Gerald N. Lund 4-In-1 Fiction eBook Bundle

by Gerald N. Lund

  “And do you agree with him?”

  “I didn’t at first, but now I think he knew me better than I did. I got so frustrated at home because I felt the pressures of everybody’s expectations—including my own. But there was something deeper than that bugging me. I know that now.”

  “Like what?”

  Brad shook his head slowly. “It is hard to explain, but I was torn. On the one hand, I felt this great need to do something, to launch my life, as it were. But on the other hand, the old goals, the former decisions were no longer acceptable. Like school, for example. Suddenly just preparing for a satisfying, good-paying job was not enough. Though I am just now coming to realize it, what I’ve been searching for is something really meaningful to do with my life, something that will require the same kind of intense commitment and wholehearted effort I’ve become used to during the past four years.” He gave Ali a long, searching look. “That is why I envy you.”

  “Me?” Ali was genuinely surprised.

  Brad picked up his paintbrush and waved it in a broad gesture. “I envy you this.”

  “What? An unpainted room with no furniture?”

  “You know what I mean. The school. A life’s work that is demanding, significant, and that absolutely enthralls you.”

  Ali finally nodded, with great soberness. “Yes. I hadn’t thought of it quite that way before, but you are right. I love it. The thought of spending the next forty years here thrill me.”

  “Exactly! That’s what I’m looking for. And Israel seems to be a good place to do it. At least for now.” He dipped his brush in the bucket and began painting again.

  Ali began painting again too, and for several minutes the room was quiet. Finally Ali spoke. “And do your plans include continuing with your guide service?”

  Brad looked up in surprise. “Yes. Why?”

  Ali’s face was a mask of bland innocence. “Oh, just wondering.”

  “All right, Khalidi. What is it you’re driving at?”

  Ali shrugged, and then, almost as an afterthought, he nonchalantly added, “I just wondered if you might have other interests in one Miriam Shadmi besides her qualifications as a guide.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Brad shot back, just a bit too quickly. “She is an excellent guide, and I want to really come to know Israel.”

  “Of course.”

  Brad let out his breath in a sigh of exasperation. “Ali, Miri is just—”

  “A very attractive young woman,” Ali cut in, finishing for him.

  “Oh, come on.”

  “And the fact that she is interested in Christianity and Mormonism throws the old missionary instincts into high gear. Right?”

  Before Brad could respond to that, Ali went on quickly. “Hey, I’m not knocking it. I think it’s great, although I don’t think you stand much of a chance of converting her.”

  “Why not?”

  Ali grinned. “That’s what I thought. You are, aren’t you?”

  “I am what?” Brad said, realizing he had just gone over to the defensive.

  “Lining her up in your missionary sights.”

  “Well, yes. I’d like to try. You ought to hear some of her questions. In fact, I want to corner President Marks after sacrament meeting tomorrow and ask him some things.”

  “Listen, my friend, I wouldn’t discourage you for a minute. I’ve told you how hard the missionaries worked on me. But compared to a Jew, a Moslem is like the man who walks up to the missionaries and begs, ‘Baptize me, oh please, baptize me.’ We don’t have two thousand years of persecution at the hands of the Christians to hang us up.”

  “I know,” Brad sighed. “But in some ways, she is so open. I’ve got to try.”

  “Absolutely. But if she doesn’t respond, then what?”

  “What do you mean, then what? If she doesn’t respond, she doesn’t respond.”

  “And no further interest?”

  “Well, we’ll be friends, of course.”

  Ali nodded soberly and went back to his work, humming softly to himself. It took a minute or two for Brad to realize that he was humming the old tune, “It Seems to Me I’ve Heard That Song Before.”

  * * * * * *

  Brad and Ali stood around after sacrament meeting, idly chatting with several students from the Brigham Young University Study Abroad program.

  Brad saw the branch president finish with his counselor and start to put his scriptures in his briefcase. “President,” Brad said, moving over to him, “do you have a minute I could chat with you?”

