I had the privilege recently of proofreading another author's book. This was no ordinary book, indeed it was extraordinary. I felt specially selected by Providence to be so honored as to be asked to participate (in some small way) in its completion.
The volume was a collection of first-hand accounts of Holocaust Survivors. Each would rival Schindler's List, so intense and detailed were they in the telling. The collection was compiled by Belle Millo. All of the survivors eventually settled in Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada and made a new life there.
How did I happen upon such an amazing opportunity?
Two or three years ago I attended a Holocaust Symposium and I met a lovely woman who was the keynote speaker, and a survivor herself. Afterwards, I went up to meet her and encouraged her to write her story as a book -- so incredible was her account. I was sure it would be a best-seller. She took down my contact information but did not get in touch with me at that time.
She sought me out several weeks ago. She remembered me from more than two years before! She said my earnest and genuine interest was memorable because so few people react that way.
I was surprised to hear that my authentic concern and caring was rare. I mean, who could remain unmoved upon hearing about the persecution the Jewish endured? I asked myself, what in my life's experience could have caused me to have such a heart for the plight of the Jewish people?
And then I remembered.
The summer between fourth and fifth grade my family moved into a house that was just being built. I made friends with a boy that summer, his name was Ian. We were inseparable. We spent every minute together, unless we went to our respective homes for food or sleep. We rode bikes, built bike jump ramps higher and higher, climbed trees, created adventures, and played in the half-built houses all over the neighbourhood. I was such a tom-boy at that time, I doubt he even knew I was a girl. That summer holds some of my happiest memories of childhood.
Fall arrived and with it, school and cooler weather. One day Ian invited me to his home. I had never been inside his house before, had never met his family. He had a beautiful home, and I could feel the closeness of his family. I noticed some kind of wall hanging and commented on it. He told me that their family was Jewish. I had never heard of "Jewish" before. He explained that it was a nationality and a faith all in one.
I was so impressed! How cool is that to have a whole nation of people who believed the same way! What unity! What a sense of identity and purpose! Of course, I was too young and too inarticulate to express to him the fullness of my sense of awe. If our friendship had remained in tact, I have no doubt I would have converted, so needy was I for a sense of belonging.
But our friendship did not remain in tact.
The volume was a collection of first-hand accounts of Holocaust Survivors. Each would rival Schindler's List, so intense and detailed were they in the telling. The collection was compiled by Belle Millo. All of the survivors eventually settled in Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada and made a new life there.
How did I happen upon such an amazing opportunity?
Two or three years ago I attended a Holocaust Symposium and I met a lovely woman who was the keynote speaker, and a survivor herself. Afterwards, I went up to meet her and encouraged her to write her story as a book -- so incredible was her account. I was sure it would be a best-seller. She took down my contact information but did not get in touch with me at that time.
She sought me out several weeks ago. She remembered me from more than two years before! She said my earnest and genuine interest was memorable because so few people react that way.
I was surprised to hear that my authentic concern and caring was rare. I mean, who could remain unmoved upon hearing about the persecution the Jewish endured? I asked myself, what in my life's experience could have caused me to have such a heart for the plight of the Jewish people?
And then I remembered.
The summer between fourth and fifth grade my family moved into a house that was just being built. I made friends with a boy that summer, his name was Ian. We were inseparable. We spent every minute together, unless we went to our respective homes for food or sleep. We rode bikes, built bike jump ramps higher and higher, climbed trees, created adventures, and played in the half-built houses all over the neighbourhood. I was such a tom-boy at that time, I doubt he even knew I was a girl. That summer holds some of my happiest memories of childhood.
Fall arrived and with it, school and cooler weather. One day Ian invited me to his home. I had never been inside his house before, had never met his family. He had a beautiful home, and I could feel the closeness of his family. I noticed some kind of wall hanging and commented on it. He told me that their family was Jewish. I had never heard of "Jewish" before. He explained that it was a nationality and a faith all in one.
I was so impressed! How cool is that to have a whole nation of people who believed the same way! What unity! What a sense of identity and purpose! Of course, I was too young and too inarticulate to express to him the fullness of my sense of awe. If our friendship had remained in tact, I have no doubt I would have converted, so needy was I for a sense of belonging.
But our friendship did not remain in tact.
Readers: If there was anything from your childhood you could fix, what would it be?
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