“. . . Arise, my love, my beautiful one, and come away” (Song of Songs 2:13).

Ladies, do you remember when you first fell in love with your husband? How you felt about each other? My husband-to-be wooed me with dozens of red roses and loved to walk me everywhere on our Bible college campus. One day I headed to chapel early, as I was the designated organist for the service. When I walked by his class, he was sitting near an open, low-lying window. I smiled at him and continued on my way. Suddenly he appeared at my side.

I looked at him, mouth agape in surprise. “How in the world did you get out of class so early?”

“Oh,” he said with a mischievous grin, “as soon as the professor wasn’t looking, I just climbed out the window!”

Being in love will make you do crazy things! You can’t spend enough time together. Everything about the other person is fascinating, delightful, and interesting.

Solomon and the Shulamite were in love like that. He tells her, “You have stolen my heart, my sister, my bride . . . ” (Song of Songs 4:9). Of course he wants to spend time with his new wife, so he invites her to “come away” with him.

Jesus also invites us to be with him. In Revelations 3:20 he says, “Look! I stand at the door and knock. If you hear my voice and open the door, I will come in, and we will share a meal together as friends” (NLT). Not only is this an invitation to open our hearts to him as our Lord and Savior, but he notes that the intimacy that follows is like close friends enjoying each other’s company over a meal.

We tend to be distracted, stressed, and preoccupied. But if we desire to know his love, joy, and peace, we must cultivate time with him. C. S. Lewis wrote, “If you want to get warm you must stand near the fire . . . If you want joy, . . . peace, eternal life, you must get close to . . . the thing that has them.” Every relationship needs an investment of time, which allows it to grow, and our relationship with Jesus is no different.

I’m inspired to look for more opportunities to slip away with him, aren’t you? He’s our Beloved, our First Love. We can get up earlier or stay up later to pray and to read the Bible, his precious words to us. Even just setting aside five extra minutes a day, when we’re in a season where we don’t have more time than that, is worthwhile. Did you know that if you read the Bible for just five minutes a day, it would only take you about two years to read the entire book?

Jesus whispers, “Come away with me.”

Let us arise and go!

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MY TRIPS TO ACQUIRE MEDICINE

Father’s health was declining, and he needed medicine for his ulcers from Reichenbach, five miles away. Usually I was sent on these errands, and Kaete stayed home to nurse him.

All Germans were required to wear a white armband to identify them as the conquered enemy. On this errand I decided not to wear it. I tied on a bright head scarf and tried to look as Polish as possible. I had already learned a few phrases of their language.

So that’s how I took off on my bike; and sure enough, from the town of Peilau on, whole columns of Russian soldiers traveled on the main road. I had to pedal along the bike path right next to them. They looked at me curiously and shouted, “Dzień dobry, proszę pani” and I called back cheekily, “Dzień dobry, panie!” (Good morning, Miss; good morning, Sir). Then they were satisfied and left me alone, but the whole way I was shaking and kept crying out to the Lord for protection. I didn’t dare show any fear.

Everyone was thankful when I returned home safely, glad that no one had taken my bicycle. Russians and Poles were always on the lookout for bikes. They were our liberators all right, freeing us of all our belongings—jewelry, watches, bicycles, radios, etc. We didn’t dare wear earrings—they’d yank them right off a woman, causing severe injury to earlobes. I took mine out and have since only worn clip-ons.

The last trip I made to Reichenbach, I walked. By then the Russians had come and taken the bike. Again I traveled without my armband and wore the Polish-looking headscarf. No mishaps occurred on the way there, and I happily made my way home. I was walking along a stretch of road surrounded by wide open fields when suddenly in the distance I heard the clip-clop of horses’ hooves and saw a carriage appear. There was no place to hide. I could hardly keep walking in my fright; I shook so much. In my heart I kept screaming, “Lord, help me!”

The carriage stopped. The door opened and a group of Russian officers gestured for me to step inside. A Pole was the driver, and he had recognized me. Inwardly I screamed, “Lord, stand by me.” Then with knocking knees, expecting the worst, I climbed in.

To my great surprise, they scooted together, creating room for me to sit, and said, “German girl, do not be afraid. We only want that you get home faster.” They spoke German well and treated me like a lady. They even offered me bonbons. How I thanked God for his protection.

Father and Kaete were astonished when I came home much earlier than they expected. We were all so thankful. The Lord knew that my cup of suffering was near to overflowing. I think I would have had a nervous breakdown had they assaulted me. Too much had already happened in my young life.

Many of my friends did not fare so well. Stalin promised his army plenty of liquor and girls, giving full permission to rape the German women. Yes, and this is what the Russian soldier found worth fighting for. They were allowed to loot, plunder, and destroy without consequences. We lived under complete anarchy.

One friend shared with me that a Russian dragged her into the bedroom and raped her while her mother stood weeping and pleading outside the locked door. Another friend told me, years after the event, how a Russian soldier had thrown her on the bed and she fainted. When she came to, he was gone, but she knew she had been violated.

Why did so many women not tell their stories until years later? Because they were too ashamed, shattered, and broken by the humiliating, coarse violence to which they had been subjected.

In Reichenbach, many women were not only raped, but some were also tortured to death. People can turn into beasts, especially under the influence of alcohol. The danger of acquiring sexually transmitted diseases was also an issue. The authorities allowed free doctor visits and exams. Whether doctors also performed abortions, I do not know.

Our worst suffering came in the war’s aftermath, which was why the terror we experienced under the Russians and Poles seemed all the more horrific. The enemy could do with us as they pleased. Imagine the vulnerability of being without citizen rights, always at their mercy. It was a nightmare.

However, Russians and Poles did not care for each other. So we could play them against each other to our advantage. What a gift it is to live under a government that provides order.

OUR HORSES ARE TAKEN AWAY

One day several girls came to visit. They were relating terrible events when suddenly our dog barked. On cue we raced to the pigeon loft, pulled up the ladder, and locked the door.

Safely hidden, we settled down on the floor. I finally risked peeking through the slats of the roof hatch. From my hiding place, I could see three armed Russians gesturing to Father to bring the horses out of the barn. Father’s face was snow white. I could see it took great effort for him to not yell at the soldiers. His horses! The horses he had lovingly raised from birth. His pride and joy. Now he was forced to give them up in such a demeaning way? My throat constricted as I watched him walk, shoulders drooping, towards the barn.

Suddenly one of the girls collapsed. She had caught sight of the Russians through the slats. Her whole body shook so hard her teeth were chattering as she tried to stifle her weeping. She had experienced terrible horrors the past few days, including an assault the night before. Desperate to calm her down, we kept reassuring her, “You don’t need to be afraid. Our hiding place is safe. They won’t find us here.” But she was having a nervous breakdown. We feared she would scream and give us away. Slowly we were able to help her regain some composure.

We did not dare go down into the house until everything appeared quiet again. Father said in a flat voice, “Now they have taken them away.” Yes, what could you say? Little by little everything was taken from us.

The Russians set Michael, one of our former workers, as commander over the village. He was twenty-four, blond, blue-eyed, spoke excellent German, and had attended university in his homeland. He was dependable, and we had been very pleased with him over the past two years. When Michael heard about the horses, he immediately found out where they were and returned them to us. Again and again Father stroked the horses’ heads as they whinnied and snorted.

AN UNFORGETTABLE NIGHT OF TERROR

The Russians continued to terrorize us. At night, women were forced to hide themselves in barns and attics to escape prowling soldiers. Kaete and I stayed at home because we didn’t want to leave our sick father alone. We relied on the pigeon loft for emergencies. During the day, every woman kept vigilant eyes on her surroundings, alert to the nearest hiding place at all times.

About two weeks had passed since the Russians invaded. Father, Kaete, and I slept in the same room because a refugee family, the Grabolles, was staying with us. One night after we’d all gone to bed, we suddenly heard pounding on the front door and shouts: “You have to open up. We are looking for German soldiers.” Two drunk Russian soldiers stood outside. I quickly climbed to the pigeon loft and pulled up the ladder.

Herr Grabolle went downstairs and let them in. He had no choice. If he had not, they would have forced open the door.

The soldiers strode around pretending to inspect everything, their usual mode of operating when looking for women. Their excuse: “We are seeking German soldiers.” I could hear much that was going on from my hiding place and trembled in fear, but my heart nearly stopped when I heard them ask, “Where is the person who sleeps here?” They had found my still-warm, empty bed in Father’s room. They shouted, “You are hiding a German soldier. Where is he?” In my heart I screamed to God for help. I was so afraid someone would be forced to betray me.

Later I learned that the men went out into the hall. It appeared that the inspection was over and they were leaving. Kaete quickly locked herself in with Father in our bedroom. He was very sick now, and she did not want to leave him alone.

But the men had only gone into the hall to strategize. Suddenly they returned and attacked. One soldier grabbed Frau Grabolle, dragged her into the bedroom, and bolted the door. Her husband stood outside, pounding on the door, weeping, “Please leave my wife alone; my wife, she is my wife!”

The commotion was terrifying. I shook from head to toe and prayed in silent screams to the Lord. My heart beat so loud and fast I feared I’d soon have a heart attack and make all kinds of noise—then they’d surely come looking for me. After all, they knew a missing person belonged to the empty bed.

Oh, I was so afraid the Russians would force the others to betray my secret hiding place. If they shot someone in their efforts to gain a confession, I feared I’d scream and be found. And if someone was killed because of me . . . I didn’t think I could forgive myself.

The other soldier kept knocking on Father’s bedroom door. When Kaete didn’t open, he began beating in the door with his boot until it splintered. Later they told me that with his pistol drawn, he crawled through the hole he’d punched in the door. Then he seized Kaete. Father tried to help her, but the soldier kicked him in the stomach, and he fell backwards on the bed. To keep him down, the Russian slammed Father’s nail-spiked work shoe over his head.