  “Certainly, Brad. Come into my ‘office.’ “ He motioned to the open space behind the table on which sat a homemade mini-pulpit. He pulled up a folding chair for Brad and the rickety piano bench for himself.

  The branch “chapel” was a large open room in the basement of a small hotel in East Jerusalem. The facilities were less than adequate, but both last week and this the spirit in the meetings had been remarkable. Part of it, Brad sensed, was due to the man who sat before him now.

  President Marks was a broad man in every sense of the word. Physically he was built along the lines of a touring bus. At first glance he gave an impression of obesity, but one had only to watch him move to see that flab found no place on his body. And yet he was a gentle man, radiating a kindness and sensitivity that seemed incongruous for such a large man. The previous week had been the first Sabbath in Israel for the BYU group as well as for Brad, and President Marks and his wife had been the sacrament meeting speakers. They had spoken about the land of Israel and how its destiny was interwoven with the destiny of the Latter-day Saints. Both had deeply impressed Brad. And today, in just a few brief words as he announced the sacrament hymn, he had set a mood that made the simple ordinance take on a new meaning.

  Now he watched Brad out of clear blue eyes that sparkled with a hint of humor and yet at the same time a deep sense of concern. “How can I help you?”

  “Well,” Brad said slowly, “I need to ask you a doctrinal question.”

  “Hey, listen!” President Marks chuckled. “I’m just an old Idaho potato picker. If you have doctrinal questions, we ought to get Brother Spencer over here.” Brother Spencer was the religion professor who had come as the BYU representative for the Semester Abroad program.

  “I suppose we could,” Brad said. “It’s probably a dumb question.”

  The older man’s smile broadened. “Well, now, if it’s a dumb question, maybe I can help you. In college I was real good at asking those. Fire away. If we need Brother Spencer, we’ll call him.”

  Brad took a deep breath, then let it out slowly, the frustration evident in his eyes. “What’s the best way—I mean, suppose you have a Jewish person. You think there might be a slight—very slight,” he added hastily, “chance they could be converted. What is the best way to approach it?”

  The president looked at him, his expression half thoughtful, half concerned. “That is a tough one. You know that we cannot do any active proselyting in Israel, both by the laws of the government and by the directive from President Lee. It can be done only through association when a person asks.”

  “This person is asking.”

  “About Mormonism?”

  “Not directly. Just about Christianity. But I figure she may as well get the best.”

  “True. Well, it is a special challenge. We have found that we even have to be careful of certain words we use with the Jewish people.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Their only experience is with other Christian churches, and if you know anything about their history, you know that the Christian interaction with the Jews has been pretty sordid—persecution, torture, inquisitions, massacres. They don’t find a lot in Christianity to attract them. Also, as you know, we have a special vocabulary of our own, and even take common Christian words and give them a special Mormon flavor.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, take the word saint, for example.”

  “Of course,” Brad said. “I see wh
at you mean. If a Jew were familiar with Catholic saints—”

  “Exactly. Here are a few others. Deacon, bishop, priest, stake center—they think that’s a restaurant. Talk about doing sealing work in the temple and they’ll think you’re painting the ceilings at the synagogue, which is what they call a temple. If another church converts a Jew, they turn him into a Christian. If we convert another Christian, we say that we have brought him into the house of Israel. Thus, when a Jew says gentile he means anyone not Jewish; when we say it, we mean anyone not Mormon.” The president gave a wry smile. “Try explaining to your Jewish friend that she’s really gentile and see what happens.”

  Brad considered past encounters with Miri and decided that idea could wait for awhile.

  “Do you understand what Zion and Zionism mean to an Israeli?”

  “Somewhat,” Brad replied.

  “Zionism is the name given to the movement to establish Israel as a national homeland for the Jewish people. The state of Israel has been dominated by Zionists since its beginnings. That is why you’ll often hear Arab leaders say that it is not the Jews they oppose, but the Zionists.”

