by DiAnn Mills
“Mad?”
“Hmm, disappointed in the man who said he loved Christ in one breath and despised Muslims in the next. Your dad didn’t want to be a part of any Bible study or group that had such open prejudice. Your mom came out of the house and announced she’d had enough too. She took the car back home, and Hank and I headed for coffee.
“We drank bad coffee and talked for the next two hours. I thought we had the situation under control until I drove him home. There in my car, he broke down and cried for all the people who had been hurt by Christians. He knew I loved Jesus, knew my family hated me, knew about my plans to aid southern Sudan. Before I knew it, I was crying with him.”
Matt’s eyes clouded. “That’s my dad. What happened then?”
Paul reached for the tissue box, and the teen wiped his eyes and blew his nose. “We ended up praying for the man in the Bible study class, and both of us went to see him a few days later. I shared my testimony and told him about the atrocities going on in Sudan. To this day, he is one of my closest friends. You know him—Tom, from FTW.”
Matt’s eyes widened.
“Yes, next to your dad, he’s my best friend.” Paul took a deep breath. “If not for Hank, I wouldn’t have returned to that church.”
The teen forced a smile through watery eyes. “Thanks for telling me. I remember Dad always had time for me, no matter if I’d done something I shouldn’t or if I’d done something good. If Tim or I or Mom needed him, he stopped whatever he was doing. I want to be a dad like that someday.”
“You will be,” Paul said. “You had the best role model any son could have been given.”
Matt glanced out the window. “I guess we should tell Mom and Tim they can come inside now.”
“Good idea.” Paul patted his shoulder. “If you want, we can all tell the stories we remember best about your dad.”
Matt stood from the sofa. “Okay, I’ll get Mom and Tim. My stomach’s telling me it’s time to fill it up. What are we having to eat tonight?”
“Steak, potatoes, salad, sourdough bread, and Rosita left a double-chocolate cake in the fridge.”
“Any of her enchiladas?”
“You bet.”
Later, while Tim and Matt walked along the beach, Jackie and Paul sat outside on the deck, each with a light comforter in the chilly night air. They had shared their favorite stories about Hank, laughing and crying together until they were exhausted. Even now, Paul didn’t want the evening to end.
One of Tim’s comments during dinner replayed in his mind. “Now I understand how the families of all those people felt from 9/11. It’s not God’s fault, and yet I want to blame Him. He could have stopped those terrorists, and He could have saved Dad.”
Silence had reigned around the dinner table.
“We have all met those same emotions,” Jackie said, resting her fork beside her plate of half-eaten food. “Having someone responsible for tragedies justifies our hatred.”
“I don’t hate anyone, Mom.” Tim swallowed. “Maybe I do. I’m trying to work through Dad’s death like he would have wanted. But it’s hard. Almost too hard.”
“That’s why we have God.” Jackie reached across the table and placed her hand on his arm. “What we really hate is not people, but evil and what it does to the innocent.”
Now, as Paul reflected on the conversation, he could see and hear Hank in his family’s grieving. It should have been me, Lord. Not Hank. When one day Paul felt the embrace of his Savior, he would surely ask Him why.
“Let’s talk about you,” Jackie said, bringing his thoughts to the present. She set her coffee mug on a small table between her and Paul.
“Me?”
She gave him a “yes, you” nod like the ones he’d seen her give Tim and Matt. “Hank and I had a long discussion about you before he left. He had this speech prepared, and since he can’t deliver it—” she took a deep breath—“I will do it for him.”
Paul searched his mind for what the topic of the speech might be. When nothing surfaced, he bravely responded, remembering how Hank had always played all the possible scenarios before speaking. “Okay, curiosity has the best of me. What did Hank want to tell me?”
“He . . . we . . . are concerned that you . . . have a martyr complex.”
When Paul protested, she held up her hands in defense. “Hear me out. For Hank’s sake, I think you need to listen.”
He settled down, and she began again.
