headrest as the plane gathered speed down the runway and lifted into the twilight. Dutifully, I didn’t open Carl’s box until I’d changed planes in Frankfurt and was bound for London.

Once we were airborne, I pulled the small box he’d given me from my coat pocket. I couldn’t imagine its contents. Unlocking the serving tray from the seat in front of me, I pulled it down and untied the string around the white box. Inside was nestled another package wrapped in string, but I knew from its fragrance exactly what it was. I opened the envelope and Carl’s note.

Enjoy this for me, Sweet Hannah. I’ll take just a bite . . . mmm . . . delicious. Thank you for sharing!

God’s love is like your favorite apple strudel, Hannah. We can see it, view it from a distance, know it is there, and, clutching our hands, still deny ourselves. Or we can let go of the things that bind us so tightly and reach for this great pleasure. We can taste it
 
—feast on its richness. Choose freedom and forgiveness. Choose life, my dear one.

All my love,

Carl

Carl. Dear Carl. Sweet and funny Carl. Always making jokes to get a point across.

Choose
 
—as if choosing forgiveness is so easy.

My layover in London took hours, and then a cancellation and another long delay
 
—long enough for me to think carefully through Corrie Ten Boom’s words and Carl’s message. By the time we finally taxied down the runway and headed west, I was jet lagged. I sat, still thinking, until shades went down and most of the lights went out. Passengers snored softly. I wanted the strudel. . . . I wanted life and joy in Christ, but . . .

Dear God, I can’t do this alone. I can’t forgive alone. I’m not even able to love alone. I’m always looking for some sign of deceit, some indication of failure or ulterior motive. First it was Mama’s, then Grandfather’s, now Carl’s
 
—even mine.

What is that but guilt and misery? I’m so afraid! I don’t know any other way to respond but to be on my guard. I don’t want to be hurt. I can’t trust.

I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t return to my old life as my old self. A lifetime of me
 
—angry as I was with drums always rumbling
 
—was impossible. Throughout the long night I argued with God, begged and pleaded, then did my best to turn off my brain. But it was no use.

I couldn’t move forward. I couldn’t control anything or anyone. The only fragment of justice I controlled fell into mercy
 
—returning what I could to the families wronged. But even that changed nothing. It
redeemed not one solitary life, and it couldn’t bring me the peace and freedom I’d hoped for, that I so desperately needed.

I lifted the window shade near dawn, just as the first streaks of pink slit the horizon. A new day . . .

Tears slipped down my cheeks.
I can’t do this, Lord. The sins of my parents and grandparents are not mine to forgive. Their wrongs are not mine to redeem. Miss Ten Boom was right. Only You can forgive.

So, please, Father
 
—Heavenly Father
 
—forgive me my fear of . . . everything. Of not knowing who I am without my anger. Forgive my bitterness, my loneliness. I surrender my hatreds, my longings, to You.

Empty me of me, and fill me with your Spirit. I don’t know who I will be without this load of guilt and fear and anger. I can’t imagine what it will be like to not be in control, always trying to win favor, to earn love
 
—Yours, or that of the people in my life. I might slip up from time to time
 
—might have to surrender again. But I want to know You. Not just believe in You, not just believe You exist and have redeemed me. Let me walk with You; show me this abundant life. I won’t
 
—please help me
 
—I won’t waste one more day trying to earn what You’ve already given me!

I closed my eyes and slept, perhaps only moments. When I opened them, morning dawned
 
—a full sunrise
 
—outside my window, and in my heart. Peace I’d not known flooded the recesses of my brain, my soul.

Other window shades lifted. Passengers around me stretched, visited the lavatory, picked up newspapers.

My heart was still singing, warm and full, when the stewardess stopped with her cart and asked if I wanted coffee.

“Yes,
danke schön.
” Something hot would be wonderful. It had been a long, a hard, a perfect night.

“And for breakfast, the choices are
 
—”

I shook my head, smiling, “
Nein, danke schön.
I think I’ll just have a bit of this apple strudel
 
—the richest and sweetest in the world. . . . A gift from my love.”

