Dignity

Mohammed Hamdan died the other day, less than a week after returning to the Gaza strip to be near to his family as he went. The quickness in which his condition deteriorated once at home was much more rapid than we expected. It took several weeks to prepare to take him home. The 28 medications he was on needed to be changed to those available in the Gaza Strip, and he was taken off of the ones with a narcotic effect, and arrangements for direct ambulance transport needed to be arranged. His last day at the hospital was spend making sure all of his meds were in order, saying goodbye to everyone in the hospital, and the most surprising thing: making him human.

The appearance of Mohammed in the ICU has been that of a corpse, blue and nearly bloated beyond recognition. The ICU patients lay there nearly naked like cadavers, with various parts missing and instruments plugged into them; a cable from the skull, amputations and black extremities, IV holes and chest wounds which do not heal. So gruesome that when they look up at you or cry for their mother you are startled that what is before you really is alive, it’s not some sick plastic doll or horror movie prop.

But, because he was not on certain drugs the day he left, he looked like a little boy. His mother bought him a new set of clothes for the journey back home. It was not until after I had dressed him that I realized that in the 5 months he has been here I had not once seen him wearing clothes. There, seated before me, was a human being. It was surprising to me how much a little normalcy and dignity go in making the weak and helpless endlessly more human.


I have often felt guilty for giving up hope on Mohammed Hamdan, so much effort is put into sustaining him and there was so little chance that he would survive, and I found myself put to shame by most of the doctors who faithfully assessed him every day and treated him like any other patient. I would always pray for him, for his mother, and the situation surrounding them but I always struggled to get specific. I still do not know if it is right to pray that a child might die in this circumstance, that their suffering would end, that it would just be finished. To think of him as the moving cadaver in the ICU or the little boy dressed his finest to go home adds much to the question.

Riots on the Streets of Jerusalem

I try to avoid posting political stuff as much as possible, but I feel that sharing this story is valuable in helping those who are not in Israel understand just how different the political arena is here, and why it is perhaps so difficult to convey the complexities of it to someone without the same exposure to it. So rather than stating an opinion or taking a side on anything, I just hope to convey, it is different.

Last week, there were circling helicopters, streets blocked offed for a kilometer around, and 6 police officers injured by stones thrown by Haredi Jews who gathered in the thousands at Jerusalem city hall. There were two squad cars blocking the street right in front of Shevet, the city hall is only a good stones throw away (pun intended).

Why were they rioting? Because the city hall decided to open its parking lot on Saturdays of course!

Here are some links to articles about it:
Jerusalem Post 1
Jerusalem Post 2
Haaretz

Schnitzel Baguette and a Liter of Coca-Cola

It was a few days ago now during my rush to get things done in the hospital that Mohammed Hamdan’s mother approached me at around 2 o’clock (we refer to the mothers of patients as Im (Arabic) or Um (Kurdish) followed by their child’s name). Im Mohammed has been in the hospital now with her son for about 5 months, so we have gotten to know each other fairly well. She has also apparently gotten used to the often frantic nature of my routine and recognized that if I was still running around at 2 o’clock that I probably hadn’t eaten. When I finally got a chance to sit down, she walked into the room with a foot long schnitzel baguette and a liter bottle of Coca-Cola from the hospital mall, just for me. This was an incredible gesture, most people in Gaza live in poverty and here she had spent close to $10 US on me for lunch. This was one of the most powerful gestures anyone has done for me since I’ve been here. Afterward I found out that one of our Iraqi patients of about 9-years-old, who I was helping in the hospital that day, didn't understand and confronted her about why she would buy food for me, she responded by scolding him saying "because he is a good man!"

The doctor’s have exhausted all options to save Mohammed. After his first heart surgery he needed to get strong enough to undergo a second surgery, and he simply has not gotten any stronger. The doctors have just been waiting for him to become stable in his present condition to be transferred to a hospital in Gaza where, in all likelihood, he will not live long. Mohammed and his mother will likely travel either Sunday or Monday back to Gaza, please keep them in your prayers.

Sometimes our Gaza families get left out of some opportunities we have to minister to and connect with our patients because they are not legally allowed to leave the hospital grounds, while our Iraqi families actually live in the same building with us. So a couple days before I left for Jordan, when the rest of the staff were starting a picnic with the Iraqis on the hospital lawn, I ran through the hospital ward collecting the Palestinian mothers and their kids to join us. They were very grateful to be included, and once again made a bit of a scene having an entourage of half a dozen Palestinian women following behind me as I showed them the way.

Back Home Safe from the Jordan Screening

All the families made it across into Jordan; I had faith that they would, but it would have been quite a feat by earthly standards. 60 people without visas, crossing a militarized border, it's just unheard of. Not only was everyone allowed to cross, but the border guard brought our Jordan coordinator a gourmet coffee while he waited,..wow.

To recap, the screening in Jordan is done once a year for the potential Iraqi patients. Jordan is more or less a neutral ground. We coordinate the entire trip and get them to Amman to be screened by an Israeli cardiologist who determines if and when a surgery is necessary or possible for each child.

Read all about the screening here: http://shevet.org/screening/

As for my personal involvement, I drove to the border from Jerusalem with the rest of the staff in tow at around 6:30 Monday morning, made good time to the border, and even better getting through (not having a bunch of Iraqi's with you helps). We made it to Amman in time to drop our stuff off where we would be sleeping and get to the screening site in a very nice modern church. We spent the evening briefing the families on what would be happening, sharing some encouraging words, meeting them, eating a meal together with them all, and prepping the facility for the screening in the morning.

