The house had been clean under my care; under Betsie’s it glowed. She saw beauty in wood, in pattern, in color, and helped us to see it, too. The soup kettle and the coffee pot on the back of the stove, which I never seemed to find time for, were simmering again the first week Betsie took over, and soon people were pausing inside our alley door to stamp their feet and cup their hands around hot mugs, just as they had done when Mama was in charge.
Corrie ten Boom, The Hiding Place
Prose and Poetry 