“Taking into consideration your past, your faith, and your commitment to the people of southern Sudan, you are one brave hombre,” she said, using Rosita’s description of him. “But is your dedication based on the desire to follow Christ or the desire to face a martyr’s death?”
Heat rose from Paul’s neck to his face. Conviction pressed at his heart.
“Uncross your arms, please. I know you don’t want to answer me, but please don’t tune me out,” she said.
He grudgingly consented and allowed his arms to rest at his sides. His heart drummed against his chest. “I want to help those I have hurt and the families of those I killed in the name of Islam.”
“I understand.” Jackie’s gold-brown eyes pooled. “You love Jesus and want to follow Him unashamedly.”
Paul allowed her words to rest first in his mind and then his heart. He knew how he longed to leave this world. Guilt raged through his very soul. Like the biblical Paul, much of the time he had no desire to continue living on this earth. All the good he could possibly accomplish would never make up for his sin. He had heard all the reasons why his beliefs were wrong, but they still nestled inside and ate away at him like acid.
“I don’t expect you to talk about this tonight, not with Hank’s death and all of the problems you just left behind in Sudan. But will you promise to pray about it? Will you seek God’s will before you go back and risk your life?”
“Why would God not want me to continue my work?” Paul questioned the unfair scrutiny of his ministry.
“I’m not saying He doesn’t. I’m just asking you to seek God about what you’re doing.”
“You’re questioning my motives.” Annoyance inched through him.
“I’m asking you to explore your reasons for what you do. That’s all.” The boys ambled their way. “Please, Paul, don’t be angry with me. I don’t want to lose my husband and his brother.”
He stared out at the shadows dancing off the ocean. “Okay.”
“It’s because we love you.”
At those tender words, his mood softened. He didn’t want to contemplate her request. He feared the answer.
* * *
Larson lifted the newborn baby girl from her mother’s arms, a perfectly formed picture of innocence. Nothing else symbolized life more than a mother and child as they became acquainted for the first time. Even in the torrid heat of midday with all the struggles of Sudan, Larson laughed at the infant’s squinty eyes and pursed lips.
“She’s beautiful, Hannah.”
“Thank you, Dr. Kerr. This baby is a blessing. I know God will use her for His purpose.”
“Of course.”
“When her father comes home from the army, he will be proud.”
“I can see Peter now, carrying his little daughter everywhere.” Larson slipped her finger into the baby’s palm. “Look at her, grasping my finger. She’s strong.”
Hannah fairly beamed. Perspiration beaded on her ebony face, and her eyes revealed her lack of sleep. “Her name is Lydia.”
A Bible name. She imagined Paul scooping up this precious baby into his arms and planting kisses on her round face. Larson inwardly startled. Why had Paul come to mind? They had spent only a few days together, and she would probably never see him again. Although he did say he would be coming back. She caressed Lydia’s sweet face while an image of the Arab Christian stayed fixed in her mind. Dare she hope for his return? Nyok needed a good role model—or was she thinking only of herself?
CHAPTER 13
Paul decided he would
not return to Sudan. He had endured enough. Over the past few years, he had been beaten, shot twice, threatened, almost murdered three times, and now his best friend lay in Forest Lawn Memorial Park cemetery in Malibu. The SPLA had recovered Hank’s remains and made arrangements through FTW to get him home. Finally Paul understood. Sudan could have his money, but not his life. It still had his commitment, but no longer his blood. Hank had termed Paul’s obsession with Sudan a martyr complex, and Jackie agreed. For once, he would listen to his friends, and they needed him here. His brief encounter with Larson would fade. He would stop sending and responding to her letters, and she’d soon understand he had another life.
For three weeks, he’d prayed and talked to those who offered wise counsel, and the consensus was that he should live out his days in Malibu. Tom had argued all along that Paul’s presence in Sudan was making it far too easy for his family to locate and come after him. Besides, many of those he’d tried to help distrusted him. He wrote in his journal and read back through the past narrow escapes from death. What a fool he’d been.