We made it back to the place we were staying around 11pm and went straight to bed for the big day which would begin at 5:45am for me. I couldn't get to sleep because of the combination of heat and tormenting mosquitoes; my options were to sleep uncovered and be eaten alive, or cover my whole body and sweat out the night. I chose the latter, and found myself finally dozing around 2:30am when the air finally cooled. Needless to say it was a rough start getting going on the big day.

My duties involved doing all the photo documentation for each child so we would have something better than a lineup photo to present to potential sponsors, as well as pacifying/entertaining the families while they waited (usually hours) to be seen. This was no easy task given the number of children with separate handicaps, including violent behavioral issues and mental retardation. Despite this I managed to create some meaningful bonds with many of the children.

We finished the screening at around 1am on Wednesday, about 19 hours of consecutive work later. I've worked exceedingly long days before, but the amount of energy required for this, in addition to the lack of sleep, countless nagging bug bites (I'd estimate around 30), and a spontaneous fit of allergies that had me blowing my nose every 10 minutes for 15 hours, made it pretty grueling. It was all worth it in the end. 21 children were invited to surgery in Israel, as well as another 3 that are possibly savable, 4 children who need no surgery, and 3 were found to have no medical hope for treatment. We should have 5 with us in Israel within a couple weeks.

Wednesday was nearly as long as the Tuesday screening. Wednesday we collected all the families at their hotel, informed them of when they would be coming to Israel, and got them all packed and off to the airport once again. I spent a few precious hours playing with the children, and praying for the terminal ones, before seeing them off. After finishing the remaining work, and packing everything up, we left for home and made it back to Jerusalem around 1am Thursday.

Since I was the photographer, I have all the pictures of the children at the screening cataloged and named here for you. Just click below, and please keep them in your prayers.

Jordan Screening 2009

Something Urgent to Pray for

What do you do when you have 62 impoverished Iraqis, half of whom may be deathly ill, with non-refundable plane tickets, flying into Jordan when they have not yet received a visa to be there, and need to be allowed into the country in order to receive evaluation and treatment, which unless received could spell their death in mere days?

I’ll let you know Monday…

A More Casual Note

My best friends at the moment are (in this order more or less):

• A very accomplished 2,013 to 2,015-year-old Jewish Rabbi (proud to call him friend)
  
  
• A woman who shared the awkward gift and task of being 7,000 miles away and also being the one whom I happen to be in love with
  
  
• A mentally challenged middle-aged Arab Christian man
  
  
• An emaciated 17-year-old Kurdish young man
  
  
• Half a dozen conservative Muslim mothers
  

Newsletter 5-20-09 Available for Download

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Crossing Jordan

I spend a lot of time waiting in this work; anxiously is an adjective that can typically accompany it. Now is not a particularly anxious waiting, I am sitting at the Beit Shean border crossing waiting for our Iraq coordinator to come across with his wife and her family. I anticipate them being held up perhaps not for having an Iraqi with them but for Americans to be living in and/or traveling from Iraq. But, I am sitting at the other end of the border and can say with a sigh of relief that for once this isn’t my problem. So I'm sitting here, and too under the weather to study, so I will write.

I haven’t had time to blog or send a newsletter out (working on it) due in large part because my responsibilities have been amped up, due both to necessity as well as to, at least what I'm told, is a confidence in my abilities. A few, couple,… time flies, it’s hard to remember, weeks ago was a test of this, when, on my own, I escorted two of our Iraqi patients Rasan and Bruska, and their mothers across this same border and delivered them safely to our Shevet house in Kerak, Jordan. The ordeal began about 7am and ended at 7…8…9 at night when we arrived at the Kerak house and got everything unloaded.

“Bureaucratic nightmare” is a term that continually comes to mind when talking about getting across these borders. There are perhaps a dozen windows to deal with to get into the Israel border itself, then the Israel border, then at the Jordan side, then getting out of the Jordan border. Vehicle wise, after a two hour drive from Jerusalem to Beit Shean one must get permission to bring their vehicle into the border to unload luggage (a particularly obscene amount in this case because Sheilan, mother of Rasan, had been in Israel for nearly a full year), then must park their vehicle outside the border after again securing permission to take the vehicle out of the border into Israel.

From there we go through Israel customs, get the usual confused looks as to why a young American man is taking two Iraqi women and their children into Jordan. All our paperwork is in order though so they haven’t stopped us yet…even though some of the Iraqis visas are months overdue by the time they leave. Saying something to the effect of “they were in the hospital having open-heart surgery they couldn’t make it to the visas office” has sufficed so far.

Then all the luggage and people must be loaded onto a bus which travels perhaps 200 yards across the Jordan River and into the Jordan border. Everything must then be unloaded from the bus where the Jordan border customs nightmare begins; every bag x-rayed, opened, every passport examined, visas issues, etc. Once all that is finished one must take a taxi from the Jordan border about a quarter mile to where the Jordan ends. We had to take 3 taxis to fit all the luggage. From there we all piled into another taxi which then drives to Kerak. I haven’t even gotten to going the other way from Jordan back into Israel. An American with 4 Iraqis leaving Israel isn’t so bad, but coming in security is much tighter, and in my experience, involves some kind of interrogation, intimidation, even with all the paper work in order.