The following I did not learn until forty years later when Kaete and I were reunited for the first time. I had always believed the soldier had only roughed her up and that she’d been able to fight him off. But she revealed that the Russian, pistol in hand, threw her on the bed and raped her, though she resisted. I can’t imagine how witnessing this atrocity must have affected Father.

Once the Russians left, we all assembled in Father’s bedroom. Frau Grabolle’s night jacket hung in shreds over her body. Her twelve-year-old son, Franzel, stood there trembling and covered in cow dung. Upon hearing the soldiers enter, he had leaped from the second-story window in his fright, landing in some cow pies. An angel must have caught him because he was not injured.

Herr Grabolle was white in the face and shook with helpless rage. Kaete and Father looked disheveled and devastated. You could see the nail marks in Father’s head from the shoe beating.

We looked like a bunch of spooked chickens and were struck by the absurdity of it all. Suddenly, we broke out in hysterical laughter. It felt better to laugh than to cry in that moment. But our nerves were completely frayed. To this day, the horror of that night still terrorizes my dreams from time to time.

Father said, “That was the last straw and the most terrible of all.”

FATHER’S PASSING

Throughout the night Father’s condition worsened. He had been suffering from ulcers, but the soldier’s kick to his stomach severely injured him. The next day we wanted to take him to the hospital but needed permission from the Polish police because of the Russian threat. A Pole was sent with a carriage to drive us, and all along the way, just for entertainment, he shot his gun randomly into the air. My nerves could hardly take it.

The doctors examined Father and said, “It’s too late; we cannot operate.” Apparently something had ruptured in his stomach from the kick.

While Father languished in the hospital, the Russians came and took the horses away again. Unfortunately, Michael had been transferred, and that left us without protection. Since he had not come to say goodbye, we suspected that, in actuality, the Russians had killed him. According to rumor, the Russians shot everyone who had once worked for the Germans. Good-hearted Michael; he was like family to us. We never heard from him again.

When I visited Father, he immediately asked, “How are the horses?”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him they’d been taken again. To avoid upsetting him, I simply said, “Please don’t worry. Everything is in order.”

I knew how concerned he was about us. How could life go on like this? Yet Father seemed at peace during my last visit with him. He still held out hope for recovery.

Years later (1980), Onkel Alfred told my daughter, Ruth, about his brother’s last days. I had not heard this account before. Apparently when the doctors told Father they couldn’t operate and nothing more could be done for him, he leaped from his death bed and went raging and shouting through the hospital. I can only imagine his panic and helplessness, knowing he was leaving his daughters behind in such circumstances, no longer able to protect them.

On May 29^th, we received the phone call. Father had died peacefully. Only six weeks earlier we had laid Mother to rest. May 15th would have been their 25th wedding anniversary.

At Mother’s funeral we heard cannon fire from the advancing front, and now the Russians were here. The hired help lifted Father’s coffin onto the box cart, which they had decorated with evergreen boughs, and the Russian ponies, not his own horses, pulled the wagon in a sad procession to the cemetery. I felt numb and wondered what else would be taken from me. I had now lost both parents, and I was only sixteen.

Our pastor stood at the grave and spoke about this scripture: “Even if my father and mother abandoned me, the Lord would take me in” (Psalm 27:10). The pastor said that the Lord would never leave or forsake us. His words deeply impacted me.

In the coming years I would often recall this verse and his hopeful message.

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Under His Wings” are excerpts from Hannchen Gantenbein’s autobiography as told to Ruth Wood, her daughter. The account highlights God’s protection and guidance as she grew up in Nazi Germany, lived through World War II, and immigrated to the United States. Watch for monthly posts on the 20th!

Under His Wings/Table of Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

F. B. Meyer comments on Matthew 5:23-26 (First reconcile with your brother, then come and offer your gift to the Lord), pointing out how we might protest to God:

“He has not treated me as I had every right to expect. He has been ungrateful, ungracious, intolerant. He has not considered my interests. He has taken advantage of my goodwill. I never can get along with him; his temperament and mine are so different. Why did you give him to me as my brother? Had it been anyone else, I could have agreed. Outwardly I have tried to do my best. Can you wonder that I hide a grudge in my heart, and that almost involuntarily it betrays its presence?”

. . . “He has wronged me, gracious Master. Is nothing to be said to him?”

“Not in the first place,” is the reply. “It is necessary that you should retract for your part, whatever it may be. Ask his forgiveness for that ruffled feeling, that unkind and harsh bearing, that icy reserve. Pay him any due that he may rightfully claim. Ask his forgiveness as you would ask God’s, and your approach will bring a flood of repentant and protesting words, which will show that you have won your brother. But if these do not follow, and he receives your apology as his right, or without remark, still you have done your part, and there is nothing to be said against you further. I will deal with him—then come and offer your gift.”

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O my dove, in the clefts of the rock, in the crannies of the cliff, let me see your face, let me hear your voice . . .” (Song of Songs 2:14, ESV).

Early in their relationship, Solomon’s beloved may have exhibited some timidity, and so he said, “Let me see your face; let me hear your voice.” In other words, “Come out from your hiding place. I want to get to know you. Don’t be shy!”

LET ME SEE YOUR FACE

Similarly, our Heavenly Bridegroom desires “to see our face” because he wants a close relationship with us. And we too may be shy about presenting ourselves because, after all, he is the Holy One, the Perfect One, the King of all creation.

Jesus is the only one who has the capacity to live in the inner sanctum with us, that place in our hearts where no human can come. It’s where we understand ourselves in a way that is incommunicable even to the most loving, caring, and emotionally safe person we know.

But there, with Jesus, we can just be with no need to prove anything, no need to pretend anything. We can be completely honest about everything because we are supported by the presence of his eternal, unconditional love.

LET ME HEAR YOUR VOICE

Isn’t it a lovely thought that Jesus wants to “hear your voice”? As surprising as it sounds, he wants to hear us talk. Some of us are extroverts, and we can’t stop talking. He is not inconvenienced by how long we want to chatter away, nor is he overwhelmed by “too much talking.”

Then again, some of us are introverts, and we do not warm to others quickly. But with him, we do not need to fear that we are boring or awkward. He doesn’t require us to speak eloquently or follow unspoken social rules.

Whatever our personality style, he welcomes us, attunes to us. Our prayers, our concerns, everything about our lives—all of it matters to him.

We may feel hidden in the crannies of busyness and preoccupied concerns, but let us step out joyfully to meet him!

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Photo by Nadiia Ganzhyi on Unsplash/From Museum in Ukraien, Odessa

THE WAR ENDS

Many women and children from Habendorf had already escaped to Czechoslovakia, but farmers and their families were always the last to leave because the entire country depended on them to keep food on the table. The Russians were coming closer every day. We had already packed our box cart with bedding, dried noodles, fruit, flour, sugar, some clothes, photographs, and the Bible.

Our foreigners also wanted to go with us. We asked them, astonished, “Why don’t you want to go to your own people?”

They answered, “You not know Russian.”

No, we didn’t, but we would soon find out.

They explained, “We voluntary work here. Russian find out, they kill us.”

As Habendorf’s agricultural leader, it was up to Father to decide whether the village farmers fled or stayed. He struck out on his bike to investigate the road conditions. When he returned, he said, “The roads are congested with soldiers, refugee wagons, cows—it’s a big mess. The war is almost over. It’s nonsense to leave.” And he was right.

So he gave the order: “Habendorf farmers will stay home. Please do not release the animals. All is lost anyway. Here we are more protected than on the road.”

So we unpacked the wagon and fed the animals as the sounds of cannon fire came closer and closer. German soldiers came by heading west. We began hearing terrible stories of things the fleeing refugees endured when the Russians caught them on the open roads. We were deeply grateful for Father’s decision because at home we had places to hide.

Those who made it to Czechoslovakia were likely to be tortured, mistreated, raped, and plundered by the Czechs and Russians. Many children died on this trek, and I knew several. Mothers alone, with their children in baby carriages, fled across the border. Husbands and fathers were either fighting or had died in combat.

War is particularly hard on children. Milk became scarce. Babies whimpered, no longer strong enough to cry. One baby in our village became jaundiced and stopped growing before it died.

How much pain and suffering we witnessed while still so young. No one can imagine the suffering, grief, and stress of war unless they, too, have lived through it.

THE RUSSIANS ARRIVE IN HABENDORF

On May 8, 1945, the day Germany surrendered, the Soviet Red Army and the Communist Polish Army descended on us with their gunners. Breslau, a city east of us, had fallen. We were caught in the crossfire between German troops entrenched in our hills and the advancing enemy.

Father told us to lie down by the entrance to the courtyard, next to the barn wall. He felt this would provide the best shelter against potential grenade splinters. Oh, how Kaete and I shook with fear and prayed in desperation. A whistling sound screeched overhead, then a loud Boom. Was that behind our barn? Again, a second time. The air cracked, popped and detonated all around us in a horrendous noise.

Little by little it grew quieter, and we cautiously sat up. Father, as the first to rise, immediately inspected the property. In the orchard behind the barn, he found two large grenade craters three feet deep and four or five feet wide. Had they landed at the gate, we would not have survived. If the barn had been hit, it could have started a fire. Later we learned that these grenades came from friendly fire.

Now with the Russians close by, we figured out a hiding place for emergencies. The pigeon loft in the house could be reached quickly from the attic and became inaccessible to any prowlers once the ladder was pulled up.

Night fell, and we went to bed fully clothed, prepared to escape to our hideout the moment the dog barked. In the distance, shots rang out, dogs barked, and we heard screams.

