Love

Love is patient and kind. Love is not jealous, it does not brag, and it is not proud. Love is not rude, is not selfish 

and does not get upset with others. Love does not count up wrongs that have been done. Love is not happy with 

evil but is happy with the truth. Love patiently accepts all things. It always trusts, always hopes, and always 

remains strong. 

1 Cor. 13:4–7

Love Your Enemy

It is far better to forgive and forget than to resent and remember.

Anonymous

It was in a church in Munich that I saw him—a balding, heavyset man in a gray overcoat, a brown felt hat clutched between his hands. People were filing out of the basement room

where I had just spoken, moving along the rows of wooden chairs to the door at the rear. It

was 1947 and I had come from Holland to defeated Germany with the message that God

forgives.

It was the truth they needed most to hear in that bitter, bombed-out land, and I gave them my

favorite mental picture. Maybe because the sea is never far from a Hollander's mind, I liked to

think that that's where forgiven sins were thrown. ''When we confess our sins," I said, "God

casts them into the deepest ocean, gone forever. And even though I cannot find a scripture for

it, I believe God then places a sign out there that says, 'NO FISHING ALLOWED.' "

The solemn faces stared back at me, not quite daring to believe. There were never questions

after a talk in Germany in 1947. People stood up in silence, in silence collected their wraps, in

silence left the room.

And that's when I saw him, working his way forward against the others. One moment I saw

the overcoat and the brown hat; the next, a blue uniform and a visored cap with its skull and

crossbones. It came back with a rush: the huge room with its harsh overhead lights; the

pathetic pile of dresses and shoes in the center of the floor; the shame of walking naked past

this man. I could see my sister's frail form ahead of me, ribs sharp beneath the parchment

skin. Betsie, how thin you were!

The place was Ravensbruck and the man who was making his way forward had been a

guard—one of the most cruel guards.

Now he was in front of me, hand thrust out: "A fine message, Fräulein! How good it is to

know that, as you say, all our sins are at the bottom of the sea!"

And I, who had spoken so glibly of forgiveness, fumbled in my pocketbook rather than take

that hand. He would not remember me, of course—how could he remember one prisoner

among those thousands of women?

But I remembered him and the leather crop swinging from his belt. I was face-to-face with

one of my captors and my blood seemed to freeze.

"You mentioned Ravensbruck in your talk," he was saying. "I was a guard there." No, he did

not remember me.

"But since that time," he went on, "I have become a Christian. I know that God has forgiven

me for the cruel things I did there, but I would like to hear it from your lips as well.

Fräulein"—again the hand came out—"will you forgive me?"

And I stood there—I whose sins had again and again needed to be forgiven—and could not

forgive. Betsie had died in that place—could he erase her slow terrible death simply for the

asking?

It could not have been many seconds that he stood there—hand held out—but to me it seemed

hours as I wrestled with the most difficult thing I had ever had to do.

For I had to do it—I knew that. The message that God forgives has a prior condition: that we

forgive those who have injured us. "If you do not forgive men their trespasses," Jesus says,

"neither will your Father in Heaven forgive your trespasses."

I knew it not only as a commandment of God, but as a daily experience. Since the end of the

war I had had a home in Holland for victims of Nazi brutality. Those who were able to forgive

their former enemies were able also to return to the outside world and rebuild their lives, no

matter what the physical scars. Those who nursed their bitterness remained invalids. It was as

simple and horrible as that.

And still I stood there with the coldness clutching my heart. But forgiveness is not an

emotion—I knew that too. Forgiveness is an act of the will, and the will can function

regardless of the temperature of the heart. Jesus, help me! I prayed silently. I can lift my hand.

I can do that much. You supply the feeling.

And so woodenly, mechanically, I thrust my hand into the one stretched out to me. And as I

did, an incredible thing took place. The current started in my shoulder, raced down my arm

and sprang into our joined hands. And then this healing warmth seemed to flood my whole

being, bringing tears to my eyes.

"I forgive you, brother." I cried. "With all my heart."

For a long moment we grasped each other's hands—the former guard and the former prisoner.

I had never known God's love so intensely as I did then. But even so, I realized it was not my

love. I had tried, and did not have the power. It was the power of the Holy Spirit as recorded

in Romans 5:5: ". . . because the love of God is shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Ghost

which is given unto us."

Corrie ten Boom