  Brad nodded. “Which is a far sight different from what we mean by Zion.”

  “And that’s the point. Converting a Jew requires a whole different approach from normal missionary work. I even try to refer to Jesus as the Messiah instead of as the Christ. Messiah is the Hebrew equivalent for Christ, but it doesn’t have the same connotations in the Jewish mind.”

  “I see what you mean,” Brad said, the discouragement in his voice hard to miss.

  “But,” President Marks said, “I have two suggestions, depending on how religious and how knowledgeable she is.”

  “Not very and very,” Brad said quickly. “She says her family is not very religious, but she is a guide—that’s how I came to know her.” He stopped as he realized how true that was. “Anyway, she’s read the New Testament a lot. She says she believes Jesus was a great rabbi, but she finds the theology very illogical.”

  “Well, that could be a lot worse.”

  “So, your two suggestions are?”

  “First, if you find an appropriate moment—and I strongly suggest you heed the Spirit’s guidance as to timing—give her the Book of Mormon. Remember what the title page says.”

  Brad probed his memory.

  President Marks quoted, “It is for the convincing of Jew and Gentile that Jesus is the Christ—the Messiah.”

  “Of course,” Brad said, his voice excited. “It’s a great missionary tool.”

  “And second, use the Old Testament.”

  Brad frowned. If expertise in the Old Testament were measured on a scale of one to ten, he would have to get a very low number.

  “Once you know how to study it, the Old Testament bears powerful and consistent witness of the Savior. It is Jewish scripture. Convert them with it.”

  “But how? Give me some examples.”

  “Oh, there are hundreds. Take the Law of Moses as a case in point.” Suddenly President Marks stopped. “Listen, I’ve got a better idea. Are you busy tonight?”

  “Ali and I were going to come to the fireside, but I thought they announced that you were the speaker.”

  An apologetic grin appeared. “I am. But I haven’t prepared anything yet. And that’s my idea. Last year I made a presentation to the students called ‘The Old Testament as a Witness for Jesus Christ.’ This new group hasn’t heard it.”

  Now Brad was really enthusiastic. “That would be super!”

  “Even then I can only hit the highlights. But once you get the idea, you’ll start reading the Old Testament with a whole new pair of eyes.”

  “That’s great! Thanks, President. We’ll be there.”

  “Thank you, Brad, for giving me a topic. I’ve been worrying about it all day. See you tonight. Oh, by the way. Are you and Ali going to be able to join us for the concert tomorrow night?”

  “If you are sure you have enough tickets.”

  “We do. The Israeli Philharmonic is an outstanding orchestra. We try to get each Study Abroad group to at least one concert.”

  “Good. We’ll plan on it. We’ll meet you at the concert hall at seven-thirty.”

  Thirteen

  It was a warm summer evening in Jerusalem, with a hint of a breeze stirring the air. Brad and Ali were standing with a small group of students taking their last farewells after the concert, when Brad saw her. She had just come out of the Convention Center and stood for a moment looking around. She was wearing a dress of black voile, its square neckline and long sleeves trimmed with a narrow band of lace. Black satin heels, which matched her dress perfectly, added to the look of simple elegance. Her black hair was pulled back away from her face, accenting the fineness of her features. It was the first time Brad had seen her really dressed up, and even at this distance, she was striking. His were not the only eyes that had lifted to watch her. Half the males in the area had stopped their conversations in midsentence, much to the dismay of their companions.

  Brad stepped away from Ali and the group and started to raise his hand to wave, but he stopped abruptly and quickly rejoined his group as a tall, broad-shouldered man in a sports jacket and open-necked shirt stepped out of the doors behind her and moved to stand beside her. Much to Brad’s dismay, Miri looked up at him, smiled, and slipped her arm easily into his. When they started moving in his direction, Brad quickly turned away and pushed deeper into the group of students, afraid Miri might see him. But it was a pointless worry. It was obvious that she was not seeing much of anything else as she looked up into the tall Israeli’s face, eagerly taking in every word he was saying. Brad caught a quick burst of Miri’s husky laughter as they passed him.