Strangely enough, neither our dog nor the neighbors’ made a sound when they usually barked at the least provocation. It was so quiet we actually slept a little. The next morning when we learned what other Habendorfers went through, we were shocked. Surely angels had watched over us.

TERRIBLE NEWS

Before I tell this story, you need a little background.

About one and a half kilometers outside Habendorf, surrounded by woods and meadows, stood two water-powered mills, the Brook Mill and the Border Mill. A torrential river powered the water wheels that ground the wheat into flour. Since it was May, the water was running at peak levels.

Mother’s friend and her husband lived at the Border Mill with their two daughters, Emma and Lisbeth. The girls had lost a husband and a fiancé in the war, and Emma had a child. Together they worked the farm that belonged to the mill, and the women did the men’s work, tilling the ground with machines and horses.

As I said, that first night the Russians entered Habendorf, no soldiers came to our house. The following day around noon our neighbor walked into the courtyard. White-faced and continually brushing tears from his eyes, he reported what happened the previous night:

“Many women had fled to our farm. The Russians raped them in beastly fashion. Most of the soldiers were drunk and on a rampage, breaking things. They threw my grown son on the manure pile and trampled him. It was terrible.

“I was worried about my Border Mill relatives, wondering if they had also experienced such terrible things the previous night, as they live on a well-traveled road. On the way there I became more and more anxious. I arrived to find the place in absolute shambles. Lisbeth lay on the sofa completely soaked, incoherent.

"Finally, I learned that she, her father, mother, and sister had all thrown themselves into the river to commit suicide. Emma was still holding her child when they fished her out. Lisbeth didn’t know how she came to be on the sofa.

Some Russians were there who tried to explain to me what had happened. They must have been the ones who rescued Lisbeth. All the others are dead. My relatives experienced unspeakable horror.”

We stood shocked at his words and didn’t know what to say. Then sobbing, he turned around and left. It was the last time we saw him.

The following day, we received more shocking news. After coming to our house, this neighbor had gone home, and he and his son and their wives hung themselves—the four grandchildren lay strangled on the floor. The people who found them were able to resuscitate the three girls, but the little boy didn’t make it.

An aunt took in the orphan girls and raised them with her own three children—a great sacrifice during the post-war years with the scarcity of food and cramped living spaces. Women like these were heroines. Most of them raised the children alone since their husbands had died in the war. They didn’t complain but worked hard to survive.

The atrocities that occurred when we were conquered caused many people to lose their will to live because they could no longer see any hope for the future. It was unthinkable that things like this could happen to people we knew.

We heard about other tragedies that occurred. Some villagers died during the cannon fire over Habendorf. One man’s leg was shot off, and he bled to death. Another woman, whom I knew well, died from a grenade splinter. Words fail me to describe the terror, the horror, and the gruesomeness of war.

In our neighborhood, the Russians shot and killed a fleeing German soldier. No one knew who he was. Father and several others dug a shallow grave and buried him right where he was gunned down in the neighbor’s yard. We always wondered whose father, son, or brother he was. His death was so very sad.

Around that time also, two German soldiers came to our house and asked us to hide them. They were only sixteen and eighteen. We told them to hide in the barn and secretly brought them food and civilian clothes. The following day, Father drove them a ways down the road in his wagon. They were heading west, trying to get back home. None of the soldiers wanted to be captured by the Russians.

After the invasion, everywhere you went, people told horrific tales. This was very frightening to me. However, today I can see that it is easier for youth than their elders to retain hope for a better future. In a way, our youthful innocence protected us. We did not fully understand what it meant to be occupied by the enemy and what it would mean to be stripped of citizen rights and government protection. We felt vibrant, strong, and adventurous. Above all, we were determined to survive.

RUSSIAN AND POLISH OCCUPATION

Habendorf’s aristocrats endured the same fate as so many others. Lord von Seidlitz had fallen in defending the eastern front at Breslau in February 1945. The Russians plundered the palace and raped seventy-year-old Lady von Seidlitz. Then they forced the family and all the servants to vacate the estate, allowing only a few possessions in their backpacks. Today the estate lies in ruins as you can see from the photo below.

Later I learned that the family fled to West Germany. Lady Von Seidlitz was now penniless as well as helpless. As an aristocrat she had never learned to do any work; she did not even know how to sew on a button. A former servant kindly took her in. When Lady Von Seidlitz died, she was buried in a pauper’s grave. I have good memories of her as a lovely Christian lady.

The Russians and Poles now occupied the palace. They knocked out windows and doors and stole everything. Later we saw Polish women walking around wearing the palace table cloths as shawls; they didn’t know what the table cloths were for. The conquerors rode the stolen bicycles and wore Lord Von Seitlitz’s pajamas in public. It would have been funny had it not been so heartbreaking.

Many of these soldiers had come from very primitive areas and were unfamiliar with modern life. The Russians were completely obsessed with clocks and made sure to “free” us of them. One Russian had pocketed an alarm clock. When it suddenly went off, he yelped, flung it from him, and shouted, “Help! It’s the devil!” Another Russian tried riding his stolen bike and wasn’t having any success. In a cussing rage, he threw it into the ditch and proceeded to stomp on it. A sight to behold! We smirked with “Schadenfreude” at the conquerors’ vexations.

But the trials of the occupation had just begun.

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“Under His Wings” are excerpts from Hannchen Gantenbein’s autobiography as told to Ruth Wood, her daughter. The account highlights God’s protection and guidance as she grew up in Nazi Germany, lived through World War II, and immigrated to the United States. Watch for monthly posts on the 20th!

Under His Wings/Table of Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

A religion that gives nothing, costs nothing, and suffers nothing, is worth nothing. - Martin Luther

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I am very dark, but lovely,
O daughters of Jerusalem,
like the tents of Kedar,
like the curtains of Solomon.
Do not gaze at me because I am dark,
because the sun has looked upon me.
My mother's sons were angry with me;
they made me keeper of the vineyards,
but my own vineyard I have not kept! (Song of Songs 1:5-6)

When we imagine Jesus thinking of us with great love, affection, and positive regard, it can trigger thoughts like, “But I am so unworthy of Him!” The Shulamite bride seemed to have a moment like that too when feelings of inadequacy surfaced.

She tells the daughters of Jerusalem that her tan is as dark as the black goat-hair tents of the nomadic Arab tribe, Kedar. Her need to draw attention to this fact feels very familiar. It’s typical of what women do when we feel insecure. We think that if we show others that we’re aware of our flaw, they will perhaps be more forgiving.

“Please don’t stare at me because I’m so dark,” she says, knowing she doesn’t meet the beauty standard of her society, which prizes lighter complexions that signal leisure and nobility rather than manual labor. (This beauty standard was common in many urban courts of the day—Egyptian, Canaanite, and later Greco-Roman.)

Then she says, “My mother’s sons were angry with me; they made me keeper of the vineyards.” It’s her explanation for why she hasn’t been able to take better care of herself. Do you relate to her need to explain herself? I sure do. Excuses are a good strategy to head off any potential judgment. How often I’ve said, “Bad hair day!” to explain why I’m wearing a hat to someone.

And yet, even though she saw herself as dark, it seems that she believed what Solomon said about her. Hadn’t he told her over and over that she was beautiful? No wonder she was able to say, “I am very dark but lovely.”

In the same way, we acknowledge: “I am very dark because of sin; I don’t meet the moral standard of God’s perfection, yet in the eyes of my Heavenly Bridegroom who died to pay for my sins, I am lovely.”

Recently I listened to an interview with an elderly man who was giving advice about marriage. He said that if a young man marries a woman just for her appearance, what will he do when she is old and no longer attractive—her face “scarred” with wrinkles, her body carrying extra pounds, her mind feeble? Will he still see beauty? The old man then went on to share that as his wife lay dying—emaciated, her body wrecked—he still saw her soul and felt she was simply beautiful. The interviewer was so moved, tears sprang to his eyes, and words would not come, so the two sat in silence for a long moment.

The elderly man’s story is a touching example of how true love sees beyond the superficial. And we have such a bridegroom. He looks past our unattractive sin-darkness and sees a beautiful new creation (note II Corinthians 5:17). So, we too, like the Shulamite bride, can say, “I am very dark, but lovely.” What a wonderful thing it is to find our identity in Jesus.

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Photo by Sirena Velena on Unsplash / A generic photo/NOT from the Gantenbein family archives

THE YEAR 1945

It was the winter of 1945. Our troops were retreating, forcing many Germans to flee. The refugees came through Habendorf on wagons or on foot, transporting children in baby carriages. Hordes of cows and sheep clogged the roads as they were driven deeper into Germany to escape the rapidly approaching Russian front. What mooing and baa-ing and absolute chaos.

Once, some refugees and soldiers drove about fifty cows into our courtyard. Some of the cows’ udders were raw and infected. We milked like crazy, poured the milk into barrels, warmed it in pans, and served it to the soldiers and refugees passing through. This was forbidden, but no one cared anymore.

Then several soldiers butchered a cow on the spot. (Also forbidden.) They cut up the meat in the barn, and we women cooked it in the kitchen. What a delicious feast for so many hungry folks.

In every nook and cranny we housed refugees and soldiers. Only one bedroom in the house remained available for our family, where all four of us slept. People even dragged straw into the kitchen and slept there. We ran here and there, caring for everyone, and throughout all this craziness we also cared for Mother. She sat with large, sad eyes in her chair, wishing she could help.

The sounds of war drew closer and closer. At night our windows often rattled from the din of bombs crashing. We heard the rat-tat-tat-tat of machine gunfire in the distance. The battlefront was only sixty kilometers away in Breslau now.