The scenery on the ride to Kerak was beautiful, passing through the rolling hills east of the Jordan which would have belonged to the tribe of Gad, then hugging the Dead Sea for its length, then climbing up through a parched gorge of sedimentary salt rock and potash which finally reached Kerak in what would have been Moabite country. Our taxi driver was an interesting character, a believer, very friendly and kind, made the ride very pleasant and interesting. On the long drive we listened to a sermon (English being translated into Arabic), he helped me work on my Arabic, and when we arrived at the Shevet house in Kerak he stayed for dinner. There is a pretty impressive Crusader castle in Kerak, but unfortunately I was too busy to go to it, maybe next time. I noticed driving on the way to Kerak and in the markets in Amman there is a communal atmosphere there that is worthy of envy. At dinner time, all the roads are lined with people picnicking, perhaps more so given that it was a Friday but this is the cultural norm.

The stay in Jordan from Friday until Monday was nearly nonstop work. After getting through the border Friday, Saturday was another four hour drive from Kerak to Amman to get Rasan, Bruska and their moms on a plane for Iraq. The details aren’t especially interesting. This was one of the more difficult goodbyes, Sheilan had been with us so long she was nearly promoted to staff, she was here when I first arrived and everyone has watched Rasan both be healed through his multiple surgeries and also grow and develop like the joy a father must have watching a son learn to recognize them, learn their first words, learn how to clap and hold your hand. Bruska was also a difficult goodbye. She was an emergency case that probably would have died if we waited even a day longer to bring her. She had surgery immediately and was put into a medically induced coma afterward. From the time she was released from the hospital until she got on the plane home to Iraq I was largely responsible for getting her to all her appointments and I spent a great deal of time playing with her and getting her to do her exercises to combat the cerebral palsy from which she now suffers likely due to the lack of oxygen to her brain because of her heart condition. We made all of her exercises into games and she would often begin doing them spontaneously whenever I came around because she enjoyed doing them with me so much. After doing the exercises for a few minutes she would be laughing hysterically and could keep going long after I was exhausted. I made sure to do them with her on Friday night one last time before she left. There was so much about her that tugged on my heart, it was difficult to see her go.

The rest of the weekend was spent running errands like buying live chickens in the market where I observed that every man selling his wares who saw a child walking past would pat them on the head and say hello, the communal love for children was pleasantly conspicuous. More errands, carrying and chasing our Jordan coordinators children around (easily the most exhausting), and dropping off a baby crib to a mother in one of the Amman slums; but there were a couple moments that were at least somewhat recuperative. I ate some delicious American style pizza, which you essentially cannot get in Israel because of kosher rules and a lack of American brands. Also, in the midst of running back and forth across Amman I was able to stop in one of their large Western malls for about 15 minutes to go to Starbucks. There are no Starbucks’ in Israel, so I got the largest coffee I could buy and relaxed just long enough to enjoy it.



At any rate, I successfully managed the entire process. Got them there and on their way to Iraq, and brought two new Iraqi children, Mohammed and Hamza, now in Jerusalem, here for heart surgeries.

Ala'a's Progress

Ala’a was a little girl I brought across from Israel to Jordan on her way home during the first week I was in Israel. We had to take her to the border by ambulance, and I wheeled her weak little body through the border in a wheelchair, all the while hooked up to an oxygen tank I had jury-rigged to her chair. I remember especially carrying the 75lb oxygen generator machine through the border which she would need in Iraq, and having it inspected by every supervisor and their supervisor to make sure it wasn’t a bomb. Special arrangements had to be made with the airline for the plane from Jordan to Iraq because they feared liability if she died on the flight. I avoided asking the other staff much about her because from the look of her she was a failed case. One of the children on whom the surgery hadn’t been successful and who would now have to be connected to a machine for the rest of their life. I felt too sorry for her at the border to take a picture of her directly; she was so frail and weak, but so sweet and happy in spite of it all. As we were crossing the Jordan river on the border bus, a great flock of cranes took flight from the bridge out over the river, just behind Ala’a.

A couple weeks ago some of our staff visited her and her family in their home in Iraq. They took this footage of her. She is up and walking around, and was strong enough to serve them tea and chocolate. The family has sold the wheelchair and she now only needs to be on oxygen at night when she sleeps. I could hardly believe my eyes, every time I look at this video of her I can barely believe what I'm watching. Seeing the video myself helped me imagine what it would be like to be one of the characters in John 9 who struggle to make sense of the blind man’s healing. Praise the Lord for the life of Ala’a.

Dancing with the "Enemy"

Mohammed celebrated his 9th birthday today with us in Jerusalem. After a pleasant dinner with all the Shevet Achim staff and Hamza and family we decided to walk down the street to the local gelato ice cream shop. As we approached he shouted in English, “ice cream!” Once inside his face was nearly pressed against the glass trying to see all the flavors; he decided on a chocolate cone. By the time everyone was collected to sing Happy Birthday he had nearly consumed his entire ice cream. Mohammed climbed a stool as tall as he was, and all the Shevet staff and our Iraqi guests sang Happy Birthday to him.

