Forsaken

by James David Jordan

  “She just wants to be a college kid.”

  “We wish her all the best. Getting down to business, I understand that your experience with Kacey’s kidnapping has made you feel that you’ve been called to a different kind of ministry—one that arises from the fact that Kacey’s kidnappers were Muslims.”

  “That’s right. I’ve decided—”

  “Have you forgiven them, Simon? Kacey’s kidnappers, that is?”

  Simon put both hands around the coffee mug in front of him. “I’m doing my best. It isn’t easy. I’ve gotten to the point where I no longer want to kill them.” He smiled. “That’s progress, I guess. It’s probably better than they’re doing. I’m sure they’d still be happy enough to kill me.”

  Sylvan laughed. “One of the things I’ve always liked about you is that you seem like a regular guy. I think a lot of ministers would have come on here and said, ‘Of course I’ve forgiven them,’ when in reality I don’t know if they would have.”

  “I’m no saint, and I’ve never pretended to be. I know what God wants me to do. He wants me to forgive them. I’m trying my best to do that. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy. And just because I’m trying, it doesn’t mean I’m going to be successful immediately. Over time, I’ll get there.”

  “Do you hate them sometimes?”

  “I had hatred in my heart when this happened, you better believe it. Quite honestly, I still have those feelings from time to time. Each time I see Kacey’s missing finger I have to fight that darkness inside. You’ve got, what, two girls, Lawrence?”

  “A girl and a boy.”

  “You can imagine what it would be like if someone did something like that to one of them.”

  “A nightmare.”

  “I’m fighting it. I’m working on it. Each day it seems to get a little bit easier to think about forgiveness.”

  “I can understand how difficult that must be. I’m sorry, I interrupted you a moment ago. You were about to describe the new calling you believe you’ve received.”

  “Yes. I believe God has called me to bring the story of Jesus to Muslims, not just here in the U.S., but around the world.”

  Sylvan leaned forward. “I don’t think I have to tell you that this is likely to be a controversial calling.”

  “Maybe so, but I don’t really understand why. Muslims are free to share their beliefs with Christians everywhere in the West. It seems that it’s time for the information to move in both directions. Right now there are countries in the Middle East where handing a Bible to a Muslim can get a person thrown in jail, or worse. No one is landing in jail in the West for handing a copy of the Quran to a Christian, and they shouldn’t be.”

  In the green room Elise clapped her hands. “This is amazing. It’s the most relaxed I’ve ever seen him.”

  On the screen Sylvan tapped a pencil on the table. “I don’t pretend to be an expert on the tenets of Islam, but I think Islam takes a different view of proselytizing than Christianity does. Don’t you think we should respect that aspect of their faith?”

  Simon narrowed his eyebrows. “I’m not aware of anything in Islam that prohibits discussion and learning. In fact, some of the great civilizations of history, Muslim civilizations, were known for their commitment to education.”

  “You’re talking, though, about much more than education, aren’t you, Simon? You’re talking about converting Muslims to Christianity.”

  “Yes, and I want that to be perfectly clear. My long-term goal as a minister is to bring people to Jesus. But the first step in doing that is education. That’s all that I’m talking about at this point. I’m calling for a series of televised debates—actually, debate is probably not the right word. More like discussions. I’m asking Muslim leaders to discuss with me publicly, in a respectful, professional manner, some of the basic premises of our faiths.”

  Sylvan leaned back in his chair. “That seems straightforward enough. But you’re whistling in the wind here, aren’t you? Do you think there is any chance that any Muslim spiritual leader will take you up on this?”

  “Yes, I do. In fact, I would be surprised if this didn’t happen.” Simon folded his hands in front of him. “Sure, we all know there are radical Muslim leaders out there who aren’t willing to discuss anything with anyone. History books are full of radical Christian leaders, too, so we can’t be self-righteous. But I’m confident there are a large number of moderate leaders of Islam, both in this country and in the Middle East, who would welcome this sort of discussion.”

  “The risks may be quite a bit higher for Muslim leaders in the Middle East,” Sylvan said. “Once word got out that they were planning on traveling to the U.S. for a televised discussion of the sort you’re proposing, well, let’s just say there could be some danger involved in that.”

  “They won’t have to come to the U.S. I’ll be happy to meet them whenever and wherever.”

  Sylvan took off his glasses and pointed them at Simon. “You mean you would go to the Middle East?”

  “Yes. Anytime, anywhere.”

  “Iraq? Iran?”

  “Anytime, anywhere.”

  Sylvan put his glasses back on and chuckled. “Well, I can see where Kacey gets her guts. It’s an interesting idea, Simon. Actually, it’s so simple that I’m surprised no one of your stature has proposed it before this. We will invite some Muslim leaders to our show during the next couple of weeks and see what their reaction is. Good luck to you, sir.”

  “Thank you, Lawrence.”

  The television screen flicked to a commercial. Elise turned to me, her face suddenly pale. “If he goes through with this, he could end up dead.”

  I did a double take. Had that thought really just occurred to her for the first time? I stood up.