MOTHER’S PASSING

With the Russians closing in, concern for our beloved mama grew. Every day she was growing weaker. How would we care for her when the Russians came? Dismayed at our situation, the retreating German soldiers constantly told us to flee or hide, but how could we do this when caring for an invalid?

One day Tante Ida said, “Let’s pray that the Lord will take your Mama home.” I saw how much she suffered and was finally ready to let go. The Lord had given us two more years since the stroke, and now, at age sixteen, I felt more mature.

The next day the village nurse came and celebrated communion with Mother, Father, and Kaete. I had to go out to the fields to oversee the foreigners planting potatoes. I wanted so much to join the family at this last communion, but Father said, “If we don’t plant anything, then we will not have a harvest and will go hungry.” He was absolutely right in this decision, as we saw later.

As she neared the last days of her life, Mother’s eyes remained closed. She no longer spoke to any of us but kept saying, “Lord Jesus, help me. Please, help me.”

I often sat by Mother’s bed to help her drink and to moisten her parched lips. Two days before her passing, Mother lost consciousness. On the morning of April 11^th, I stood by her bed once more before going out to the fields. Oh, how I would have rather stayed.

Around two o’clock Kaete appeared on the hill and waved for me to come home. She said, “Mama left us quietly. Her passing was like a clock that wound down and finally stopped ticking.” Interestingly, she died in the same room where she had been born.

A great sense of abandonment overcame me. Without my Mama, my best and dearest friend, I would be so alone in the world. But I was glad to know her safe in the Lord’s hands and comforted myself with the thought that one day I would see her again.

Tante Ida said, “Come look. She is so beautiful and peaceful.” But I just couldn’t. I preferred to remember her alive. I didn’t know how to face it—I was still young and felt so overwhelmed by everything.

On the day of the funeral, the pallbearers carried her coffin as we followed for the thirty-minute walk to the cemetery.

Kaete, Father, and I stood at the open grave as the pastor gave the eulogy. Men in our culture did not cry, and Father stood like a stone. He kept shaking his head over and over, as if to say, “I can’t believe that my dear ‘Tielchen’ is no longer living.”

I thought about how much he loved Mother despite his rough exterior. Whenever he entered the house, his first words were, “Where is Mama?” When she’d appear, he’d call out, “Now where have you been keeping yourself?!” She was the only one who could calm him down when he got in one of his moods, when nothing could please him because he didn’t have a cigar. After Mother’s stroke, Kaete and I often marveled at his loving manner and new-found patience as he helped take care of her.

The pastor said a final prayer, and the coffin was lowered into the ground. In the distance, cannons thundered and the earth shook.

About 40 miles away in Breslau, the war raged. In the coming weeks, as the Russian occupation took over our lives, I was so grateful that Mother did not have to live through the horror of those days, but I carried an empty ache in my heart. Sometimes in my mind I’d hear her call and want to go to her bed to help—but she wasn’t there anymore. We all missed her.

During this time I learned an important lesson—serving others is good therapy for grief. With all the chaos that came when the war ended, I had little time to think about my own troubles because I was busy helping others.

Father had often said, “When Mama dies, I will not want to live anymore.” And so it came to pass. However, in the six weeks before he was buried next to his ‘Tielchen,’ he had yet to endure terrible events.

THE SIX WEEKS BEFORE FATHER’S PASSING

There was no time to mourn because streams of refugees and soldiers passed through our village and needed housing and food. In the chaos of the advancing eastern front, our courtyard resembled military barracks teeming with horses, soldiers, refugees, and cows.

Along the roadsides, you’d find dead cows that needed to be buried. Refugees sometimes arrived with deceased loved ones that also required proper burial. My father was responsible for digging the graves. When the refugees first began coming through in the winter of 1945, it was a difficult job to shovel the frozen earth, but now it was May, and the ground was no longer so hard.

In the meantime, the gunfire drew nearer. Fleeing the Russians, streams of German soldiers and refugees headed west or escaped to Czechoslovakia.

We received word to leave and loaded a wagon with provisions for us and for the horses. What should we take? What was important? We packed food, a few blankets to keep warm, enough oats for the horses, and a few souvenirs. Oh, it was so hard. If we left, we would have to release the cows and all livestock, giving them over to fate.

Kaete decided to bury our valuable jewelry. We collected Grandmother’s gold necklace, Mother’s gold teardrop earrings, a silver braided chain bracelet, a silver necklace with amethysts, and Kaete’s ruby ring and put them in a metal box. Kaete secretly buried it under a hazelnut bush in our orchard.

Later, when the Poles discovered that some people were burying their treasures in graveyards, they ransacked the cemeteries, digging up graves in their search for valuables and looting marble from the headstones. Not until many years after the war did my sister finally feel safe enough to dig up the box and retrieve the jewelry.

But for us, the main question at the time was, “Do we flee or do we stay?”

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“Under His Wings” are excerpts from Hannchen Gantenbein’s autobiography as told to Ruth Wood, her daughter. The account highlights God’s protection and guidance as she grew up in Nazi Germany, lived through World War II, and immigrated to the United States. Watch for monthly posts on the 20th!

Under His Wings/Table of Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Lord, give me firmness without hardness, steadfastness without dogmatism, love without weakness. ~ Jim Elliot

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“How beautiful you are, my darling! How very beautiful!” (Song of Songs 4:1)

Solomon is head over heels in love. He leaves no doubt in his bride’s mind how he feels about her. He showers her with compliments. He calls her endearing names. He declares that she alone has captured his heart. No wonder she feels so desired, valued, and loved.

As we study Song of Songs, which is an allegory of Christ and the church, what can we learn from Solomon’s interactions with his beloved that will help us understand how Jesus feels about his bride?

Solomon—Praising Her Beauty

First of all, we see that Solomon is completely captivated by his new wife. He can’t find enough creative ways to praise her appearance. “How beautiful you are . . . Your eyes are doves . . . your hair is like a flock of goats . . . your lips are like a scarlet ribbon” (from Song of Songs 4).

Now if my husband began to speak to me in poetic language like that, I would start laughing, but then I might secretly like it too. What woman doesn’t want to be reassured from time to time that she is attractive and desirable?

Jesus, our Bridegroom

Maybe it has already occurred to you that Jesus considers his bride—you and me—beautiful, but I never thought about it until I began studying this book. I find myself rather incredulous at the idea. But it must be so. After all, He is the Originator, the Artist, who did not create our sinful nature. So when Jesus cleanses us, he sees the beauty of his original design far more clearly than we do.

A person holding a clean glass will be able to see their reflection, though faintly. When Jesus washes us sparkling clean, He can see Himself in us fully. And His image is beautiful.

There’s a known phenomenon—people in love tend to see themselves in one another. Jesus sees His Bride through such love-tinted glasses. Isn’t it amazing that despite our fallen state, He sees beauty that reflects Him?

Solomon—Praising Her Flawlessness

In Song of Songs 4:7 Solomon says, “All beautiful you are, my darling; there is no flaw in you.” I wonder how his beloved responded to these words. Did her face register disbelief for a moment? Did she giggle nervously?

Jesus, our Bridegroom

We women can quickly list our physical imperfections because we have been comparing ourselves to one another all our lives. And we’re just as sensitive about our character flaws. How can we accept, then, that Jesus sees us as spiritually flawless?

Hebrews 10:13 states, “For by a single offering he has perfected for all time those who are being sanctified.” So it is HIS work of perfection that allows Him to see us “without stain or blemish” (Ephesians 5:27).

I tend to focus on my imperfections and camp on my failures. But I’m beginning to understand that it is better to focus on how the Lord sees me rather than on how I see myself.

Solomon—Expressing Affection

And then, throughout this love poem, Solomon uses various endearing terms to express his affection. He calls his bride “my dove, my treasure, my darling, my sister, my love.” When a husband expresses affection for his wife, it strengthens their bond.

Jesus, our Bridegroom

For many years I believed God loved me, but did he like me? I couldn’t imagine it. I thought God’s agape love meant that He possessed a great, unshakable ability to tolerate me. It took a special encounter with the Lord that began to address my distorted view of Him.

To like someone is to be fond of them. To have affection for them. Did you know that the Bible mentions the Lord’s affection? Paul writes, “God can testify how I long for all of you with the affection of Christ Jesus” (Philippians 1:8). So there you have it—scriptural evidence that Jesus likes you and me!

Let’s define in broader terms what this means. Affection includes liking someone, but it goes beyond that. It suggests:

• genuine fondness

• heartfelt care

• compassion

• emotional warmth

• and a desire for the other person’s good

Jesus has great affection for His bride. He delights in you and me!

Solomon—Delighting in His Private Garden

Solomon tells his beloved, “You are a garden locked up, my sister, my bride; you are a spring enclosed, a sealed fountain” (Song of Songs 4:12). In other words, his bride is like a private garden reserved for him and like his own protected spring, remaining pure. I love this imagery. It highlights the bride’s cherished status and the exclusivity of their love.

Jesus, our Bridegroom

In the New Testament the metaphors change, but the concept remains the same. For example, Paul writes, Do you not know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your bodies (1 Corinthians 6:19-20).

Paul could have just as easily written that we are a private garden reserved for the Lord, sealed by the Holy Spirit. And what about being “an enclosed spring”? Jesus said, “. . . those who drink the water I give will never be thirsty again. It becomes a fresh, bubbling spring within them, giving them eternal life” (John 4:14).

Response

I’m so grateful that Jesus sees us in a much better light than we tend to see ourselves. Even though in this world we struggle against our sin nature, we already possess His image, which is beautiful, flawless. I love that He cherishes us as His own and that we can enjoy sweet fellowship with Him in the privacy of our garden—the secret place of our hearts. And to think He is genuinely fond of us! I still find that truth beyond amazing.