While we were eating we heard some music playing across the street and noticed several people dancing, so we all decided to go over to see what the commotion was about. It turned out to be a number of Orthodox Jewish men dancing to some Hebrew music, a sight the Iraqis had certainly not seen before. After a few minutes of watching and some encouragement, Mohammed, defying any appearances of any heart difficulty, ran in and began to dance with them. In a few moments time he took the hands of one of the Jewish men and they began dancing together. It is not every day you hear about Israeli Orthodox Jews and Iraqi Muslims dancing together in the streets, but this child, when spinning in circles with this man was not weighed down with any of the thoughts that perhaps enter our minds. Instead, Mohammed took flight in the arms of a supposed enemy and thought to do nothing but smile and laugh.



Mohammed's father was told that his son's heart condition was inoperable, and it will kill Mohammed at any moment. He went to both Turkey and Iran, and the hospital that was supposed to take him here in Israel all said the surgery was too dangerous. However, through our connections, we were able to have a doctor at another hospital here perform an exploratory surgery today to see if they think he is operable. When the surgeons immerged they said, "...we can do it." this will be a high risk surgery, if it fails at any level, it will be fatal, if he does not get the surgery, it will be fatal. Please pray for Mohammed.

Just a Reminder

Even when the postings on my personal blog are sparse, its likely because I'm so busy, one of the causes of which is ...well, writing more blogs. Check the childrens' pages here, for plenty more material I am writing: http://www.shevet.org/childrennowinisrael.html

The Journey to Akram's Surgery

We brought Akram to Wolfson Medical Center in Tel Aviv today to be admitted for his first surgery which is scheduled for Tuesday morning. Before we left Jerusalem Akram had a host of visitors and staff pray over him which was fitting after the spiritual journey Akram has undertaken the past few days along with the arduous physical journey that is well underway.

Akram will be kept in the hospital for at least 2 weeks and up to 1 month after this surgery, so yesterday, rather than spending his last day of freedom cooped up inside I took him and his mother out for a little day trip. We stopped at a vista that looked out over the village of En Kerem, a small town bordering Jerusalem. Akram’s mother enjoyed the view and the flowers, Akram preferred a more fitting teenager activity: appropriating an unattended garden hose and spraying the countryside (and his mom and I just a little).
We then entered En Kerem, where we visited a church on the site of St. John the Baptist’s birth. Akram and his mother enjoyed the church very much, taking time to reflect and pray, as well as appreciating the architecture, stained glass, renaissance paintings, marble work, and iconography found about the sanctuary. After hearing of Akram’s journey thus far the Franciscan monk caretaker offered to have Akram blessed by the deacon. Akram was excited to receive a blessing, but I was disappointed that Akram wouldn’t be able to understand a blessing done in English. To my surprise, after sharing my concern with the deacon, he switched to speaking Arabic without missing a beat and blessed Akram and prayed over him for his surgeries.

Akram had requested visiting The Garden Tomb, an alternative resurrection site for Jesus which is in a beautiful garden; so this morning after saying goodbye to everyone at the Shevet house we stopped by The Garden Tomb on the way to the hospital. Akram and his mother enjoyed wandering the garden, the calmness of which markedly contrasted the impending surgery. After asking Donna about a stone pulpit at the site, and grasping what it was, Akram requested I deliver an impromptu sermon, to which I insisted we read the Scriptures provided in the pamphlet together; he happily obliged. All around there was life springing up, flowers even sprouting out of split rocks. I found this to be not only a beautiful metaphor for the resurrection of Jesus, but for Akram as well, his incredible journey so far and the tremendous pain and difficulty he must undergo for what we believe will be new life when all is said and done.
They even bear similar wounds, Akram having a terrible gash in his side where he has had previous lung operations, which tomorrow morning will be reopened once again.

After arriving at the hospital we got Akram and his mother situated in their room, and took Akram to be X-rayed, to have blood work done and lines put in his arm. I have stayed nearby Akram for moral support throughout the last few days and I wanted to be there for him especially when he was suffering the pain of the needles. Akram showed more courage in this than I did, returning to a state of calm immediately after the painful parts were over. While I have seen many grizzly things in my time at Shevet, it was an especially humid today in Tel Aviv, and watching Akram get stuck with needles in addition to the humidity proved a bit too much for me and I had to remove myself for a couple minutes out of fear I would faint (it was from the humidity, I swear). But everything on Akram’s end was handled smoothly, when all was said and done, Akram and his mother were comfortable in their room, Akram doing some drawing, one of his many talents, his mother, encouraging him to eat more, one of hers. Donna and I prayed over Akram and his mother, exchanged hugs and kisses and promised to see them again the next morning for the surgery.

• • •

Yesterday at the John the Baptist site Akram was perusing the various crucifixes and considered buying one, but after I told him the price in sheqels he was deterred. Because of all his previous medical treatment Akram and his family are one of the poorer ones we have had. So, after checking him in last night, I ran down to the Old City with a good Arab Christian friend where I got him a crucifix small enough to hold in his hand, made of olive wood, and covered in mother of pearl. When I arrived to visit him before his surgery this morning I surprised him with it and he was pleased to receive it. Many of the Muslims who we minister to have something called worry beads, which looks something like a catholic rosary; basically something to occupy your hands during stressful times. Akram handled this crucifix much in the same way, feeling its texture in his hand, memorizing the outline of the cross and the figure of Christ pressed upon it.