  “I’m afraid that’s exactly what he wants.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-FIVE

  A WEEK AFTER SIMON’S appearance on the Lawrence Sylvan show, I was sitting at my desk typing a long overdue report for a client when my cell phone rang. It was Simon.

  “Can you come by the house? I’m making some plans, and I need your input.”

  I saved the page I was typing. “What type of plans?”

  “I’m going to Michigan. I’d like to pick your brain on a few things.”

  I pulled up the Challenger Airlines flight schedule on the computer screen. “When are we going? I’ll need to arrange my schedule.”

  “You’re not going.”

  I spun my chair away from the desk. “What do you mean I’m not going? Am I fired?”

  He sighed. “Why do you always think I’m about to fire you? I’m just going alone on this trip.”

  “I’m your security chief. How can I secure you if I’m not there?”

  “That’s what we need to talk about.”

  SITTING IN THE LIVING ROOM of Simon’s house, sipping from a bottle of water, I watched him pace in front of the fireplace. I was struck again by the informality of the most formal room in his house. It really was more of a loose combination of library and study. Two deep leather chairs flanked the fireplace, and a giant sisal rug covered much of the hardwood floor in the center of the long room. There seemed to be little method to the placement of the few remaining tables and lamps, and the leather chairs didn’t go well with the cream-colored couch that faced the fireplace. It was a man’s room, apparently decorated by the man of the house. If my dad had done the decorating, the result probably would have been similar.

  Simon stopped pacing. “It’s time to start making things happen.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not going to wait around for Islam to come to me. I’m going to go to Islam. I’m starting in the U.S., in Dearborn, Michigan.”

  I crossed my leg. “You told me before that there are lots of Muslims in Dearborn. That’s great. But what are you going to do when you get there?”

  “Preach.”

  “On television? Radio? With a bullhorn? What are you planning?”

&n
bsp; “Some good old street-corner preaching. I suspect the media will find me.”

  Something brushed against the bay window in the front of the room. We turned to look. The wind had nudged a tree limb against the glass.

  I turned back to him. “You’re going to be a target for every crackpot—Christian and Muslim—who thinks he’s received a message from God. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Like I’m not already?”

  “Fair point. Does Kacey know about this?”

  “I talked to her about it last night.”

  “What does she think?”

  “Believe it or not, she’s completely in favor of it. She said that we can’t allow ourselves to be silenced by a bunch of thugs.”

  “What thugs? As far as we know, the people who kidnapped her have never even heard of Dearborn.”

  “She wasn’t talking about Dearborn.” He rested his elbow on the fireplace mantel. “She was talking about people who want to foreclose all competition in religious ideas, the ones who not only won’t listen to any other points of view themselves but who try to prevent others from listening too.”

  “She doesn’t understand the danger you’ll face.”

  “Oh, come on, Taylor. She was kidnapped, remember? Don’t you think that gives her an idea? Besides, I’ve talked to her several times in detail about the risks. She understands that if I eventually go to the Middle East, there’s going to be some danger.”

  “Did you talk about the possibility that you might get killed?”

  “We specifically talked about that.”

  “What did she say?”

  He pointed toward the doorway behind me. “Why don’t you ask her?”

  I looked over my shoulder. Kacey was standing there in an SMU Tri-Delta T-shirt, holding her backpack in one hand. “Ask me what?”

  “We were talking about my plans to go to the Middle East. Taylor asked what you thought about them.”

  “I told Dad I wanted him to go, and that I wanted to go with him.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  Simon smiled at me. “That’s one point we can agree on. Kacey is not going to the Middle East.”

  “We can’t run from these people anymore,” Kacey said. “If we want peace, we have to stand up and show some guts.”

  “You sound as if you want to fight them. That’s not your father’s point.”

  “It’s not my point, either. I just want them to play by the same rules as the rest of the civilized world. Every person is entitled to a free exchange of religious ideas and a free choice of which religion to pick. More than two hundred years after the American revolution I don’t think that’s such a radical idea, is it?”

  Simon looked at me and shrugged. “Are you going to tell me that what she’s saying doesn’t make sense?”

  Kacey threw her backpack over her shoulder and smiled. “I’d love to stay and chat about religious freedom, but I’ve got to go to class.”

  I waved and waited for her to walk out the front door, then turned back to Simon. “Okay, I heard all of that, but I’ll ask you again. Are you sure she’s okay with this?”

  “What do you think?”

  “She strikes me as a bit too matter-of-fact. She’s putting on an act for you.” A gust of wind rattled the window, and raindrops splattered on the glass.

  He put his hands in his pockets. “I agree, some of it’s an act. I’m not kidding myself. She’s frightened and she’s trying to be strong. Despite that, though, I’m convinced that she does get it. The kidnapping affected her more deeply than you know. She understands what the danger is, and she wants me to go.”

  “You know her better than I do.”

  “Don’t jump to that conclusion. Sometimes I think the first rule of parenting is that the father doesn’t know anything.”

  I smiled. “You’re being too hard on yourself. In my experience, fathers know their daughters pretty well.”

  Simon walked to the window and looked out. “I wonder if she got drenched.” He squinted through the glass. “Looks like it’s blowing more than it’s raining.”