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In the fall Kurt came home on leave once again for three weeks. By then Mother could already sit up and even walk a little with a cane. She had regained her speech, and you could converse with her. The two enjoyed long conversations together. We continued to pray for them both.

Then it was time for him to go back to the front. This parting seemed particularly hard for Kurt. He walked around the house and the courtyard and petted a horse and also the dog—it was as if he were saying goodbye to everything.

Then he shook hands with each of us, and oh, how we bravely swallowed our tears, hoping to make the farewell easier for one another.

Father hitched up the horses to drive Kurt to the train station. As they passed by on the village street, Kurt leaned far out of the carriage, waved, and smiled, his final, oh so beautiful, smile. I knew in my heart this was the last time I’d see him. This is how I’ve kept him in my memory and how I will see him again in heaven.

After he and Father drove away, we all cried openly. It felt as if the sun had gone down forever.

After that second leave, Kurt was sent to Ukraine, where he was stationed by the Black Sea. He wrote us long letters, reporting that the soil was excellent for farming, that melons and tropical fruit grew in abundance, and that the girls were beautiful. He also noted that the climate was so hot, they fried eggs on their tanks.

He also wrote about a fierce battle where grenades exploded all around him and many died. This was known as the “Stalin Organ.” He relayed final greetings to the family of a dying comrade, Lord von Finkenstein.

We sent him many packages. He especially appreciated the delicious butter cookies from home. All our dear soldiers were homesick and would have preferred being with their loved ones over serving in war.

As the year 1943 came to a close, we waited for news from Kurt. One night I dreamed I saw him in his uniform sitting at the table, and every time I wanted to go to him, he disappeared. I awoke feeling sorrowful.

Then a letter came, not in his handwriting, but he had dictated it. He was in the army’s field hospital because his right collarbone had been injured by a grenade splinter. He told us not to worry—he would come home soon. For a few weeks we heard nothing more.

Then the morning of January 12, 1944, the village mayor came and spoke with Father in the courtyard. I stood in the door of the entryway and saw Father turn white in the face. Repeatedly he shook his head in disbelief. The mayor stared at the ground—his son and Kurt were good friends.

I immediately knew what this meant, and the blood froze in my veins. Inwardly I screamed, “No, that can’t be—my beloved brother—dead? There must be some mistake.” All life seemed to drain from me, and I began to shake.

Even though we knew Kurt was in harm’s way, we were still unprepared, especially because the last letter assured us that his injury was not serious.

My concern now turned to Mother. It was morning, and she was still in bed because we had not yet dressed her. Father walked past me and said in a flat voice, “Yes, Kurt died from his injury. I will tell Mother.”

Mother said later he’d thrown himself on her bed with loud sobs, and she knew right away—it was Kurt. And they cried together. Then Mother said, “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away; blessed be the name of the Lord.” Though she was paralyzed and helpless, she comforted the rest of us.

We were thankful that he died in the Lord and that we knew exactly how and when he died and where he was buried. Many never learned what happened to their loved ones. They simply received the news “missing in action” or “dead.”

Kaete and I cried in the kitchen, and all the hired help cried with us. They loved Kurt too—he had been so good to them, and they liked working with him. We had all looked forward to his homecoming.

As long as I live, I will never forget this terrible day.

They sent us his things. In his wallet he had preserved the grenade splinter—he’d wanted to show us how he’d been injured. Kurt always saved everything. The army chaplain wrote to us saying that the splinter not only shattered the collarbone but also went into the lung, and they operated too late. The chaplain had administered communion to Kurt before he died peacefully on December 29, 1943. We were thankful to know all this.

Later we learned that a relative of ours, a high-ranking officer who served in Odessa also, visited Kurt’s grave and buried a bottle with important information there. The army planned to level the cemetery because Germany was retreating from Russia.

We held a memorial service in our church. Mother attended, leaning on her cane, and I marveled at her strength. When the church bells rang, the congregation sang:

My anxious heart be still . . . this world is not our home.

OTHERS WE LOST

Besides Kurt, many more in our circle of relatives and friends lost their lives:

• Herbert Koschwitz, 21, a neighbor and Kaete’s former suitor, died in action.

• Cousin Heinz Naefe, 18, after only a few days in Russia, died of a gunshot wound to the head.

• Cousin Rudolf Deport, 26, missing in action. We never heard from him again. He was the father of one child.

• The husband of cousin Lotte, father of three children. Died in action.

Some were maimed for life. My cousin, Heinz, was twenty-three and married. He was critically wounded during an explosion near the end of the war. He lost his eyesight and his right hand. On his left hand, only the thumb and little finger remained. His wife immediately divorced him. However, he courageously managed his disability, found work as a telephone operator, and later married his caregiver.

The war claimed victims in every house. Friedrich Simmel, my godfather, was the Jewish husband of my mother’s youngest sister. He was taken by the Gestapo two months before the end of the war. We never heard from him again.

By the end of the war, Habendorf, with only a population of 1,000, had lost sixty people. Later when the Russians came, the count rose higher because in the chaos of the end, not all deaths were reported.

We attended one funeral after another in those days. Almost everyone dressed in black because most people were mourning someone.

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“Under His Wings” are excerpts from Hannchen Gantenbein’s autobiography as told to Ruth Wood, her daughter. The account highlights God’s protection and guidance as she grew up in Nazi Germany, lived through World War II, and immigrated to the United States. Watch for monthly posts on the 20th!

Under His Wings/Table of Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

I am convinced that love and fear, like sun and moon, are seldom seen together. ~ John Newton

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Who is this coming up from the wilderness like a column of smoke, perfumed with myrrh and incense made from all the spices of the merchant? Look! It is Solomon’s carriage, escorted by sixty warriors . . . Come out, and look, you daughters of Zion. Look on King Solomon wearing a crown, the crown with which his mother crowned him on the day of his wedding, the day his heart rejoiced (Song of Songs 3:6-7; 11).

Imagine standing on the wall of Jerusalem, looking out toward the desert horizon. In the distance, columns of dust rise. A caravan is approaching, a company of men so perfumed with myrrh and frankincense that the scent is perceptible on the wind. Pointing to the approaching carriage, the bride calls out to her friends, “Daughters of Jerusalem, come out and look! King Solomon is wearing his crown!”

“And oh, see? There are sixty warriors accompanying him, the noblest of Israel, each one experienced in battle, each with his sword at his side. And just think, Solomon had the carriage made for himself, specifically for our wedding.” She turns to her friends to see if her joy is mirrored on their faces too.

“Do you know that he had it crafted with wood from Lebanon?” she gushes further. “It has posts of silver and a base of gold, and its cushions are purple, made by the young girls of Jerusalem with love!” Her face softens as she glances at a group of smiling young girls beside her. How she delighted in this carriage, seeing it as an expression of Solomon’s love for her.

Allegory Parallels

We consider twelve groomsmen lavish for most weddings—imagine sixty! And with such a fancy carriage, we can safely assume that this was the ancient Israeli version of a wedding on the scale of King Charles and Princess Diana. Impressive indeed!

But how does the bride’s love story in Song of Songs parallel ours with our heavenly bridegroom, Jesus?

• She is in love with a king who came for her. We, too, are in love with a king—the King of kings and Lord of Lords who will one day come for us with more glory, splendor, and majesty than you’d see at the most lavish royal wedding.

• Solomon came escorted by an impressive show of military strength—sixty warriors. Jesus will come escorted by the armies of heaven. Matthew 16:27 says, “For the Son of Man is going to come in his Father’s glory with his angels, and then he will reward each person according to what they have done.”

• Solomon lovingly prepared for his wedding day. He spent time and effort crafting a special carriage “inlaid with love.” Jesus told his disciples, “There is more than enough room in my Father’s home. If this were not so, would I have told you that I am going to prepare a place for you? When everything is ready, I will come and get you so that you will always be with me where I am.” (John 14:2-3). Jesus is like a happy bridegroom, lovingly preparing for the day of our union with him.

Our Preparation

We are betrothed, promised to The Most Worthy One. The prophecy to Israel in Hosea 2:19 is true for the bride of Christ as well: I will betroth you to me forever; I will betroth you in righteousness and justice, in love and compassion.

And so we make ourselves ready, putting on the bright and clean fine linen given us to wear because our bridegroom, the Root and the Offspring of David, the bright Morning Star says,

“Yes, I am coming soon!”

Amen and amen. Come, Lord Jesus!

(See scripture references Revelations 19:8, Revelations 22:16, Revelations 22:20)

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A friend, me, and Kaete (on the right)

WARTIME ROMANCE

Our neighbors had four boys. The oldest, Herbert, was Kurt’s age and had a bad case of acne. Herbert was a graphic artist, and every day after work, he came and sat with us as we ate. He’d talk and talk, all the while staring at Kaete to make sure he was making an impression.

Wherever Kaete went, Herbert always seemed to show up, and when she attended the Christian girls’ group, he escorted her home. She was sixteen and very pretty with her dark hair and green eyes. Kaete enjoyed being admired, and a dreamy look came into her eyes.

Once when Herbert brought her home, I hid by the entrance to eavesdrop and heard him give her a hearty kiss. I told her about it the next day. Oh, was she ever mad at me for being such a pesky little sister.

At eighteen Herbert was drafted and never came back. He died in action. What a sad day when we received the news.

Kurt and Herbert

Once, Habendorf housed a tank division of Bavarian soldiers for six weeks because heavy snowfall blocked all roads, which had to be shoveled clear. Two of the soldiers stayed with us. They were very happy to be snowed in and said, “Here one can certainly endure the war.” One soldier, Herr Hinsel, was married and already had a child. The other, Martin, had a great sense of humor and the cutest Bavarian accent.

