Wings of Refuge

  “I’m probably showing my ignorance,” Abby said as they began to eat, “but I always thought that all Palestinians were Muslims.”

  “Most are,” Ahmed said, “but there is also a small population of Palestinian Christians in Israel. Their faith in Christ dates back many centuries. Sadly, my family was not part of them. I was brought up in the Islamic faith.”

  “Tell Abby how you became a Christian,” Hannah urged.

  Ahmed laughed. “It was through the back door, you might say. My father was a gardener for a Christian church on the Mount of Olives here in Jerusalem. My grandfather had been the groundskeeper before him, and so on, all the way back to the time when the church was first founded. It was a great honor to hold this job, an honor that I, as the eldest son, would one day inherit. But I was much more interested in listening to what went on inside the mysterious sanctuary than I was in trimming shrubs and pulling weeds. And so whenever I had a chance, I cracked the door open and listened.

  “What I heard for the first time in my life was the message of God’s love. I saw His love portrayed on the crucifix in front of the church. I learned that through Christ, I could become a child of God—a new idea for me. I had been taught that to earn Allah’s favor I must follow the five pillars of Islam: believe in one God; pray five times a day; fast during the month of Ramadan; give alms to the poor; and fulfill the Haj or pilgrimage to Mecca during my lifetime. I was taught that prayer would carry me halfway to God, fasting would bring me to the door of His palace, and giving alms would gain me admission. But that was wrong. The Christian God had already thrown open the door of His palace through His Son, Jesus Christ, removing all the sin that stood in my path. To walk through, all I had to do was repent and believe.”

  Ahmed was a fascinating man to watch. He had a natural dignity and gracefulness in the way he walked and sat, and his gestures conveyed a sense of royalty. Abby had never been in the presence of princes or kings, but she could imagine none more regal than Ahmed. She saw that it had nothing to do with human pride and everything to do with the Spirit of God within him. She would have loved to hear him preach the Gospel.

  “Eventually, a very kind priest wedged the sanctuary door open for me from the other side,” Ahmed continued. “He offered to educate me for free at the school, which his religious order sponsored. This was a very difficult decision for my father to make. He knew the advantages that a Western-style education would bring me, an education that he could not afford. But he also feared that it would draw me away from the faith of my ancestors. He didn’t know, of course, that I had already been drawn to Christ by His message of grace.”

  Abby was so intrigued by Ahmed’s story that she had forgotten to eat. She took a few mouthfuls of food and let Ahmed eat some more before asking, “Was your family upset when you finally became a Christian?”

  “I am no longer their son. They mourned for me as if I had died. They no longer speak of me.”

  “That’s a very great price to pay for your faith,” Abby said.

  “Yes. But God has given me new brothers and sisters in Christ,” he said, smiling at Hannah. “I had the privilege of meeting Hannah’s daughter, Rachel, first. It was only through the great tragedy of her death that I met Hannah. . . .”

  TEL AVIV, ISRAEL—1994

  Hannah was no longer on mind-numbing medication when the handsome Arab stranger walked into her room in the rehabilitation hospital one afternoon. She knew he wasn’t an angel, but a flesh-and-blood man. A Palestinian man. Her enemy.

  “Who are you?” she demanded. “I don’t know you. Why do you keep coming here?”

  “I am Ahmed Saraj. I was a friend of your daughter. I baptized Rachel into the Christian faith.”

  “You did what?”

  “I am the pastor of the church she belonged to.”

  “Get out! Get out and don’t come back!” When he didn’t move, Hannah looked around for something to throw at him. There was nothing within reach.

  “I understand how you feel—”

  “How dare you tell me you know how I feel!” Hannah shouted. “You don’t know! It was one of your people who killed my daughter!”

  “Yes, Hannah, I do know,” Ahmed said gently. “It was one of your people who killed my wife.”

  His voice held none of the terrible rage and bitterness that Hannah knew hers did. She saw sorrow and kindness in his ebony eyes, but she walled off her heart to them. Ahmed took another step into the room.

