Corrie ten Boom's Outstretched Hand

In 1947, Corrie ten Boom stood in a church basement in Munich, having just spoken about God's forgiveness to a crowd of defeated Germans. A man approached her afterward — balding, in a gray overcoat, hand thrust forward in greeting. She recognized him instantly. He had been a guard at Ravensbrück, the concentration camp where her sister Betsie had starved to death.

"You mentioned Ravensbrück," he said. "I was a guard there. But since then, I have become a Christian. I know that God has forgiven me, but I would like to hear it from your lips as well. Will you forgive me?"

Corrie froze. She later wrote that it felt like hours, though it could only have been seconds. Every memory of Betsie's hollow face, the cruel roll calls in freezing rain, the pile of shoes and clothing — all of it surged through her. Her hand stayed wooden at her side.

Then she prayed the most honest prayer of her life: "Jesus, I cannot forgive this man. Give me Your forgiveness."

She forced her hand forward. And as their fingers clasped, she described a warmth that started in her shoulder and rushed down her arm. "I forgive you, brother," she said, "with all my heart."

This is the impossible economy Jesus describes in Luke 6. Love your enemies. Do good to those who harm you. Give, and it will be given to you — pressed down, shaken together, running over. Corrie discovered that forgiveness is never something we manufacture. It is always something the Almighty pours through us when we are willing to extend the hand.