Life Interrupted

Amsterdam, Holland, The Netherlands
It seems that diaries are a thing that put a mirror to the true face of the soul. I have kept a diary since about the age of 9. I have written on and off, but find myself to be the style of a ‘documenting’ type. Recording events while adding color. I don’t want to miss a moment of time. Time matters to me so much, and if I can capture a piece of it in a bottle, and send it on it’s way, I feel purpose. I really do. 
If something can be caught, then even though it was decades ago, it can inspire the next generation to remember. To remember what it was like in all 5 senses-if not more; but also to keep lighting that fire for whatever was meaningful. Does that make sense?

When I was a girl of 12, there was one book that sort of took you through that rite of passage when you read it. It kindled a desire to be heard, to understand as we long to be understood. It was a moment you would lean in, and learn injustice, but saw how the rug laid over the world uneven and wrinkled in the corner of Europe.  It was the moment you walked onto the pages of the bridge-filled streets of Amsterdam in a cornered little Annex where the beginnings of a book called The Diary of Anne Frank was etched.

Growing up, when I was asked, "Who would you like to meet and talk to, past or present?" Anne Frank was always my curious answer.
And these past few days, as I have just walked the ‘bucket-list’ streets of Amsterdam, Holland, I have found myself at the footsteps of History.
History that also unfolded its rug to Corrie Ten Boom's jewelry shop in Harlaam. It was another piece of hidden moments spoken louder in Christian History. And as I think of it, I cannot help but breathe in long, silent aches in my spirit for this richness.

I remember walking with, and reading of Anne’s thoughts at her age, and now grieving for her in my 40’s. I didn't realize how much it would touch me again. I had forgotten the 13 year old girl I had gotten to know as a child.
Waiting in line for an hour under a rainy sky, sheltered by our umbrella, we braved the coat-wearing weather in early October and stepped into the once upon a time warehouse where dreams fell to the floor.

The book case that swung open 
Walking up those steep steps she wrote about, touching the bookcase that disguised the entrance and imagining her cries for freedom, I can’t help but want to just sit down and cry. Today.  I can’t help but think of my own girls, and the dreams I have for them…The dreams that they have for themselves.

Getting a glimpse of her writings, I can’t help but see her hope. Reading of her story before the secret Annex, you find that she was a girl just like any of us at one time. She had personality, beauty, and she had hope. She was intelligent and cheeky in school. She didn't understand, as she couldn't, why they would not be able to have the same luxuries as before, or any Other for that matter. She began to write from a place unbeknownst to many, but her diary and her vision to see and be more spoke volumes. She documented the feelings and dreams, and Hope in a post-war after-life. 

Someone had betrayed them after 25 months, and sent them eventually to their death. Only one, the Father was rescued when the war ended. And he found new vision when the lady who tended them, went in to scoop up their stuff, found the diary and gave it to her dad.  What the Gestapo felt was just rubble, we have found a rich documentation of a life that speaks still. He claims he did not know this side of Anne, but truly wanted her message to be made known to the world.
Standing in front of the Anne Frank House
Our first of 3 attempts to a very long line.
I relate to her in a lot of ways. Writing what is meaningful for the intent of the next generation is key. And even more importantly, I too have a message of hope. And I know that mine will have no further interruptions.
""Behold, I am coming quickly, and My reward is with Me, 
to give to each person according to what he has done."
Revelation 22:12


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