  “When my wife’s father was dying, she went to his home in Hebron to care for him. Israeli commandos raided the wrong house, searching for terrorists. They didn’t look. They just opened fire on the occupants with their guns blazing. Nada and her father were both killed instantly.”

  His words, and the gentle, dignified way he said them, left Hannah shaken. She still wanted nothing to do with him, but when she spoke to him again it was less vehemently than before.

  “Get out, or I’ll ring for someone to come and throw you out.” She tried to wheel her chair toward the telephone, but the brake had been left on. She was too rattled to remember how to release it.

  “You wanted to know why I’ve been coming to see you,” he said.

  “I don’t care why you’ve been coming. I want you to leave!”

  “I would like to do that, but I can’t . . . I came because God told me to come.”

  “What a ridiculous thing to say!”

  Ahmed slowly walked across the room and sat in the visitor’s seat facing Hannah’s wheelchair. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees so that their eyes were level. The intensity of his gaze and the compassion in his eyes left Hannah defenseless.

  “Whenever I pray for you, Hannah, God speaks the same verse of Scripture from the Psalms to me, over and over again. ‘How priceless is your unfailing love! Both high and low among men find refuge in the shadow of your wings.’”

  Tears filled her eyes as the stranger recited Jake’s words. She hadn’t heard them spoken aloud since Rachel died. How could this man possibly have known? She covered her face and wept.

  “I knew that message was for you We can trust God’s

  unfailing love, Hannah.”

  He left her alone to grieve, but he returned the following morning. “I have come to help you with your physical therapy,” he announced. “I understand that your cousin has work he must do, and that his wife lives in Galilee. I told them I would be happy to come each day and work with you. I have had experience with such therapy before.”

  Hannah turned away from him. “I don’t want your help.”

  “I know,” he said softly, “but I will work with you just the same.” He gripped the handles of her wheelchair and released the brake.

  “We’re enemies—Jew and Arab,” Hannah said.

  Ahmed sighed. “This strategy of an eye for an eye has blinded all of us. What both of our people long for and cannot find is grace.”

  It was the first of many days that Ahmed spent with her. Once Hannah had been fitted for a prosthesis, she needed to strengthen her atrophied muscles, adjust to her new limb, practice walking.

  “This is impossible,” she wept one day after tripping for what seemed like the hundredth time. “I’ll never get the hang of this. It’s too hard.”

  Once again, Ahmed helped her up. “Rest a bit, Hannah, then we will try again.”

  “No. I quit. Why should I walk?”

  “For Rachel’s sake. Rachel loved you. She would want you to be whole.”

  “Rachel is gone, and I don’t care if I walk or not. I can lecture to my classes in a wheelchair. I won’t be excavating anymore, so why bother?”

  “You must also walk for your son-in-law’s sake.”

  “What does Ari have to do with it? He resigned from the Institute. He hasn’t even come to see me.”

  “As long as you’re in this wheelchair, you are a reminder to him of what happened. You must walk so that Ari will be able to look at you without feeling guilty, so that he ca
n forgive himself. You must go on with your life and return to archaeology so that he won’t blame himself for destroying your career. If you won’t do it for yourself, then do it for him. Rachel loved him. He is a shattered man just now, and Rachel would want him to be whole, too.”

  Hannah’s muscles slowly grew stronger. She gradually adjusted to the artificial limb. She learned to walk. Hannah also reached an uneasy truce with Ahmed. As she learned to lean on him, she also learned to trust him. He was strong when she felt weak, compassionate when grief overwhelmed her, a companion when she felt all alone. No matter how angry or depressed she became, Ahmed always returned her harsh words with gentle ones. And she also grew accustomed to his prodding lectures. He talked about the Holy One the way Jake used to do. And he talked about Yeshua the Messiah the way Rachel had.

  “Why do you still come around to annoy me now that I can walk?” Hannah asked when he showed up at her apartment one afternoon.

  “Because my job is not finished. There is something even more important than walking that you must learn.”

  “What?” she said irritably.