I
N
2009
I walked the paths of Ravensbruk
 
—the largest WWII women’s concentration camp in Germany, where approximately 132,000 women and children were incarcerated, and surviving records estimate that between 50,000 and 92,000 women died of starvation, disease, experimentation, gassing, overwork, and despair. What I learned and saw in that concentration camp museum setting would fill a book. What I came with were questions: How did survivors reclaim their lives? How did they or their families come to terms with what happened here? Did they ever forgive their captors? How?

As I stood at the memorial monument, I grasped the cold and lifeless hand of one of the Two Women Standing sculpture and made a vow that I would never forget, and that I would one day tell her story.

Something else I learned while in Germany was that the war bred secrets in families
 
—secrets of good deeds unrewarded and secrets of evil deeds never discovered.

There’s something about keeping secrets that changes us at our core. The need to protect our secrets, our families or ourselves, and consequently to keep knowledge from or deceive others connives and perpetuates a twisted trail.

Sometimes secrets die with their holder or fade away barely noticed. But sometimes secrets carry grievous weights and pass their consequences,
directly or indirectly, into future generations
 
—lies, betrayals, affairs, abuse, adoptions, fortunes made or lost, addiction, abandonment, divorce, abortion, debt, treason, disease, murder, theft . . . the possibilities are endless. And, sometimes, secrets are not so secret as we believe.

In Secrets She Kept, Hannah Sterling is propelled by a longing for a relationship with her mother that never existed in life. After her mother’s death, Hannah determines to peel back the layers of time and unravel her mother’s mysterious past in hope of understanding her.

What Hannah discovers shocks her, undermining her confidence in herself and her family, and in her ability to discern truth and goodness in others. She learns that she’s not viewed either of her parents or their world objectively. She learns that she, too, has contributed to the dysfunction in her family by her own choices and by her reactions to her parents’ choices. Unwittingly, she bears the consequences of her parents’ sins.

It’s the story of our fallen human nature. Numbers 14:18 (ESV) reminds us, “The Lord is slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love, forgiving iniquity and transgression, but he will by no means clear the guilty, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children, to the third and the fourth generation.”

Like Hannah, we learn that in seeking redemption for the sins of our families or ourselves, we cannot redeem ourselves or change the past; we can’t even release ourselves from the weight of our own guilt. Our earnest work or most noble actions do not provide restitution to others. Like Hannah, we find our families
 
—and ourselves
 
—perpetuating sin and in desperate need of forgiveness.

Like Hannah, we’re also faced with the need to forgive others. But forgiveness goes against our grain, against our sense of personal justice and entitlement. Forgiveness requires letting go of wrongs done to us, requires surrender of tension, anger, even hatred, and a surrender of our right to collect debts or exact justice.

Holding onto guilt or grievances, no matter how justified they seem, eats away at our heart and life like cancer. Withholding forgiveness is
tantamount to carrying a load of boulders on our back, or shackling our feet with balls and chains. Every day is exhausting, every breath a chore. Forgiveness, received and given from the Lord, frees us for abundant life in ways nothing else can. But how do we get there?

Release
 
—forgiving or being forgiven
 
—can’t be exacted or even bought. It’s beyond human ability or comprehension. It’s divine. That’s what I learned from Corrie ten Boom (The Hiding Place) as she forgave the guard from Ravensbruk. She didn’t do it
 
—couldn’t do it
 
—alone. She surrendered her own sin and inabilities to Christ and asked that He do it through her. Jesus was her real, her true hiding place. He is ours, too.

This is Hannah’s story, and it’s yours and mine. Forgiveness requires our confession that we can’t perfect or fix things, our repentance for our own sins and shortcomings, our belief in the saving sacrifice of Jesus Christ to pay our debts, and our daily walk in the newness of life only He can provide.

It’s a lesson we learn and live, then repeat again and again. Praise God!

I love hearing from you, learning your stories, and sharing your walk. Visit me anytime at my website,
cathygohlke.com
, or on Facebook at CathyGohlkeBooks.

God’s blessings and grace for you,

Cathy