Somewhere in the night there was an explsion; the dishes in the cupboard rattled. For an hour we sipped our tea and talked, until the sound of planes died away and the sky was silent. I said goodnight to Betsie at the door to Tante Jan’s rooms and groped my way up the dark stairs to my own. The fiery light was gone from the sky. I felt for my bed: there was the pillow. Then on the darkness my hand closed over something hard. Sharp too! I felt blood trickle along a finger. 

  It was a jagged piece of metal, ten inches long.

  “Betsie!” 

  I raced down the stairs with the shrapnel shard in my hand.  We went back to the dining room and stared at it in the light while Betsie bandaged my hand. “On your pillow,” she kept saying.

  “Betsie, if I hadn’t heard you in the kitchen– “

  But Betsie put a finger on my mouth. “Don’t say it, Corrie. There are no ‘ifs’ in God’s world. And no places that are safer than other places. The center of His will is our only safety — O Corrie, let us pray that we may always know it!” 

– The Hiding Place, p67 

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