  “Come for a walk with me and I will tell you.”

  Hannah had papers to grade, an exam to write, lecture notes to review. She didn’t have time for games. But Ahmed had removed her jacket from the coatrack. He held it out for her to put on.

  “All right, but just to the corner deli and back,” she said, picking up her canes. “I need to buy coffee anyway. I’m all out.”

  They rode the elevator to the lobby and walked outside to a cool spring day. With its soft gray clouds and brisk damp breeze, it reminded Hannah of the day she first walked down to see the ruins of Gamla with Ben. Ahmed’s unusual solemnity made this walk seem just as momentous.

  “All right, what is it that I must learn?” she asked as she limped along.

  “You must learn to forgive.” His words hit a wounded place in Hannah’s soul like an arrow striking its mark. “You could grow a new leg,” Ahmed said, “but you still won’t be whole until you forgive. Bitterness will eat away at you until you stop living, until it destroys you. It is like pouring bitter salt water on a plant. You will slowly shrivel up and die.”

  “Did you forgive the soldiers who killed your wife?” she asked bluntly.

  “Yes. I had to, for all the same reasons. God sent someone into my life with the same message that I’m telling you.”

  “I don’t think murderers deserve to be forgiven.”

  “Murder, hatred, and vengeance are part of man’s fallen nature. In the first generation after the fall, brother killed brother. God is as sick of murder and hatred as we are, but what is He to do? Destroy us all? It’s His purpose to redeem the world.”

  Hannah looked at Ahmed in surprise. “That’s what Jake always believed.”

  They reached the tiny corner store, and Hannah pulled a pound of coffee from the shelf. After she paid for it, they headed back to her apartment.

  “I’ve lived through the same wars and conflicts that you have, Hannah, only on the other side. My people lost their freedom. My family disowned me. My wife was brutally murdered. The burden of unforgiveness that I hauled around with me was just as great as the one you carry. I was enslaved to it, crippled by it. I finally grew weary of it. Aren’t you tired of it, too?”

  Hannah didn’t answer. They reached her apartment building, and Ahmed held the door open for her. They rode the elevator in silence. When they entered her living room, he was still waiting patiently for her reply.

  “Yes,” she whispered as her tears began to fall. “Yes, I am sick of feeling this way. Tell me what to do.”

  “Add it all up, Hannah. All that they have done to you. Make an accounting of what it is that your enemies owe you. Tally the debt.” Ahmed sat with her, crying with her as she poured out all of her hatred and anger.

  “They killed Jake! They killed Rachel and my grandchild! They destroyed Ari. They stole my family, my life, my future!”

  “Now, forgiveness is this,” he said gently. “Not that you forget, not that you say what they did was all right—it wasn’t! Forgiveness is canceling that debt, tearing it up, clearing the account. Only you have the right to do it. The debt is owed to you. You might think that means they’re going free, that they’re getting away with it, and you’re right. Your enemies don’t deserve it. But when you forgive, you’ll discover that your enemies aren’t the ones who go free—you are.”

  “I can’t do it. It’s impossible. I’m not strong enough or good enough to forgive them.”

  “The only way you can find the strength to do it is by remembering that God did the same thing for you. Add up all your crimes, tally the debt you owe Him. It’s what you do every year on Yom Kippur. You come before the judgment seat of God and discover that you also deserve to die.

  “When Jesus stood in the judgment seat before the Jewish Sanhedrin, He was innocent. Yet they saw guilt and condemned Him to die. Why? How could that have happened? It was because the guilt they saw was yours. It was as if they pointed the finger of God’s justice at you, but Christ stood up in your place to die for your crimes. He became the scapegoat for you. And so God tore up the accounting of your sin. Yes, the Scriptures say, ‘He does not treat us as our sins deserve.’ That was only because of the sacrifices at the Temple. Yom Kippur balanced the accounts each year. But the blood of lambs and goats couldn’t permanently take away our sin. That’s why animals had to be sacrificed over and over again. God’s justice demands a man’s life for a man’s life. Christ was that man. Read Isaiah’s prophecy. It says, ‘He was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed.’”