Akram underwent surgery at 11am this morning on his collapsed right lung, one of the lasting effects of his grueling bout with tuberculosis. In order to accomplish this repair the doctor made an incision between his ribs and removed necrotic tissue and scar tissue which inhibit his lung from functioning. After a four and a half hour surgery Akram emerged from the ER and was transferred to the ICU where we received good news. All reports are that the operation was a success, his lung is now free of the offending tissue and the hope is that now his lung will begin to inflate, a process which is expected to take several days. The one complication I became aware of in the ICU was that Akram’s blood pressure post surgery was unusually low, but the ICU doctor said that he had become slightly over-sedated and that it was not a serious problem. Akram has a long recovery ahead of him as this special surgery will require him to remain in the hospital up to a month, much of which he will spend with tubes inserted in his chest, as shown in the X-ray, for drainage.


Prior to the surgery Akram appeared very calm and he and his mother were encouraged by our visit. After he was taken to surgery Donna, Kirsten, and I sat with Um Akram for the duration; she was visibly anxious but remained collected the entire time. When we left, the doctors and nurses running around him in the ICU had thinned, and Um Akram was sitting by her son’s bedside holding his hand while he slept.

On my end this marks working about 30 of the last 40 hours. In addition to praying for Akram please pray that I will not need to be admitted myself.

Akram

Akram, one of our patients, has an incredible story of survival. Last year he came to our Iraqi clinic on the verge of death because of Tuberculosis; he weighed 66 pounds. The senior cardiologist said, "do we want him to die here, or should we send him back to Iraq to die?" The doctors were certain his Tuberculosis. Here is a picture of him about 1 year ago, and one of him last week, weighing at least twice as much. Completely clear of TB, strong enough to walk around the zoo.

He is here in Jerusalem now waiting for at least two surgeries. The first will be an attempt to reinflate one of his lungs which collapsed as a result of his TB and the questionable medical efforts done by some doctors in Iraq which removed a substantial portion of his lung. The original prognosis was that his lung was a lost cause, but just like last year, the doctors were surprised again to find that his long would be operable and there was a good chance of success. After the surgery he will need to be hospitalized for a month to recover. If the lung surgery is successful he will be stronger and better able to withstand the strain of the open-heart surgery which is to follow. Akram has faced a long road already, and he has quite a way to go, but he is leaning on new friends and a new faith.






He's been drawing a lot lately, here are a few of his works. Akram has been excited to read the Bible as much as any Christian teenager I've seen and one of our coworkers who speaks Arabic has been able to read along with him. I personally, have been engaging in as much discipleship with him as possible with the time I have and my little Arabic and Kurdish. Akram is the only male living in the house over the age of 3 apart from myself, so I have had the privilege of connecting with him in ways no one else has been able to. Akram is a normal teenager, apart from all the medical complications at least, so I have been able to utilized my gifts and experience in youth ministry to minister to him in the best ways i know how. Akram and I have spent a lot of time together, playing games, on outings, generally goofing off, and being there with him in hospitals as well. Last night during our Shabbat meal, Akram took communion with the rest of the staff after the meaning was explained to him. Everyone feels the Lord working powerfully in this young man's life, spiritually and physically, pray for his health and his spiritual growth.

Akram's blog on the Shevet site contains a detailed account of his journey thus far through word, picture, and video and is worth a read http://www.shevet.org/akram/

Getting through Security

I just spent an hour in a check point coming out of the West Bank. Typically we leave from Jerusalem to circumvent the West Bank entirely on the road to Gaza, but because of the weather (raining) and the difficulty Erica has getting from Bethlehem to Jerusalem (through a checkpoint) early enough, we decided to try a different route. I've had somewhat invasive checks before, on par with airport security, and those are easy enough to laugh off. Usually the most embarrassing thing that happens is that I have to remove my belt going through the metal detector, and have to hold up my pants for 5 minutes while they send it through the X-Ray (yes the belt, no I don’t know why); but this one was bad, downright offensive. Generally anyone with an American I'd gets waved right through checkpoints, not many Californians bent on terrorist acts against the state of Israel I guess (the issue of legislated racial/gender/geographical profiling is for a different blog). As I handed the guard Erica’s ID (Jerusalem residing Palestinian) after mine, the guard’s expression changed, and he squawked something over his walkey talkey and directed us to turn around and get in line for inspection.

We sat in our van for about 15 minutes in a line with 10-20 other vehicles waiting for inspection; taxis, agricultural trucks, empty freight trucks, and a few other unlucky regular motorists, the others had clearly been there quite a bit longer. When a guard instructed the front vehicles to go we sped into a barricaded lot in a stampede of vehicles. We all parked, opened all our doors, trunk, hood, grabbed our bags and headed some 100 feet or so to go through security, while our vehicles were searched, checked for bombs with mirrors, dogs, etc… While I was waiting in line to go through the metal detector and have my backpack and our bag of medical supplies X-rayed, another guard called out for me after looking at our van. I walked up to him and he said in broken English to take the child and infant seats out of the van to be X-rayed as well. That was a new one, kind of frustrating but I complied. I had to take a couple trips because the seats in addition to bags were too cumbersome. When I got to the line they opened my backpack, flipped through the pages of my Bible and rummaged through the rest. Everything was then put on the X-ray. The inspector was very interested in our medical supplies, tubes, feeding syringes, and what not. I explained that we were a medical charity. My laptop had to be sent through alone, opened, and inspected as well. I cringed as my open laptop went back and forth naked under the rubber drapes, no scratches thankfully.

