Karin’S Story: My Journey Through the Wilderness

KARIN’S STORY

MY JOURNEY THROUGH THE

WILDERNESS

KARIN BECK-BEGGS

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© 2012 by Karin Beck-Beggs. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/23/2015

ISBN: 978-1-4685-9829-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-9828-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-9827-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012908160

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Printed in the United States of America

April 2012

Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version (NIV).

Table of Contents

Ch. 1. The Early Years

Ch. 2. The Directionless Years and Rescue

Ch. 3. Starting a New Life

Ch. 4. God Revealing Himself to Me

Ch. 5. Starting To Work

Ch. 6. Trips To Europe

Ch. 7. God’s Miraculous Protection

Ch. 8. The Busy Years

Ch. 9. The Family Break Up

Ch. 10. The Turning Years

Ch. 11. The Best Years

Ch. 12. The Winds of Change

To my family, including generations to come,

my friends,

and others into whose hands this story might

find its way…

As I think about sharing the events of my life,

my hope is that amidst the details,

those reading would see the evidence of God

throughout the years.

I was lost. He found me. He never let go.

I write this to honor my Savior, my Friend,

the One who is faithful

even when we are faithless.

Karin Beck-Beggs (Mormor)

Summer, 2011

Chapter 1

The Early Years

The tremendous explosions frightened all the new moms and babies in the maternity ward. Everyone was crying and screaming out, many assuming the hospital had been the target. After all the pandemonium and loud screaming subsided, the hospital staff began evacuating all the moms and newborn babies to a safe location. Soon afterwards, it was discovered that the tremendous blast was caused by the Danish underground resistance who blew up and set ablaze the Shell Oil Companies’ large fuel oil tanks, which were located just next to the hospital. Except for a few windows being blown out, the hospital wasn’t severely damaged and everyone escaped without any injuries.

This happened the day after I was born in Copenhagen, Denmark, August 23rd, 1943. My parents were a couple who decided, due to medical reasons, that they should only have one child. My father, Rudolph Beck, had been diagnosed with a serious heart problem that he developed from having a severe case of rheumatic fever and wasn’t given long to live. So, he and my mother, Ebba, together decided that they would have only one child, since that would be all my mother would be able to support if he were to die before I was raised. This all happened during a time when Denmark was occupied by the Germans for several years during part of WWII.

My father owned a small shop in Copenhagen, where he sold and repaired radios. Having a private business enabled him to participate in the underground movement to help the Jews to escape to Sweden from Nazi Germany through Denmark. He had friends in Sweden who collaborated with him in this effort, and they often met in a private room in the back of his shop where they arranged transportation for the Jews to escape from Copenhagen to Sweden. Sweden was neutral territory, and the Jews would find safe haven there. This was a very dangerous undertaking which could have led to my father’s arrest and possible imprisonment or death by the occupying German forces in Denmark. I always thought my father to be very courageous and was proud, knowing that he would sacrifice the safety of his own life to help others. My father lived until I was almost three years old, when he died from irreversible deterioration of his heart.

After my father’s death, my mother struggled to find work. In those days there were no welfare or social security programs that we could call upon for help. She had tried leaving me at a daycare facility while she was working, but I was so frightened she might disappear like my father, that I spent the entire day crying until she would pick me up in the evening. The director of the day care finally told my mom that she was concerned that I might end up with some serious social or mental issues if she continued to leave me there all day. So, my mom decided to give up the job she had and find something else she could do in her home that would provide an income. For a time, she made men’s ties and bed comforters out of her apartment home, but the money just wasn’t enough, and she continued to struggle to make ends meet for the two of us.

When I was about five years old, she was hired at a police station near our home where she would do cleaning early in the morning. During those early morning hours, because she had no other option, she had to leave me at home to care for myself. She taught me how to read the clock and showed me where the hands would be when she would return home. I was given strict instructions not to leave the apartment or answer the door until she returned. I still remember watching the clock, anxiously waiting for the hands to reach eleven o’clock.