  What did you expect? he chided himself. A beautiful Jewish girl who gave guided tours during the day and then retired into a convent for the evening? Forget it. But his eyes wouldn’t obey his mind; they followed as the couple moved easily through the parking lot. It didn’t help at all to see them stop at a gleaming, dark blue Porsche and have him open the door for Miri to slide in.

  Brad yanked on Ali’s arm, an idea suddenly striking him. “Let’s go!”

  Ali looked around, startled. “What?”

  “Look, can we go? Now!” The Porsche had started with a low roar and was joining the line of slow-moving cars. “I’ll explain on the way. Let’s move it!”

  The others in the group looked surprised as they said hasty goodbyes, and Brad pulled Ali into a trot, keeping one eye on the low sports car, which was making slow but steady progress toward the exit.

  “What’s the matter?” Ali asked, as Brad threw open the Volkswagen door, jumped in, and kicked the motor into life. “What’s going on?”

  “I want to see where someone is going,” Brad muttered, smacking his hand against the wheel to make the little car stop sputtering from the sudden gush of gas to the carburetor. When the engine steadied, he spun out around a passing car, narrowly missing its right front fender. The line to the exit now stretched out twenty or thirty vehicles behind the Porsche, so Brad gunned the VW out around the back of the line, then rocketed forward, darting into a place three cars behind the Porsche that was barely big enough for a medium-sized Tonka truck. The angry honk that shrieked out behind him came as close to profanity as one could achieve within the limitations of an automobile’s horn.

  “Welcome to California!” Ali breathed, his hands pressed white against the dashboard.

  “Sorry.” Brad stuck his hand out the window and gave an apologetic wave to the car behind him.

  “Just who is it you’re interested in following?” Ali asked, regaining his composure.

  “Oh,” Brad said, trying to act nonchalantly. “That dark blue Porsche in front of us.”

  “Just the Porsche? Not anyone in it?”

  “I thought I recognized someone,” Brad stalled, suddenly feeling foolish.

  “Who?” Just then the Porsche reached the street and turned right. For a brief se
cond the passenger was revealed in the glare of the streetlight, and Ali answered his own question. “Miri!”

  Brad nodded, feeling like a four-year-old who has just been caught standing over the fishbowl with a wiggling fish in his hand.

  “Is the point to catch her or run over her?”

  Brad laughed. “Good question.”

  “Who is she with?”

  “Don’t know him. A tall, good-looking dude.”

  “Oh.” Ali managed to pack more expression into that one word than most people would achieve in a twentyminute oration.

  It was Brad’s turn at the street, and he spurted out into the traffic, accelerating as rapidly as the VW could muster.

  “Tell me, Kojak,” Ali said in a deep rumbling voice, “have you done much tailing since you got into this line of work?”

  “No.”

  “Then I suggest you not get too close. Not only are you in a car distinctive in its class, but it is one that would be instantly recognized by the suspect in question, one Miriam Shadmi.”

  Brad’s foot came off the accelerator, and the motor immediately lessened its howl of protest. The taillights of the Porsche were still clearly in sight about a block ahead, but the evaporating distance between the cars steadied.

  “In addition to which, unless you fixed the right front fender, you have only one headlight.”

  Brad groaned. “That’s right!”

  “Well, short of a neon sign saying, ‘Hey guys! We’re following you,’ there’s probably not a more effective way to give away a tail. Hang back and try to keep some traffic between you and him.”

  Brad obediently followed Ali’s instructions, letting a taxi pull around between them. Then the Porsche caught a yellow traffic light and braked hard to a stop.

  “What do I do now?” Brad asked.

  “Keep the taxi in front of you and come up close behind him so it blocks you from view.”