After going through security everyone was then corralled through a one way door into an outdoor pen to wait, about 20 Palestinian young men, myself, and Erica. The guards had apparently collected everyone’s cell phones to prevent anyone from making calls, they never asked me though. I was then called back to the van again. A guard had noticed there was a small blue container, mostly empty, in the back of our van, she asked me to take that to be X-rayed. After I was about half way to the security building she called me back again. I went back, and now she wanted to know what I had assumed they would ask about first, the 3 foot tall highly explosive tank of oxygen we keep stowed in our van. She said “what is this?” I replied, “oxygen.” She called over another guard that apparently spoke better English, he asked what it was, and I told him “oxygen” at which point he translated to the other guard “oxygeen.” To the X-Ray of course. I knew it didn’t really matter what I said was in it, I could have said it was full of Israeli flags and ‘free Gilad Shalit’ bumper stickers and they would still have X-rayed it. I loaded up the little blue container, and then the big tank of oxygen onto the X-ray machine. As it went through I explained to a teenage female guard doing her very best to sound intimidating what the canister contained and why we had it. Typically the best strategy for getting through checkpoints without being hassled and interrogated is to give the facts but acting like a dumb American that doesn’t speak a word of Hebrew; throwing in a California accent or a “Yee-haw!” for good measure always helps. I was then sent back out to the pen, leaving the oxygen tan inside, no doubt to have some superior officer decide what to do with the thing.

It began pouring rain while we were in the pen, again everyone’s doors were wide open, and everyone began shouting at the guards to let us out to close our vehicles up. After maybe 30 seconds of downpour we were allowed to go close our doors and come back. We spent another half an hour waiting, most of the men spent it smoking, drinking coffee, often both. It reminded me of the kids that got detention in high school, keeping mostly quiet, but telling jokes and goofing off as much as they could get away with. There was quite a lot of tension, not so much out of fear of the border guards but because of the guards’ perceived incompetence for taking so long. While I don’t doubt the quality of the training the IDF inductees undergo, the closest thing that it reminds me of back home is high school PE class. Israel’s military service is compulsory for every citizen, male or female, for two years typically ages 18-19, unless you are an Orthodox Jew studying Torah, or volunteer for humanitarian service. Because of this, there are soldiers everywhere, and their attitude toward their military service seems to be mixed in the same stereotypes found in high school gym class. You have the girls that dress out, but prefer to talk and don’t participate, the overweight ones with skin tight uniforms, you have some guys that are a little too gung ho and take their position very seriously, and almost across the board they act like normal teenagers when they aren’t tending to some immediate work. I pass them every day waiting at the bus stops to go home, and it’s all so reminiscent of high school. The primary difference is that many of these young adults are armed with m4 assault rifles, complete with extended ammo clips and scopes, even strapped over the shoulder they practically drag on the ground with some of the 5’ tall 100lb girls.

Anyway, we were given back our oxygen tank, and after a few minutes more a guard began a roll call of IDs and passports, the lone blue US passport sitting at the top. A guard called out “Justin,” to which all the Palestinians repeated loudly so everyone could hear. It was like being called to get up from time out. Once called to get the passport you were free to go, and one by one everyone darted off to their vehicle and pulled out. I took much longer, having to reassemble everything, and load everything back up in the van, through the rain mind you.

I left feeling a little disgruntled and violated, and soggy socks didn’t help anything. All this took place while the Gaza patients were waiting for us at the border with the freezing wind and pouring rain, luckily a couple border taxis allowed our patients to sit in their cars while they waited for us.

What is necessary, what is justifiable, what is off limits, what is private, what is excessive? These questions require a great deal of input by analysts, lawyers, government representatives, in meetings, committees, and courtrooms, but there is a lot of necessary perspective which can only be gained once you have yourself been the object if interest, anything less is a fundamental handicap in discerning these questions.

Not What I Want, or What I Need Yet, but a Merciful Portion

After a long day of hospital visits and driving I was tired, frustrated, and discouraged. After reaching home, when everyone else had already gone inside and just as I finished the checklist of things to do before getting out of the van myself, I heard someone say “Justin” me from outside. The tone of voice seemed warm and whoever it was sounded excited to see me, and while I only heard it faintly I assumed it was quiet because I was still in the van. I looked up from my checklist with a spike of energy and anticipation, but saw no one there. I looked in either direction, moved in my seat in the hopes of seeing someone obstructed by a pillar, no one. Then, almost desperately, I moved again the other way in case when I moved to see around the pillar the first time they had come into view from the other perspective. There was no one. I realized then there is no one here that is excited to see me, who would call out my name in that tone. I sank back into my worn and beaten seat, defeated. The unsatisfied anticipation and spike of energy coupled with this realization only created more momentum to drain me even further. I understand the conscious sometimes supplies what the subconscious really wants in times of extreme stress; it must have been a random memory firing or my senses failing because of how tired I was. Just the same, I would rather have had nothing than to have this.

I realized that while someone calling my name was common back home it hadn’t happened since I've been here in Israel; it’s another one of those things I didn’t realize I missed until I noticed it was gone. Having someone be excited to see me is something that is easy to distinguish between genuine and rehearsed or forced, probably for this reason it’s one of few things that can penetrate what I admit can be a cynical defensiveness. Feeling valued by others and in this sense feeling pure love is something I have missed dearly in person.

I spent the next few hours alone in my room (as alone as I can be in a bedroom that doubles as a hallway), confronting the truth of this realization. Digging out the root of its past influence and anticipating its future discomfort I concluded there was little hope for a remedy.