Martin fell head over heels in love with Kaete, and she with him. In the evenings we four played the game “Aggravation,” and he and Kaete kept refusing to knock each other out. Herr Hinsel and I protested, “That’s not fair. You two are cheating!” But we protested in vain.

We spoiled our two Bavarians. In the evenings while they were out on night watch, we heated bricks, wrapped them in newspaper, and tucked them into their beds, ensuring they had some warmth to come home to.

They told funny Bavarian jokes that made us laugh. Often other soldiers from the division came over to play games. They all sighed, “If only we could stay here until the miserable war is over.” It was a beautiful, happy time.

But then the day arrived when they had to move on, and the whole village came to see them off, waving goodbye. Many cried.

Kaete and Martin wrote each other constantly. I helped her compose special salutations such as “My ardently beloved Martin” or “My darling sweetheart.”

Herr Hinsel corresponded with Mother and always included special greetings for me. Then came the end of the war, and we never heard from either of them again. We assumed they both died in combat; otherwise, they would have written.

One of my teachers, a young man who taught for a short time, also fell in love with Kaete. As a result, I enjoyed special privileges. For example, he sent me to the post office or put me in charge of class during reading time.

After one special event, when he wanted to bring Kaete home, Mother told her I had to accompany them. Poor teacher—thwarted by the little sister.

A short time later he was drafted, and we never heard from him again. We assumed that he also died in the war. Oh, this terrible hero’s death!

Another time, Habendorf quartered a regiment from Sachsen. We took in four soldiers and two horses. One evening, news came over the radio that Dresden was under severe bombardment and the city was on fire. I will never forget how one soldier paced the room like a wounded animal, crying and wringing his hands in agony because his family was there. We all worried along with him. What would happen to them? We never learned if he lost loved ones or not because his company moved on shortly afterwards. He was only twenty-one.

We housed the Italians (Germany’s allies) next. They stayed overnight in our horse barn. Our courtyard looked like military barracks.

We also housed a Russian regiment that had surrendered to the Germans. They had gotten so tired of the oppression from the Bolsheviks, they wanted to fight with the enemy to free their own country. Oh, how they hated the communists.

Our German soldiers often warned us, “Don’t go outside alone—those Russians are all dangerous.” We did not fully understand what these warnings meant until later.

Being around all these soldiers was very interesting for us girls, and we were, of course, also interesting to them.

Once I ran an errand to the neighboring farm, which had taken in four tank soldiers. As I stepped into the house, they chorused, “A girl!” and surrounded me on all sides. One tall, dark, handsome young man said, “Please, will you go out with me tonight?” and told me where to meet him.

I retorted, “That won’t work. My father would never allow it.”

“Your father doesn’t ever need to know. Besides, I’m serious about you,” he insisted. And he kept trying to persuade me to meet with him that night.

Of course I didn’t go, heeding Father’s saying, “A soldier’s love is water in a sieve.” Or, “You never know what’s hidden beneath a uniform.” Later, after the soldiers had moved on, I saw my neighbor, and he said, “Fraeulein Hannchen, that young man was sure disappointed you didn’t show up. He was serious about you, and he was the son of a wealthy estate owner.”

“Oh, really?” I was not one bit sorry. I was only fifteen years old—in my mind, too young for romance.

OUR FOREIGNERS

During the war we employed foreigners—usually two hired hands and one maid.

Josef came from western Poland and learned German; he even spoke our dialect. He was a sweet man, a bit slow in his work, but faithful and conscientious. Josef loved to eat in great quantities and with gusto. For breakfast he consumed five boiled potatoes with butter or whey cheese and bread. As he ate, the sweat would run down his face. We’d never seen anyone eat the quantities this man consumed.

Once Josef’s uncle visited, and Josef proudly gave a tour of the farm as if it belonged to him. Another time as we sat around the table, an S.A. Nazi policeman came by and asked, “Where was Josef last night? Thieves have been about.”

Father said, “You better look elsewhere. Josef would never steal. I’d place my hand in the fire for him.”

“For a foreigner you should never put your hand in the fire,” the policemen countered. “Besides, for what you just said, I could arrest you.”

Father shot back, “I wouldn’t put it past you. You Nazis are lowlifes!”

“Well, what are you doing, letting Josef eat at the same table with you? That is forbidden!”

“This is our table, and under my roof, everyone eats together,” Father answered. Luckily, he and the officer had been school comrades, which called for loyalty; otherwise, he may have been arrested.

Yes, and then Josef applied for German citizenship. He was accepted, but unfortunately, the authorities drafted him into the military. With tears he departed from us, and we never heard from him again.

Since my brother, Kurt, was away serving in the military, we needed another man on the farm, and Antek, a Ukrainian, was sent to us. With black, penetrating eyes and jet black hair, he looked like the stereotypical criminal. He was lazy, and instead of working the potatoes with Josef, he would lie down in a furrow and sleep.

Once Father caught him in the deed. Josef had waved him over, and there was Antek, peacefully dozing in a potato furrow. Furious, Father yelled, “You lazy bum! It’s about time you get to work!” Antek leaped into the air, shocked awake. Father didn’t touch him, as physical punishment was forbidden, and foreigners had the right to complain to the authorities, but shouting wasn’t punishable. Antek didn’t stay with us long before he was ordered elsewhere. I was glad; he was not trustworthy, and something about him scared me. His black eyes seemed to glitter with hate.

Father’s sister, Tante Ella, also employed a foreigner. Once she was so irritated with the girl—my aunt was very short on patience anyway—that she slapped her. The girl reported her, and if Tante Ella hadn’t come with gifts of bacon and sausage to appease the authorities, she would have been jailed. Foreigners also had rights.

Then we had Baraska, a short, wiry Ukrainian with small, blue eyes. She loved to work and would get up early in the mornings around five to get started. Father had to tell her, “Don’t get up so early. The cows need their rest. They have to stay on their schedule in order to give milk.”

She knew quite a bit of German and used it, sometimes even quite cheekily. She was very feisty, and not even Father intimidated her. Once he was dissatisfied with how she swept up the straw and yelled at her. With fiery eyes she shouted back,
”You crazy. I good worker. Do good. You always scolding.” Father was astonished, and she was right—she was a very hard worker. I was impressed; I would have never had the courage to talk to Father like that.

Baraska often said, “We willing to work. Volunteer. We so afraid of Russians.” When we asked, “Why? Aren’t they your people?” She spit on the floor and said, “You not know what Russians are.”

Her boyfriend was a Belgian POW, and they hoped to marry secretly. At the end of the war she wanted to flee with us, but we stayed home. She left, and we never learned what became of her. Did the Russians capture her? Rumors flew that those who worked for Germany would be killed if they fell into Russian hands. They had seen too much of a different way of life, which threatened the communists.

Then prisoners of war from Belgium and France came to live and work on our farms. That’s when another Josef, a Belgian POW, came to work for us. He and some other POWs were held in a hotel and given a considerable amount of freedom.

In the mornings they marched through the village on their way to the farms. They were happy to work, enjoyed good food, and were treated well—for them, the war was over.

Romance sometimes blossomed between farmers’ widows and these young men. I knew a couple of Belgians who, after the Allies invaded, went home but soon returned to marry and take their brides back to their country.

Josef was twenty-four years old, built rather delicately, and was always cheerful. I loved to hear him sing in French, his mother tongue. He liked being in Germany and also cultivated a secret love. A friend of his fashioned a ring for me out of a two-Reichsmark silver coin I gave him. I later smuggled this ring past the evacuation checkpoint.

We never learned what happened to Josef at the end of the war either. Everything was too chaotic. War brought continual comings and goings and constant farewells.

Readers, I think you’d enjoy the account of John Sprigg’s experiences related to Corrie ten Boom, so I’ve made it available via Notes which you can access here.

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“Under His Wings” are excerpts from Hannchen Gantenbein’s autobiography as told to Ruth Wood, her daughter. The account highlights God’s protection and guidance as she grew up in Nazi Germany, lived through World War II, and immigrated to the United States. Watch for monthly posts on the 20th!

Under His Wings/Table of Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

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What is a prayer Jesus might say at a wedding ceremony?

Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.

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Have you ever studied Song of Songs? Until recently, I used to think you could not do much with this symbolic poetry even if it did allegorize Christ and the church. It was simply tucked away in the library of my mind as “a romantic poem illustrating how passionately Jesus loves us.”

But as I prepared to speak at a women’s retreat this spring, I allowed myself to step into the garden with Solomon and his Shulamite bride, and to my surprise, my heavenly bridegroom came to life like never before.

WHO WROTE THE BOOK?

Traditionally, scholars have attributed Song of Songs to Solomon. He writes the poems from the viewpoint of a Shulamite shepherdess (who tends flocks of goats and sheep and owns a vineyard). He is the king, the bridegroom, to whom she refers in Song of Songs 3:11 when she says, “Come out, and look, you daughters of Zion. Look on King Solomon wearing a crown, the crown with which his mother crowned him on the day of his wedding, the day his heart rejoiced.” Presumably his wedding is also her wedding.

Now perhaps you’re protesting, “Solomon had many wives and concubines. One thousand, in fact! What could he possibly know about true love?” That was my first reaction too! But when you read this book, it sure sounds like the author is writing from experience. I’d like to think (and some scholars and commentators agree) that the Shulamite was possibly Solomon’s first wife, his first love—when he was very young and crowned king.

WHAT IS THE BOOK ABOUT?

