Read Online The Gathering Storm by Bodie Thoene, Brock Thoene - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Bodie Thoene, Brock Thoene
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abound even in our own dark time. The nightingale's song...eternal, unchanged. Today you have deciphered a true story about the first generation of your spiritual family. They knew Jesus. They spoke and wrote the truth. They met Jesus. Ordinary people like us heard stories from the great ones who knew our Lord and spoke with Him after He was crucified and raised from death to eternal life."
Papa paused, as if conveying a great truth. "Jesus said, if He chooses that some live until He returns as our King, then what is that to us? From the laying on of their hands, the great gifts of the Holy Spirit are passed to each new generation. True witnesses, the righteous, survive in every generation. What was in the beginning is now...and ever shall be...."
I did not fully comprehend the mystery Papa revealed, or why he had chosen that moment in my life to open my heart to something so profound. Perhaps he sensed that there would come a time when he could not share these things with me.
Time was running out.
I laid my head on my pillow that night with my thoughts swirling. Outside my window I heard the nightingale sing. Had Ruth heard the same immortal song as she gleaned the stalks of wheat in the field of Boaz? Had Mary heard these same notes on a moonlit night beside the well of Nazareth? And Mary Magdalene, as she waited by the tomb before the dawn?
I recognized some golden refrain ringing in that evening s melody that I heard. Yet I could not identify the meaning. Many years would pass and many tears fall before I would hear that song outside my window again.
Darkling, I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'dhim soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
There were times when Eben Golah did not come to the clandestine meetings in my father s study. Along with a few others, like Dietrich Bonhoeffer, he was set to the task of traveling and spreading the word of our plight in Germany.
I asked Mama if we would see Eben again.
"I think so. He is hard at work, Papa says."
"Do you know where he is?"
"Back in England, I suppose. He has influential connections with the English writers. C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien are among his friends. They are speaking and writing."
And then I asked a question that surprised me even as I spoke. "Who is Eben, Mama? Or...what is Eben?"
It seemed like minutes passed before she replied with words like a poem. "He is the nightingale. An ancient voice sings at every twilight. His song is heard more clearly in the darkness."
It is true that unrequited love can be very close to hate. I loved Eben. I hated Eben. Though Papa was oblivious to my sulky behav ior when Eben came to the house for meetings, Mama noticed my pouty looks. She made mental note of the nights when I pretended to be ill so I could retreat to my bed and pine away in the darkness.
It was a Monday night sometime after my aunt Anna, uncle Theo, cousin Elisa, and her American husband, John Murphy, had escaped to the safety of England. The Jewish Agency and my father s evangelical Christian organization were working hard to arrange Kindertransports for Jewish children. Papa had organized a meeting of Christian pastors and Jewish Agency representatives from Great Britain that had lasted most of the night. Eben was among the group. Though I did not see him, I had listened to Eben speaking through the furnace grate. I longed to tell him again how much he meant to me. I remembered Frau Helga's story of the white rose and the nightingale.
Eben's mellow, confident words were the nightingale's song. Though I thought I had put him out of my mind, I was sick with love for
Papa paused, as if conveying a great truth. "Jesus said, if He chooses that some live until He returns as our King, then what is that to us? From the laying on of their hands, the great gifts of the Holy Spirit are passed to each new generation. True witnesses, the righteous, survive in every generation. What was in the beginning is now...and ever shall be...."
I did not fully comprehend the mystery Papa revealed, or why he had chosen that moment in my life to open my heart to something so profound. Perhaps he sensed that there would come a time when he could not share these things with me.
Time was running out.
I laid my head on my pillow that night with my thoughts swirling. Outside my window I heard the nightingale sing. Had Ruth heard the same immortal song as she gleaned the stalks of wheat in the field of Boaz? Had Mary heard these same notes on a moonlit night beside the well of Nazareth? And Mary Magdalene, as she waited by the tomb before the dawn?
I recognized some golden refrain ringing in that evening s melody that I heard. Yet I could not identify the meaning. Many years would pass and many tears fall before I would hear that song outside my window again.
Darkling, I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'dhim soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
There were times when Eben Golah did not come to the clandestine meetings in my father s study. Along with a few others, like Dietrich Bonhoeffer, he was set to the task of traveling and spreading the word of our plight in Germany.
I asked Mama if we would see Eben again.
"I think so. He is hard at work, Papa says."
"Do you know where he is?"
"Back in England, I suppose. He has influential connections with the English writers. C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien are among his friends. They are speaking and writing."
And then I asked a question that surprised me even as I spoke. "Who is Eben, Mama? Or...what is Eben?"
It seemed like minutes passed before she replied with words like a poem. "He is the nightingale. An ancient voice sings at every twilight. His song is heard more clearly in the darkness."
It is true that unrequited love can be very close to hate. I loved Eben. I hated Eben. Though Papa was oblivious to my sulky behav ior when Eben came to the house for meetings, Mama noticed my pouty looks. She made mental note of the nights when I pretended to be ill so I could retreat to my bed and pine away in the darkness.
It was a Monday night sometime after my aunt Anna, uncle Theo, cousin Elisa, and her American husband, John Murphy, had escaped to the safety of England. The Jewish Agency and my father s evangelical Christian organization were working hard to arrange Kindertransports for Jewish children. Papa had organized a meeting of Christian pastors and Jewish Agency representatives from Great Britain that had lasted most of the night. Eben was among the group. Though I did not see him, I had listened to Eben speaking through the furnace grate. I longed to tell him again how much he meant to me. I remembered Frau Helga's story of the white rose and the nightingale.
Eben's mellow, confident words were the nightingale's song. Though I thought I had put him out of my mind, I was sick with love for
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