  I jumped out of my chair. “The top is down on my car!”

  He laughed. “Do you need an umbrella?”

  I was out the door almost before he finished his sentence. The wind knocked me back a step. I lowered my head and plowed down the front walk. Grass clippings and live oak leaves peppered my head and arms. Fortunately, the raindrops were only sporadic. I hopped into the car, turned on the ignition, and pushed the button to raise the roof. As it folded into place above me, I glanced out the window. Kacey’s Civic was still in the driveway, the engine running. She was in the front seat, but the window was fogged and I couldn’t make out what she was doing.

  After the top locked into place, I opened the door and sprinted to her car. When I got to the driver’s side window, I could see that she was clutching the steering wheel, looking straight ahead. I rapped on the glass. She jerked and looked up at me. Her eyes were red and puffy. I ran around to the passenger side and got in.

  She smiled, but it was hardly convincing. “I decided to wait a few minutes to see if this would blow over.” She sniffled and wiped her face on the sleeve of her cotton top.

  “I can see you’ve been crying, so you don’t have to make small talk. What’s wrong?”

  She continued to grip the steering wheel. Outside the rain let loose, spreading out and flowing over the windshield. “Nothing.”

  “I’m not as dumb as I look, you know. Why don’t you just tell me?”

  She took her hands off the wheel and turned to face me. “I don’t want Dad to die.”

  “Oh, honey.” I put my arms around her neck and held her. Her shoulders shook. “Why don’t you tell him you don’t want him to do this?”

  She pulled away and wiped her eyes. “What am I supposed to say? ‘Dad, please think about me’? He’s already thought about me. He risked his soul for me. That’s sacrifice enough for one daughter, wouldn’t you say? I’d rather die than ask him to do it again. It’s my turn to sacrifice. If I love him, I have to let him do what he thinks he needs to do.”

  “Then I’ll tell him how you feel.”

  Her eyebrows narrowed. “No! You have to promise not to tell him a thing about this.”

  “I don’t know if I can promise you that. He needs to know.”

  “If you tell him, I’ll never speak to you again.” She wiped mascara from beneath her eyes with her fingers. “I may be only twenty, but I understand that some things are more important than how I feel. He believes that he needs to do this.”

  I squinted through the windshield. The trees in the yard were no longer swaying. “All right, I promise. But I’m still going to try to talk him out of this. I just won’t mention you.”

  “Thank you.”

  The clouds had moved over quickly. The rain slackened to a mist, and Kacey switched on her wipers. “I’ve got to get to the library. Are you going to make a run for it?”

  “I guess so. Are you all right?”

  She smiled and held up her shortened finger. “I’m tougher than you think.”

  “There’s such a thing as being too tough, you know.” I wiped her cheek with my fingers.

  She touched my hand. “Go ahead. I’m fine, really.”

  “Okay, but if you need to talk, call me.”

  “I will.”

  I took a deep breath. “Here I go!” I shoved open the door and splashed across the yard to my car.

  As I turned the key in the ignition, I watched Kacey back out of the driveway. I understood the way she felt, but I also understood something that she didn’t—what it was like to live without a father. With the course Simon was determined to take, I was afraid that she was about to learn. And I didn’t see any way that I could stop it.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-SIX

  NO ONE WAS CERTAIN how we would find out if any Muslim leader wanted to take Simon up on his debate challenge. After all, Simon didn’t even know t
he names and locations of the leaders he was challenging. As it turned out, though, the decision to go on Lawrence Sylvan’s show had been a good one.

  Two nights before Simon was to go to Dearborn, Kacey and I had one of our regular practice sessions at the gun range. We finished at 9:30 because Kacey had a party to attend. Just after she pulled away from the curb, my phone rang. It was Simon.

  “What’s up?”

  “I’m going to the Middle East. Can you come by the house?”

  “What? What happened to Dearborn?”

  “We’ll talk about it when you get here.”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes.” I flipped the phone shut and hopped in my car. When I arrived at the house, Simon and Elise met me at the front door.

  “Where in the Middle East?” I asked as I stepped into the house.

  “I’m not sure yet. The imam is from Beirut, Lebanon.”

  I’d never wanted to believe that the Middle East side of this idea would go anywhere, so when I heard those words I got a stomach ache. “What about Dearborn?”

  “Dearborn is off. I’ve been spending quite a bit of time talking to Hakim, the Chicago limo driver, in the past few weeks. His family is connected in the Christian community in Lebanon—and I mean really connected. They are apparently one of a small group of families that carry major weight over there. When Hakim explained to them what I had in mind, they were excited about it. They started working back channels. There is an imam in Beirut, highly respected and a big supporter of secular government. He saw me on the Lawrence Sylvan show and was interested. He’s taking a huge risk, but he wants to do this. By all accounts he’s a good man.”

  “Why Lebanon?” Elise said. “Why can’t he come to New York or meet you in Europe?”

  “I told you, I’m not positive it will be Lebanon. But I’m not calling the shots on that. I promised I would go anytime, anywhere. Frankly, I don’t know if the Lebanese government would even let me into the country. They’ve got plenty of other things on their plate right now without taking on something as controversial as this.”