Song of Songs is about two newlyweds crazy in love. It is also an allegory of the relationship between Christ and his bride. This book elevates passionate love over mere duty, and we need this reminder. Jesus did not wholeheartedly, passionately woo us to gain a “dutiful wife”—one who believes all the right things, says all the right things, and does all the right things but whose heart is lukewarm. No, he desires a bride who is ardently in love with him as well. One who is so “head over heels” that she can’t spend enough time with him, can’t say enough good things about him, can’t do enough for him. One who makes her life all about him above all else.

THE GREATEST OF ALL SONGS

1 Kings 4:32 says that Solomon “spoke three thousand proverbs, and his songs numbered a thousand and five.” Many see Song of Songs as his best work.

I like what the BibleProject (by Tim Mackie and Jon Collins) has to say:

[In Song of Songs] there are powerful echoes of the Garden of Eden and the idyllic scene of the first married couple in Genesis. . . . The images of the man and woman naked and vulnerable yet unified and completely safe with each other (Gen. 2:23-25) resonate in the background. . . . It’s as if, through these poems, we’re witnessing the love of a couple whose relationship is untainted by selfishness and sin.

So the Song of Songs holds out hope. Even though our relationships are often distorted by selfishness, love is a transcendent gift that’s meant to point us to something greater, the gift of God’s love that will one day permeate and transform his beloved world.

This beautiful hope is what the “Greatest of All Songs” is about.

As we go through this series celebrating the love of our Heavenly Bridegroom, I invite you to listen to this “song” for new melodies that may speak to you as never before. Our First Love is walking the gardens of our lives closer to us than we know.

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In January 1943 I turned fourteen, and on March 7^th I was confirmed. For two years prior to the big day I attended confirmation class once a week after school. Our pastor stressed that Jesus was nailed to the cross as a sacrifice for our sins and that we must believe in Him in order to be saved. To be confirmed meant saying “yes” to Jesus’ sacrifice for my sins.

A few days before the ceremony, the pastor encouraged us to examine our lives and to make things right with others—to apologize to people we may have hurt, or if we had stolen something, to come forward. His reasoning was that we should not partake of communion in an unworthy manner. So we all went first to our teacher and asked for forgiveness if we’d irritated or troubled him—some cried during this confession—then we went to our parents, which also wasn’t easy. Some boys went to neighbors to admit they’d stolen apples from their garden and asked forgiveness.

We decorated the church with garlands of pine boughs and prepared our confirmation clothes. We girls looked forward to wearing silk stockings for the first time as a rite of passage. Up to that time we had always worn cotton ones in summer and wool ones in winter.

The day of my confirmation, I stole admiring glances at my terrific legs in those silk stockings! We girls wore black dresses with myrtle wreaths in our hair, and the boys wore dark suits and boutonnieres. I did not foresee that I would wear that dress for many years of mourning.

As the bells rang, we proceeded into the church and seated ourselves in the reserved pews in the church nave. Quite a few of my relatives came, also my godfather, Onkel Friederich, who was a Jewish man who had converted to Christianity. Oh, how we hoped he would survive the war.

The pastor’s message was, “Hold fast to Jesus Christ, the beginning and completer of all things.” In my heart I promised to follow Him forever. By threes we approached and knelt at the altar, and each of us was given a special Bible verse for life. Mine read, “Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer.” (Romans 12:12). Then we were allowed to take communion for the first time.

At home we celebrated with all the relatives who came for the great occasion. Neighbors brought flowers, and I received cards and gifts. The table stood beautifully decorated with greenery on the white tablecloth.

Mother had hired a cook for the day, and two maids also helped prepare the feast, which allowed her the freedom to entertain. The main dish was roast goose with all the trimmings. The grand finale of the meal was a unique lemon dessert, very light and fluffy, a heavenly concoction—I’ve never had anything quite like it since.

I was now officially an adult. Five weeks later Mother suffered a stroke.

MOTHER’S STROKE

For some time, Mother had not felt well. Her blood pressure was too high, and the doctor told my father to send her on a vacation to recover her health. Father said, “No, that will not work. I need Mother here. I can’t run the farm without her.” And then he had to run it without her after all.

I was already in bed on April 12, 1943. Suddenly I heard Father shout, “Come help! Hurry!” I knew immediately that something was terribly wrong and leaped out of bed, frightened.

Mother lay collapsed in the barn, where she had been assisting the birth of a foal. She was unconscious, half-dead. We carried her into the house and began cutting the dress off her because she was sweating and couldn’t seem to breathe.

I kept thinking, “No, no, no, it cannot be. It’s too soon for her to die.” We tried to make her comfortable, doing all we knew to save her. Kaete ran to the neighbors who had a phone and called the doctor.

After the doctor arrived and examined her, he said, “There’s little hope. She has suffered a massive stroke and is paralyzed on her right side.” This news was horrible for all of us. How could life change like this from one minute to the next?

I went outside into the garden. I couldn’t comprehend no longer having a mother. In my heart I screamed to the Lord, pleading, “Please leave Mama with me a little while longer. Please, I want to have more time to show her my love, to just be with her.” I was not ready to let her go.

In my desperation I prayed as I had never prayed before. Over and over I begged God to spare her.

And to our joy, she continued to breathe. We gave her strong coffee administered in drops.

On April 13^th, the evening after Mother had her stroke, we suddenly heard a knock at the door. To our utter surprise, there stood Kurt. After one and a half years he was sent on leave, and now he came home—only to find Mother in crisis.

It was so sad for all of us. How much Kurt had looked forward to a reunion with his beloved mother. Now she didn’t know him, and her life hung by a thread. He often brought her flowers and freshly cut birch branches and sat by her bed, though she was not coherent.

Kurt plowed the fields every day and was happy to be home despite the sorrow with Mother. He loved bowls of green salad and also “tortes,” relishing the good food. After three weeks’ leave, he had to return, and Mother had not recognized him the entire time he was there.

MOTHER’S CARE

Kaete was twenty and I was fourteen when Mother suffered her stroke. Little by little over a period of six weeks, she came to and recognized us again. Her right side was lame, and her speech was a bit slower and a little slurred, but she could speak again. Using a beaker, we infused her with soup and other fluids and spoon-fed her like a baby, making sure she swallowed.

Since Mother was no longer able to work, we took over her chores. Kaete shouldered Mother’s responsibilities in the barn and the outdoors. I began cooking for seven to eight people and tended the chickens, the geese, and the pigs.

Father did all he could to make life easier for Mother. No task seemed too much for him when it came to helping her, even though he was also sick with bleeding ulcers.

Caring for Mother added an extra layer of work to the ongoing demands of the farm, but no one complained. We felt she received the most loving care at home and would never have given her up to the hospital.

Unable to work, Mother often said, “If I could only peel potatoes and help you with something. I am such a burden.” And she would cry.

We were simply glad to still have her with us. I could talk things over with her. She reminisced about the old days and recited many songs for me because now she had time for this. But above all, we could talk about the Lord Jesus.

The last two years with Mother were some of the most beautiful and blessed times of my life, a precious gift from God. I didn’t go anywhere. Even in the evenings I stayed home. While other young people went out walking together, I preferred being with Mother, Father, and Kaete. We enjoyed such cozy times together.

Oh, how we missed Kurt. We worried and prayed. The news about the war was terribly upsetting. At home we dealt not only with Mother, but as Father’s ulcers worsened, he soon required our attention too. To care for him, I needed to cook according to special dietary restrictions.

These were difficult times, and yet I have to say that I had no time to feel sorry for myself or to complain. I was where God wanted me and liked feeling needed. I felt happy and contented even though I was often tired from the night watches with Mother.

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“Under His Wings” are excerpts from Hannchen Gantenbein’s autobiography as told to Ruth Wood, her daughter. The account highlights God’s protection and guidance as she grew up in Nazi Germany, lived through World War II, and immigrated to the United States. Watch for monthly posts on the 20th!

Under His Wings/Table of Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

God is fond of you. If He had a wallet, your photo would be in it. If He had a refrigerator, your picture would be on it. He sends you flowers every spring and a sunrise every morning. Face it, friend, He's crazy about you! ~ Max Lucado

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Dear Readers,

Many years ago I shared my story about Susie Stream, whom I had lost to leukemia when we were in our forties. She had given me a great gift because she taught me how to “be a friend, make a friend, and keep a friend.” The post was very popular, and I think it’s because the subject of friendship touches us deeply. Recently I attended a women’s retreat where I was deeply moved by an interview with Judy Wenger and Nancy Harvy, two fun-loving, lifelong friends in their 70’s. I’m so thrilled they’ve agreed to let me share what they’ve learned about friendship over the years!

How did your friendship begin, and what drew you to each other initially?

Judy: I was 34, new to Emerald Bible Fellowship, my mother had recently died from cancer, and my husband was playing golf on Sunday mornings while I went to church. It was a low point in my life, and I really needed some friends. I had seen Nancy with lots of other women around her, and I wanted to be one of those women. At my first women’s retreat, a basket of bookmarks was passed around, and we were to take one from the basket and pray for whoever’s name was on it. Mine said, “Nancy Harvey.”

Nancy: Our friendship began in the late 70s at church, where my hubby was the youth pastor for almost twenty-five years. We saw each other at women’s events, and I was drawn to Judy’s fun personality. We chatted off and on, but our friendship really took off when I asked Judy to help me prepare a skit to announce an upcoming women’s event at a worship service. Since she was a middle school drama and English teacher, I knew she would have great ideas. As we worked on it, we laughed and laughed. It was the beginning of our silly but sweet bonding. When we performed the skit, I was nervous and had lots of adrenaline. I grabbed her cheeks and said, “Judy Judy Judy,” like Humphrey Bogart or whoever that actor was. But the way I yanked her face towards me almost gave her whiplash! Poor thing! She has never been the same since!