I went upstairs, probably frustrated at myself for feeling self pity, exchanging one defeat for another, when I walked through the upstairs dining room. Halo (nine years old), one of our Iraqi children came into the room and, upon seeing me, smiled and called out, “Justin!” At this Alaa (six years old) trotted in and Omed (twelve years old) as well, excited to see me and eager to be involved with whatever I had come up there to do. We spent the next half an hour playing with a balloon, so easy to impress, they marveled at my strength as I knocked the balloon all the way to the ceiling. While children are perhaps not who I had in mind when I was so sunken over this, the Lord knows what I need, and he has supplied all my needs, perhaps in this circumstance better than what my own heart wills.

A Day in the Life

I haven’t had time to update the blog in a while, given how busy I am I hope that you understand. Here is a snapshot of today:

Today after the 8:30 morning meeting I drove from Jerusalem to Gaza with Erica our Gaza coordinator to pick up several patients for the first time in about two weeks. The border had been closed to medical cases because of a bureaucratic stand-off, the details of which are hardly entertaining blog content. Out of a possible 7 children I was told that 5 had obtained all the necessary permissions, 1 to be taken by ambulance, and 4 to be picked up by yours truly; 2 for follow ups, 1 for heart catheterization, and 1 for urgent surgery. I was also told that some Israeli medical students would be meeting me at the border to tag along in order to make the entire process somehow more complicated. Because the border requires all people going through the border to shut off their cell phones, and because of the hoops everyone must jump through to get out, discerning when and if anyone gets across it is extremely unpredictable. After waiting approximately half an hour we had collected 3 of the 4 patients, but the one left in security was the most urgent case. In order to ensure that the 3 kids that made it out were able to be treated I left for Tel Aviv with just 3 of the 4 children expected to get out, and gave Erica’s cell phone number to one of the taxi drivers who sit at the border in case the 4^th child made it out. I squeezed two of the medical students in the van as well and they provided some welcome company on the road to the hospital. They were both fresh from American and Canada and were very interested to hear about our work. They have been living in Be’er Sheba, one of the primary targets of the Hamas rockets, and frankly I was surprised at the lack of bitterness toward the Gazan people. I thought it was perhaps because they had not lived there long, but they have lived there long enough to suffer a bit of shell shock after this latest war, and joked about how they jump at anything that sounds similar to the incoming rocket warning siren.

For some reason Israelis have become nervous about people from Gaza, possibly because of the daily rockets and bombings, so it’s routine that whenever I pull up in the van to hospital entry security with Gazans security likes to run our papers, check the bags, look at the van, check for nervous eyes, etc. All the guards recognize me at this point and I‘m able to joke with them about giving me a hard time every time I bring anyone to the hospital, a smile goes a long way, and seeing men armed with fully automatic assault rifles is something you get used to; I think it’s possible them knowing I'm from California has granted me a charisma they’re curious about as well. After everything cleared and the guard handed me back all the paperwork I said “thanks” and as I pulled away hung my arm out the window and held out a peace sign, the guard instinctively called back “peace!” as I drove into the lot.

Upon piling out of the elevator at the hospital with all the Gazan’s I was stopped at the entry to the pediatric cardiology department by one of the workers, very unusual… I didn’t find out why until about 15 minutes later, after watching a few people rush in and out. Yesterday, amongst the chaos of my own tasks at the hospital, I witnessed Maureen a 3-year-old from Tanzania having her chest sutures removed (one of the final things done before a patient’s release). I said a quick hello to her mother Sweetie, before I ran off to finish my work for the day. I have had several conversations with Sweetie in the hospital rooms, hallways and outside the ICU, and I’ve always been sure to say hello to bashful little Maureen. Sweetie has been here with her daughter, who has had 3 heart surgeries now, since December through Save a Child’s Heart. I found out that she was a Christian, and gave her my Gideon’s New Testament so she would be have the Scriptures handy in a pocket size to carry with her, and I was able to connect her with a local Christian congregation in Tel Aviv so that she was able to attend a much needed worship service. Today was a different story for Maureen, in the morning she had a temperature so as a precaution she was brought to the hospital to have some tests run. Suddenly, in the middle of being checked Maureen’s breathing and heart stopped. The technician immediately called (not exaggerating) the entire children’s ward staff and doctors and every machine they had to the small check-up room. This was why I was stopped at the entrance to the department, the workers didn’t want the 6 Gazans I had in tow to witness this frenzy going on around the corner. When I got the all clear I brought the Gazan patients into a waiting area and watched machine after machine being wheeled out of the check-up room, followed by Maureen. With 20 or so of the best pediatric doctors and nurses in the world surrounding her she was successfully resuscitated after a few minutes, and as she was wheeled by I was never happier to hear a child cry. It’s unknown whether or not she has suffered brain damage, I’ll get an update the next time I go to this hospital.

After making sure the nurses were ready for the kids and waiting for the panic to settle down it was well past lunch time but after a minute of debating whether or not to get food or wait longer with the patients we received a call from the taxi driver that the 4^th child had made it across, and back we went to Gaza. Thankfully this took place without incident, we picked up the mother and child, welcomed them, strapped them in, and back we went again to Tel Aviv.

