The Gathering Storm by Bodie Thoene, Brock Thoene Page B
Authors: Bodie Thoene, Brock Thoene
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have no choice but to leave the Reich, or they will not survive. This is not a new evil, but it is perhaps the most violent assault against Jews since Jerusalem fell beneath the boots of Rome. I'm doing everything I can to find a way of escape to England for my Hebrew brothers and sisters."
Papa's voice was deep and confident when he answered. "God declared to Israel, in Genesis chapter 12: 'I will bless those who bless you. And those who curse you I will curse.' Neither the church nor the nation will stand if we turn our back on such a promise...God's Covenant may not be disregarded. This is how we know National Socialism is the darkest and most ancient evil."
Mr. Kepler answered, "If my son is beaten nearly to death, and my wife is refused service by the neighborhood baker, the Covenant won't save me. Germany will eventually fall in disgrace for what it has done, but I must seek refuge for my family before we're swept away as well."
Varrick nodded at his father's words and said to me, "So, you see, Lora, we must go away. Not because we're cowards, but because we must live to fight against this on another front. Germany is lost."
"I understand. I'll miss you." I felt very grown up in that moment. The friend I admired with all my heart would be leaving for some distant haven. I did not like growing up so suddenly. I asked God in my heart, Why must we know so much?
God answered me with a thought. Just as a young David faced Goliath, the youth who follow Christ are compelled by the apathy of the world to carry heavy burdens and fight great battles.
I said to Varrick, "Christ the Savior is born.... Greater is He who is in you, than he who is in the world. 1 I'll pray that the Lord will help you find a way of escape."
"And you? Back to Brussels? Or America?"
"I'm not afraid for myself. But I don't want to stay in a nation where children of Abraham are not welcome."
He took my hand in his and brushed my fingers with his lips. "Then it's indeed a happy Christmas, Lora Bittick."
1 See 1 John 4:4.
Eben was polite but cool to me when he met with Papa. His reserve broke my heart. "Why does Eben Golah come here so often?" I asked Papa after one such visit. I knew Papa heard the resentment in my voice. I do not doubt that he understood the true reason I was so angry when Eben came to talk all night: my adolescent infatuation with him, my childish resentment of his indifference.
"History holds the truth. It must not be forgotten. He is a man who brings us gifts from a distant place." Papa passed the bread and then the butter. He looked away from meeting my gaze in such a way that I recognized he knew a secret he would never share.
I assumed Eben was a messenger who delivered some financial support for our family and the ministry.
I said no more about it but ate my supper in sullen silence.
The next morning my studies were laid out on the dining table like a banquet. The volume of John Keats' poetry had been my favorite since our summer in Switzerland. Among all his poems, I most cherished "Ode to a Nightingale," which was strangely linked in my heart to my love for Eben Golah.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Frau Helga had spoken of the nightingale's love for the white rose. I imagined Eben was the nightingale singing the same unchanging song through the ages. Keats' poetry was too beautiful to ever be rendered into the harsh Germanic tongue. I whispered it aloud, pronouncing it as it might have been read by Keats on Hampstead Heath, where he first wrote it.
Papa interrupted my adolescent reverie when he brought me a tattered volume
Papa's voice was deep and confident when he answered. "God declared to Israel, in Genesis chapter 12: 'I will bless those who bless you. And those who curse you I will curse.' Neither the church nor the nation will stand if we turn our back on such a promise...God's Covenant may not be disregarded. This is how we know National Socialism is the darkest and most ancient evil."
Mr. Kepler answered, "If my son is beaten nearly to death, and my wife is refused service by the neighborhood baker, the Covenant won't save me. Germany will eventually fall in disgrace for what it has done, but I must seek refuge for my family before we're swept away as well."
Varrick nodded at his father's words and said to me, "So, you see, Lora, we must go away. Not because we're cowards, but because we must live to fight against this on another front. Germany is lost."
"I understand. I'll miss you." I felt very grown up in that moment. The friend I admired with all my heart would be leaving for some distant haven. I did not like growing up so suddenly. I asked God in my heart, Why must we know so much?
God answered me with a thought. Just as a young David faced Goliath, the youth who follow Christ are compelled by the apathy of the world to carry heavy burdens and fight great battles.
I said to Varrick, "Christ the Savior is born.... Greater is He who is in you, than he who is in the world. 1 I'll pray that the Lord will help you find a way of escape."
"And you? Back to Brussels? Or America?"
"I'm not afraid for myself. But I don't want to stay in a nation where children of Abraham are not welcome."
He took my hand in his and brushed my fingers with his lips. "Then it's indeed a happy Christmas, Lora Bittick."
1 See 1 John 4:4.
Eben was polite but cool to me when he met with Papa. His reserve broke my heart. "Why does Eben Golah come here so often?" I asked Papa after one such visit. I knew Papa heard the resentment in my voice. I do not doubt that he understood the true reason I was so angry when Eben came to talk all night: my adolescent infatuation with him, my childish resentment of his indifference.
"History holds the truth. It must not be forgotten. He is a man who brings us gifts from a distant place." Papa passed the bread and then the butter. He looked away from meeting my gaze in such a way that I recognized he knew a secret he would never share.
I assumed Eben was a messenger who delivered some financial support for our family and the ministry.
I said no more about it but ate my supper in sullen silence.
The next morning my studies were laid out on the dining table like a banquet. The volume of John Keats' poetry had been my favorite since our summer in Switzerland. Among all his poems, I most cherished "Ode to a Nightingale," which was strangely linked in my heart to my love for Eben Golah.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Frau Helga had spoken of the nightingale's love for the white rose. I imagined Eben was the nightingale singing the same unchanging song through the ages. Keats' poetry was too beautiful to ever be rendered into the harsh Germanic tongue. I whispered it aloud, pronouncing it as it might have been read by Keats on Hampstead Heath, where he first wrote it.
Papa interrupted my adolescent reverie when he brought me a tattered volume
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