Day to day, what helps your friendship stay authentic and honest—and how do you make it safe for each other to share openly?

Nancy: Our friendship has gone through some ups and downs, along with our personal lives. Real life has kept us real—illnesses, cancer, family problems with children, job stress, church splits, and our faith in Jesus. What has kept us authentic is perseverance and loyalty. Listening to each other even when it’s hard to keep your mouth shut is important. At this stage we have seen and heard the good, the bad, and the ugly and have also seen the beauty of Christ in each other. No one makes me laugh as hard as Judy. She can also make me cry with her kindness and generosity. I am often touched and brought to tears by her love and care for me.

I feel safe with Judy because she has demonstrated deep friendship, commitment, wisdom, kindness, and extreme generosity. I know I can trust her with deep, personal things and that she will pray for me. Honesty, patience, and forgiveness are huge. Being able to really listen, without judgment, to what the other is saying helps us be authentic. Both of us can give our opinion readily, but we have learned through mistakes, hurt feelings, and our own pride to do as it says in James 1:19, "Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry.”

Another thing that helps is that our friendship is not jealous or possessive. Judy has lived in Eugene all her life and has so many different friends. I do as well. We don’t get jealous if we’re not included in each other’s plans with others. Except, maybe I might have a wee bit of FOMO ‘cuz I love hanging out with her so much!

Judy: Communicate every day. Get back to each other if there’s a misunderstanding. Laugh LOTS! Do ALL the emotions together, even the hard ones.

Over the years, how have you figured out when to speak the hard truths, when to just be there for each other, and how to move forward in forgiveness when things get hard?

Judy: We are still figuring that out after 42 years! We express our frustration with one another and about one another. Be a good listener without trying to “fix” the problem. Speaking “hard truth” must go hand in hand with HEARING hard truth even when we don’t want to hear it.

I am often the one who makes a final decision when Nancy is indecisive. Maybe it’s from nearly forty years of teaching middle school, but I like to make plans, hear input, and then finalize things. I still tease Nancy about how she orders food in a restaurant. She often asks the server which is best, this item or that!

Nancy: In our early years we had a few hurtful moments, but thankfully our sense of humor and commitment to Jesus smoothed those rough edges. I, as a nurse, can share my thoughts too quickly in regard to health issues, and I always want to fix things. I have learned to wait to be invited before I give my opinion (most of the time). Although, if I feel Judy is in any medical danger, I will speak up. Judy—as a teacher, amazing drama instructor, and director—likes to lead and direct, which can cause a bit of strain on occasion, more so in the early years.

Through the beauty of a long friendship, we have grown to treasure our God-given strengths and skills despite our differences. I love and appreciate Judy’s leadership, organizational abilities, and her amazing creativity. Judy has also grown to understand my gifts of nurture and mercy and my desire to help (whether she wants assistance or not). Because we have both walked with each other through some very serious medical crises and some hard family situations, we have learned to listen well and try to not take our words the wrong way, knowing we love each other deeply.

Praying together is huge! God breaks down our defenses and pride when we pray together. There have been times we needed to step away briefly from talking to work through any hurt or misunderstanding. But because we love each other, and we miss each other, we are quick to talk it over and reconcile. I think Colossians 3:12-14 is good advice for any friendship. "Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience. Bear with each other and forgive whatever grievances you may have against one another. Forgive as the Lord forgave you. And over all these virtues, put on love which binds them all together in perfect unity.”

How has God grown your faith through friendship, and how do you intentionally keep Him at the center of it?

Nancy: In addition to Judy, I feel so blessed to have some other treasured female friends. Those friends, like Judy, who know and trust the Lord, are my deepest relationships. Friendship is a commitment. Our walk with God is a commitment. Having a friend who is strong in the Lord really helps support my Christian walk. Judy’s example of trusting God through some pretty intense and scary medical situations is a huge testimony of God’s faithfulness and inspires me.

Judy and I have traveled together and have enjoyed so many fun adventures. We talk and laugh like silly teenagers. We often say that no one could keep up or understand when it’s just the two of us because we jump from one topic to the other and still know what the other is saying. Laughter is good medicine, and so that helps keep our friendship healthy. We keep Jesus in the center by reminding each other of his faithfulness and care. Knowing that Judy loves me and prays for me keeps me close to her and to God.

Judy: It’s easy with Nancy because she puts God first and prayer is a way of life, not just some activity one does on occasion. We pray together and FOR each other anywhere and anytime. I have learned more about prayer from Nancy than anyone else. You can’t hold another up by wanting to always be “in front.” To hold each other up, one must stand BESIDE the other. Let go of competition.

What advice would you give to women longing for a deeper, more authentic friendship?

Judy: Growing a friendship is a marathon, not a sprint. Be open to what God has in store for you. Be the person you are seeking in others.

Nancy: We are old now. We are the older ladies in the church. We have raised our kids together. Loved our children and now grandchildren. We have watched health events occur for each other and for our husbands. For the younger ladies and those not so young, it is never too late to invest in friendship. “Make new friends and keep the old; one is silver and the other is gold!” True, deep friendships do take time and can be a risk. You need to be willing to be hurt but also be loved richly. My advice is to be kind, listen, and find out special things about each other so you can honor one another.

Celebrate your friends! Find opportunities to honor them. Appreciate them. Write notes of encouragement. And thank them for the little and big ways they bless you. And of course, pray for your friends. Share with them your struggles so they can feel comfortable sharing theirs with you. The Bible has many stories of friendship; the best is that Jesus calls us His friends. Look to his example. The book of Proverbs has many words of wisdom regarding friendship. Here are a few:

"A friend loves at all times” (Proverbs 17:17). (Through the good and bad times!)

“A man of many companions may come to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother” (Proverbs 18:24). You may have many people around you, but be the friend that sticks to the other to help and support.

“Wounds from a friend can be trusted” (Proverbs 27:6). Honesty with each other can hurt sometimes, but a true friend can be trusted to give you the words and the help you really need.

“As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another” (Proverbs 27:17).

We are better together!

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Women need girlfriends! However, friendship can also be an area of frustration. It was for me.

As a young mother I admired several older ladies in my church; they were such a close-knit group. When someone got sick, they brought food; they had fun times on family camping trips; they even canned together. I longed for relationships like that but was uncertain how to go about cultivating them. So I started praying that the Lord would teach me how to be a friend.

And the Lord sent Suzie. Suzie loved people, and everyone seemed to love her. We discovered we both liked running and lived in the same neighborhood. She asked me if I would be her running partner, and we started getting up at 7:00am three mornings a week to pound the pavement.

As I got to know her, I noticed how she did friendship. For one thing, she was always the one initiating with me at first. Hmmm, I thought. She seems to have no fear of calling you, no thought that she might be rejected. She seems to assume that you like her and will want to spend time with her. This was in sharp contrast to how I operated—living in fear of rejection. I decided to adopt Suzie’s attitude instead.

I started calling her sometimes. She always responded with enthusiasm. Then I tried initiating with others. I realized that if people say no, they’re not necessarily rejecting me—most likely they have a very good reason that has nothing to do with me. This “profound lesson” was life-changing.

I could see that Suzie initiated more than her friends. This helped me learn to lower my expectations of others. I stopped getting hung up on how much someone reciprocated. People are busy or they may be preoccupied with problems—it doesn’t necessarily mean they wouldn’t enjoy spending time with you if you make the effort. In fact, when you call, you may be the bright spot in their day.

Maybe you’re wondering if my new approach turned me into an obnoxious “friend stalker” who forced herself on people. Sometimes the pendulum swings too far when we’re trying to change! But a certain sensitivity came naturally—if a potential friend made no effort with me over time, I placed them in the “nice acquaintance” category and moved on.

Suzie was gorgeous with forget-me-not blue eyes and dark hair, but that was not her secret. I knew attractive gals with few friends and average-looking ones who shared Suzie’s outgoing qualities. I concluded that having friends was not about being pretty; it was about sincerely reaching out and caring about others.

I also noticed that Suzie had a wide variety of friends. I had always looked for that soulmate-friend and, in so doing, eliminated a lot of people. This was my main problem. Now I came to see that people are like circles overlapping to different degrees. Why not enjoy what I had in common with someone and be willing to try new things? I decided to give up the quest for a “best friend.” Why, this way, almost anyone might turn out to be a potential friend!

Suzie introduced me to other gals who enjoyed jogging as well. Some Saturdays we ran five abreast, clogging our neighborhood streets. Soon we started celebrating birthdays together and escaped on retreats to indulge in serious girlfriend time. The Lord had gradually answered my prayers for friends.

My favorite memory of Suzie is a weekend trip to Black Butte, a mountain retreat in Oregon. We were both busy moms—what a luxury to get away without the kids! The sun shone and the sky sparkled a brilliant blue as we set out in my car, classical music playing. When we arrived, we wasted no time getting to the pool, as Suzie loved tanning. We soaked in the heat and the beauty of snow-capped mountains all around, basking in our freedom from responsibilities. That night we ate dinner at the lodge restaurant, laughing and carrying on. When the waiter learned that we were celebrating our April birthdays, he surprised us with a free dessert (Suzie is the one on the right in the photo).

I’m so thankful for this precious memory. One day Suzie called to say she couldn’t run; she was sick. She canceled our runs for three weeks. When she finally checked herself into the hospital, doctors discovered she had leukemia. She died before the year was out. I was heartbroken to lose this dear friend who’d been such a gift to me—she was only forty-three.

Suzie was a vibrant believer, a shining light to her family, her friends, and her community. How I look forward to seeing her again in heaven! But until that day comes, I will cherish my memories and the invaluable lessons Suzie unknowingly taught me about friendship.