Jackie needed him to help put her life back in some semblance of order. She found it difficult to understand the legal aspects of her husband’s death, and sorting through his affairs left her weeping. Paul and the boys disposed of Hank’s clothes while she sat through a counseling session with their pastor. When Jackie discovered what they’d done, she withdrew into her room until the following day. Once Hank had boasted Jackie held the family together like permanent glue, but these days she could barely manage to hold herself together. She was taking life one day at a time. Supporting Jackie as she learned to cope with widowhood was the least Paul could do.
The doorbell rang, and he hobbled to answer it. Three weeks of healing, and his leg still ached from time to time, fortunately not as badly as before. Rosita said he needed patience, reminding him if God took six days to create the world, then Paul could wait the time needed for his leg to heal.
“I’ll get the door.” Rosita waddled out from the kitchen. “You rest. Besides, you pay me to take care of you.”
Paul laughed. “I pay you to mother me and fatten me up.” He swung the door open with one hand. Matt met him with a shaky smile, his long arms dangling in front of him.
“Hey, Paul. I know I should have called.” He slumped against the doorframe and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Do you have time to talk?”
“Sure, come on in.” Paul studied Matt for a moment, and the youth met his gaze head-on. A challenge of some sort radiated from Matt’s eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
“Mom.”
“Is she all right?”
“She’s depending too much on you.”
An alarm sounded in Paul’s head. “I owe her, Matt.”
“Your friendship, but not Dad’s place.”
* * *
Ben scraped the blade of his knife across Quadir’s throat. “You told me you had located the girl.”
“I thought I had.” Every pore on the slave trader’s face begged for mercy. Droplets of blood trickled down his neck. “My sources told me the girl from Warkou was found. They lied to me.”
Ben’s face twisted in rage. His fingers itched to slit the man’s throat. “What of the family’s money, Quadir?”
“I have it here.” He patted his pocket.
“What did you do with your informer?”
“I killed him, Colonel Alier.”
Ben pulled out the fistful of dinars from the slave trader’s pocket. “I promised this family I would give you 11,000 dinars for their daughter. I’m keeping this and the rest of your slave money. Every day she’s not found is a day gone from your money and your life. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Colonel.”
He pushed Quadir and smirked at his fall into the dirt. “Find her if you value your life.”
Ben watched the slave trader scramble to his feet and race into the distance. The Arab repeatedly turned to see if Ben had picked up his rifle. The frightened looks fueled his anger. Dirty, sniveling coward. Ben wouldn’t waste a bullet on him or dull his knife, unless he refused to produce Rachel.
Ben sucked back a sign of emotion. Not an hour passed that he didn’t dwell on memories of Rachel. The possibility of her death waged a private war in his mind. If his sister displayed her usual pride and stubbornness, the soldiers had already killed her. Only her beauty might save her . . . but then again, it could be the cause of her abuse or demise.
Where are you, Ben? You once pledged your devotion to Me.
The voice of the One who knew him best shook his private resolve. It wasn’t the first time Ben had met the whisper of Truth. He had no room in his life for God. Ben spit onto the sandy-colored ground. Leave me alone. It’s too late. I have a job to do. Peace and love don’t enter into it.
The voice stopped.
Rain poured from the April sky, ushering in the wet season. From now until December, those Sudanese who attempted to lead normal lives would be living in their permanent huts, reunited with nursing mothers, those who were ill, and the aged they had left behind. The cattle couldn’t graze in the swamps for fear they would contract hoof disease. For hundreds of years, the lives of the southern Sudanese had centered on the care of their cattle. These people deserved to have their way of life restored. All they wanted was an opportunity to live as their ancestors had and to worship as they desired.
Weariness settled on Ben, a familiar condition, but not one he savored. Every muscle and bone ached as though his body were a mass of bruises. He craved sleep and a decent meal, but so did every SPLA soldier. The deprivations succeeded in making them all meaner and more determined to rid their beloved homeland of the hated GOS. Every struggle prepared them for the next one.
Ben had begun to glory in the sight of the enemy’s blood. Let it spill until it filled the streams and flooded the banks of the Nile. Perhaps then Khartoum would retreat and leave his people in peace.