One morning, while I was looking out the window to the street, I noticed a little boy and girl playing in the street. They were siblings and probably around four and five years old. They looked like they were having so much fun jumping in the rain puddles with their playful laughter that I wished I could go and play with them. Of course, I knew I couldn’t. So instead, I decided there was no good reason why they couldn’t come up to play with me. So, I opened the window and called down to them, asking if they would come up and play. They took me up on my invitation, and before I knew it, they were bounding up the stairs to my door. Once inside, I noticed their wet and dirty hair and decided that they needed a good shampooing. They thought that would be a good idea and complied. When I felt they were clean enough, I started to comb through their wet hair and concluded they needed a haircut, too. So, I located the scissors and began cutting. With each clip, I kept finding unequal lengths, and would cut more and more to try and even it out. The more I cut, the worse it looked, and before long, both children were crying and begging to go home. I knew I had done something terribly wrong, but there was nothing I could do to fix my mess. So, looking like they had been sheared with a butcher’s knife, I sent them on their way. I felt very bad and was sure my mom would find out. When she came home, the look on her face said it all, and I knew I was in very big trouble. Apparently, their mom was waiting for her when she arrived home from work and gave her a real tongue lashing about how naughty her daughter had been. I remember receiving a good spanking and being sent to bed.

Although I was still left to fend for myself in the mornings when my mom cleaned at the station, there were times when I was able to go with her in the afternoon when she had to return to the station. I quickly became the police officer’s favorite little girl, and they would take me next door to the candy shop and let me choose anything I wanted.

When I was six, I started traveling alone by ship and train to a town in Denmark called Svendborg to be with my grandfather and grandmother during the summers. Svendborg was located on a separate island from the one where Copenhagen was located. In my grandfather’s house lived my father’s brother and sister-in-law and their three children. I spent many wonderful hours playing with them-going to the beach, bicycling and playing in the garden. Unfortunately, what should have been a completely wonderful summer experience was marred by my grandfather’s abuse of me. He would read stories to me while I sat on his lap. As he read, I began to feel his hands going to places I knew they shouldn’t be going. I guess I was too young and intimidated to understand that he had no right to tough me in this way. In all other ways, he was very good to me. He would always have very nice meals for me, make sure I had clean clothes, and was comfortable in their home. He even took me on his route to gather large canisters of milk from the farms that he would take to the plant to be bottled. I remember many days sitting on top of the wooden flatbed cart that was pulled by two horses. These were special times and I have some wonderful memories during those times, but the sexual abuse was forever etched in my mind and greatly affected me in my developing years.

Once I was in school all day, my mother began working for a local delicatessen, and life became a little easier for us monetarily. My mother was very lonely during those years raising me by herself and, unfortunately, got involved with men who often took advantage of her. At times, they were invited to live with us because they needed a home. Quite often, they would encourage my mom to drink to excess. Her association with these boyfriends steered her down a rocky, destructive road, where there was much drinking, discord and chaos. Around the age of ten or eleven, I became very aware that I wouldn’t be able to count on my mom being there for me. She had become addicted to alcohol, and with her unstable behavior, was no longer someone I felt completely safe with or could depend on her to make good decisions. At times, I was left alone after school with my mom’s boyfriends. Again, just like my grandfather, a couple of these men began taking advantage of me sexually. One day, my mother found out what one of the men was doing. My aunt had overheard me talking about this with my cousin, and she shared it with my mom. My aunt also contacted the child protective services, and I was taken in to have an examination at a nearby clinic. I was about eleven years old at the time. While at the clinic, I was interviewed concerning what had happened to me, and I remember being very honest with them about everything. But, it was difficult for them to determine at the examination to what extent the abuse had taken place. My mother’s boyfriend was called in for interrogation about the situation, but he denied all of the accusations. It was basically his word against mine. Shortly after, my mother confronted her boyfriend, asking him to tell her the truth, and again, he denied it. I was in another room and overheard their conversation. And, so common in these kinds of situations, my mom chose to believe her boyfriend’s account over mine, and I was told that they would take me out for ice cream once I admitted I had told a lie. That was very hurtful and devastating to me and, I remember staying in my room for a very long time, debating about what to do. In the end, my love of sweets and feeling the pressure from them, I overcame any determination to stand by my word and what I knew to be true.

The betrayal and distrust caused us to grow further and further apart. That event and more drinking and the continued promiscuity created more and more distance between us. This was due both to the lack of trust I had in her as well as her inability to parent me properly, as she struggled with alcoholism. But amidst the hardship and hurt feelings, I still recall good times in my childhood. In the winter, my friends and I would spend many hours on the ice that formed over the lakes nearby our house, throwing snowballs, and just being silly girls. I loved roller-skating and was passionate about participating in gymnastics, too. My mom and I would often bicycle to the beach and spend the whole day playing in the water. As soon as we arrived