  “I know I don’t deserve forgiveness,” Hannah said.

  “And your enemies don’t deserve it, either. It’s unjust. It’s unfair. But that’s the definition of grace—forgiveness that is undeserved. It always costs the giver everything and the receiver nothing. It cost God His Son. As they crucified Him, Jesus said, ‘Abba, forgive them.’”

  Hannah lowered her hands from her face and looked at Ahmed in stunned surprise. “Those were Rachel’s dying words. . . . We were talking just before the bomb exploded, and she asked me if I knew what Yeshua said as they crucified Him. She was trying to tell me the answer afterward. She said, ‘Abba, forgive them. . . .”’

  Ahmed drew her into his arms and held her tightly. “It’s very appropriate, isn’t it? Rachel wanted more than anything else to be like Jesus, to show His grace. I think she meant those words for the Palestinian bomber, too. Jesus’ disciples are to be dispensers of His grace. That’s how we bring Christ’s redemption to completion. The world will never believe in God’s grace until they see it demonstrated in our lives.”

  WEST BANK, ISRAEL—1999

  When Ahmed finished, Abby knew that his words were also meant for her. She would never be free of her anger and bitterness unless she forgave Mark.

  “Where . . . how do I start?” she asked.

  “You start by asking Christ to forgive you,” Ahmed said. “Once His Spirit lives inside you, He’ll give you the strength to forgive others.”

  “I’m not even sure I can face Mark yet.”

  “Do you want to be free from the pain and the anger?” Hannah asked.

  Abby nodded. “Yes. I’m so tired of feeling this way. I want . . . I want to feel joy again.”

  “Then forgive him, Abby. Even if absolutely nothing changes with your husband—and it probably won’t—the person who will be set free by forgiveness will be you.”

  When it was time to leave, Ahmed embraced Hannah and kissed her good-bye. Abby saw the tender love they shared. They were followers of Christ; His cross had bridged the gap between Jew and Palestinian, making them one. Canceling the debt, not settling the score, was the only solution to lasting peace with her enemies. It was Jesus’ solution.

  “God’s grace is the most powerful force in the universe, Abby,?
?? Ahmed said. “Once it is spread abroad through us, Christ’s followers, it can defeat hatred and prejudice and sin. It can even redeem mankind.”

  CHAPTER 21

  THE GOLANI HOTEL, ISRAEL—1999

  Why not start by trying to forgive Ari?” Hannah asked Abby when they returned to the hotel.

  “Should I tell him I know he’s a spy?”

  “Yes, I think so. Tell him how you found out.”

  The light was on in Ari’s bungalow. Abby could see him through the window, seated at his desk in jeans and a T-shirt, typing on his computer. She knocked on his door.

  “May I come in for a minute?”

  “Sure.” His expression was neither friendly nor wary.

  “I . . . um . . . I need to tell you something,” she said after he’d closed the door.

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  “I know you’re a government agent. I know that you were assigned to follow me . . . that you work for the same people that Ben did.” There was a long silence as Ari stared at her, his features unreadable.

  “Where did this idea come from?” he finally said.

  “Marwan showed me the car that was following me home from his house the other night. I didn’t believe him at first when he told me you were a spy. So I asked Hannah to tell me the truth . . . and she did.”

  Ari still didn’t reply. He became the cold, unfeeling secret agent she had met at the beginning of the dig, not the fervent archaeologist that had gradually emerged as they uncovered the Roman villa. She understood what Hannah had meant when she said that Ari was lost to her. Abby didn’t like this man that Ari had become, either. She wondered if her own bitterness toward Mark had changed her the same way.

  “I know it’s true because I know that Hannah wouldn’t lie to me,” Abby said. “She also told me that you’re her son-in-law.”

  He motioned for her to sit, then sat down in the desk chair across from her. He still said nothing.

  “I want you to tell me the truth,” Abby said. “Was the break-in back home part of this?”