* * *
Another week passed, and Paul resorted to taking one morning call from Jackie. He no longer made daily visits to check on her. More and more his thoughts touched on Larson and Nyok. He hadn’t stopped writing her, and he read and reread her letters. Rachel hadn’t been restored to her family. Paul even considered Ben and his infamous temper. His prayers became incessant for those he’d come to know and care about. As strange as it sounded, Matt’s visit had freed Paul. The youth had pointed out Jackie’s increasing reliance upon Paul and the dangerous road that lay ahead if he allowed it to continue. Jackie had specific steps to go through in the grieving process: shock, longing, depression, acceptance, and recovery. Currently, she teetered between shock and longing. While outwardly she appeared well into recovery, her sons and Paul saw the despair. She had a wise Counselor, and by Paul’s stepping back, she would be forced to turn to Him and not to another man.
Paul sat on his deck and allowed the ocean sounds to relax his body and soul. He’d picked up the mail but had yet to sort through it. Glancing down, he saw a letter from Larson. With the eagerness of a kid, he slowly read.
Dear Paul,
As an Ohio native, my memories of trips to California consist of beautiful weather and water. I hope you are not far from a beach.
Nothing here has changed. Each day is much as the day before. I delivered a beautiful baby girl to Hannah. Perhaps you remember her. She promptly named the baby Lydia, and Hannah claims as soon as the war is over, she intends to clothe her daughter in purple. I believe that is a reference to something in your Bible.
Ben has not been here. I received word today of fighting and some victories. I also hear he has become more ruthless with the enemy and those he feels are informers. I know his fury is due to Rachel’s abduction. In the past he did his best to share Christianity with those he captured. The slave traders haven’t been able to locate Rachel, and I am more and more fearful about her fate.
You obviously made a positive impact on Nyok’s life because not a day passe
s that he doesn’t speak about you. I wish he wasn’t filled with such bitterness. Even if I felt like relaying his tragic story, I couldn’t begin to share the depth of his emotions. Neither do I know its entirety. Unfortunately he attempts to disguise his pain with his status as warrior-protector. In short, he wants to join the SPLA, and Ben encourages it every time he’s here.
I’m sure you’re familiar with the child soldiers, for both the North and South utilize them in their armies despite the fact the practice is forbidden by the United Nations. You know how I care about Nyok, and now with Rachel gone, I can’t bear the thought of losing him in this horrible war. My dreams are for Nyok to obtain a good education. He’s so very intelligent with insight far beyond his years. This could be accomplished in Kakuma, Kenya, at the refugee camp. I know the conditions there are not good, with the shortages of food, drinking water, and medical provisions, but I do believe it’s a better place than here. What I’m asking is this: I’ve already written Kakuma to see if anyone could take over parenting him. I don’t want him in a potentially harmful atmosphere. When I mentioned this to Nyok, he was very upset. He refuses to listen to reason about joining up with Ben. Do you have time to write Nyok a letter that might possibly dissuade him from taking up arms for the SPLA?
If this is impossible for you, I understand, but I did want to pose the question.
Larson
Paul read Larson’s letter three times. He continued to let it rest in the palm of his hand as though the contents might disappear and he would forget her words. She slipped into his mind when he least expected it. Paul wrestled with the decision to leave Sudan behind him. He hadn’t really consulted God. He’d simply decided all the signs indicated he should stay stateside. How wrong he’d been not to consult Him about the future. Paul didn’t want to be out of God’s will or continue in a downward spiral away from His purpose.
He reached for his Bible and read through underscored passages from Psalms and Isaiah, many of which he had memorized. The phone rang, and he ignored it. He thought about the easy life in California. All he needed to do was write checks, and he could instruct his accountant to handle those matters. He could soak up the sun and listen to the waves crashing against the shore for as long as he lived. If boredom overtook him, he could travel to any vacation spot that struck his fancy. If he desired to step out of the realm of God’s will, he could buy all the “wine, women, and song” the world had to offer. In short, Paul possessed the money to do whatever he pleased.