Back at the hospital now two of the three patients brought earlier had finished their check-ups and the third was being worked on, which gave us thirty minutes or so to eat lunch. Now 3:30, I was ready to stuff my face with something huge in a hurry, McDonald’s fit the bill. I order a small combo to the tune of 42 sheqels (a little more than 10 US dollars (no that’s not a typo)). After shoving the food down we returned to collect the two families that came for follow up in order to take them home to Gaza only to find the hallway empty. Not knowing where Gazan’s are in a city like Tel Aviv was a big security booboo, but we quickly tracked them down quickly, and I joked with the doctor about her losing my patients. We found them, called out “Yalla” (the Arabic catch all for, “let’s go,” “come here,” “are you ready,” etc), had a bit of a laugh about them eluding us, and piled back into the van.

The sun was setting as I drove in the middle of the Israeli rush hour, now the third time to Gaza today. It’s no surprise that the traffic thins the closer you get to the border, though even the bumper to bumper tedium isn’t so bad if you can just enjoy the beautiful countryside along the way, especially at sunset when the rolling hills turn golden on one side of the highway, and dunes with desert blooms chasing the sun on the other. We made it to the border once again, unloaded our happy little patients and their mothers, shook their hands and made sure they got through the security gate. Our day was finally done and we were prepared to head to Jerusalem when, wouldn’t you know it, I got a knock on my driver’s window…

I let Erica do the talking (she’s fluent in Arabic). This fellow had gotten out of Gaza and was looking for a ride to Jerusalem. While hitchhikers are very common in Israel, Gazan’s getting permission to go to Jerusalem are not at all. We asked him what he was doing, to which he replied he was going for peace talks. Erica and I were very skeptical of the possibility and needed to check him out before unintentionally aiding an international criminal, but sure enough, he produced the paperwork. He was granted a travel visa to be in Israel for more than a month, and was permitted to travel almost everywhere in Israel; both the length of time and the areas he had permission to were shocking to me frankly. He gave us a business card which titles him a Political Commissar under the Palestinian National Authority – The Chairman of Supreme Committee for Negotiation and Peace Process Suppert (sic).

Call me superstitious if you like, but it’s not every day that The Chairman of the Supreme Committee for Negotiation and Peace Process Support of the Palestinian Authority ask for a ride from a random van that so happens to be occupied by two people at the bleeding edge of this work, who also happen to be going exactly where he needs to go, and from the Gaza border no less. So, after being scolded by a frustrated taxi driver for stealing his customer we headed back for Jerusalem.

I stopped to load myself up on some coffee for another long drive at a restaurant and coffee shop about 5 minutes from the border. There are two spins for how you can be surprised at this place, either that such a nice place could exist in such close proximity to the Gaza strip granted the constantly falling rockets, or that such a ravaged place as the Gaza strip could exist in such close proximity to a fine dining restaurant. For the price of a McDonalds meal you can get essentially a 3 course meal, I seriously hope no one in Hamas hears about this place, not that I wouldn’t like them to enjoy it, but because they’d probably want to blow it up. This place is one that gives me that unexpectedly normal feeling, it shouldn’t feel normal there, but it does. You never know what will give you some perspective in this place, in this case it was a restaurant.

We made it back to Jerusalem around 7:30, dropped off our new friend, ate some dinner which was waiting for us, and got to work on things needed to get done around Jerusalem. I imagine we’ll try to make contact with the political commissar sometime during his stay, perhaps have him over for dinner. We can always use more friends on both sides.

Newsletter 3-3-09 Available for Download

My internet is more or less broken for the time being, but I managed to upload the latest newsletter for you do download here: http://www.4shared.com/file/91427641/83a23205/Newsletter_3-3-09.html

The Power of the Good News

Saturday I brought 6 of our Iraqis to church: Arazoo (17) who comes regularly now, Halo (9), Alaa (6) and Um Alaa, and Omed (12) and Um Omed (Halo, Alaa, and Omed are our three latest arrivals for heart surgery from Iraq). The families are each given a Kurdish or Arabic New Testament when they come to stay with us, and they had not seen a Christian worship service before. Outside it was the most extreme weather I’d seen in Israel yet, freezing cold, gusty winds, hail, and claps of thunder that made me wonder what kind of idolatry could provoke God to such a fury. It was perhaps more actually blessing in disguise as Israel has really needed the rain, and each thunder clap made the prayer, the worship, the preaching poignantly emphatic.

Because the nature of Jerusalem Christian churches involve a lot of people coming and going the pastor asks who is here for the first time and they are acknowledged by the congregation. Our visitors received a lot of attention as you can imagine, both because they’re not Christians, but also because of the situation they come out of, the fact that this congregation prays for Shevet Achim and its patients regularly, and because Arazoo who they had prayed for previously had since had her surgery and was doing much better. They were made to feel very at home by one of speakers leading a liturgy who addressed them in Kurdish with “choney boshey” which loosely translates to something like “how are you, good?” to which both mothers jumped up, seemingly very pleased to hear these words, raised their hand and said “choney boshey” in return. They seemed to enjoy the worship though they could not understand it, Halo and Omed enjoyed clapping along to the songs (however out of sync they were), and had a good time participating. They all also participated in all the prayers that were said. Whether it was coincidence, Divine will, or sensitivity towards the Iraqi’s, the guest preacher gave the sermon in Arabic which was then translated to English for the rest of the congregation. Kurdish and Arabic are only related to the same extent that, say, English is to say Spanish, but Um Alaa is fluent in Arabic, and Um Omed like most Kurdish speakers in Iraq can understand some basic Arabic. The speaker talked about a prison ministry that he runs in Israel, talked about how we are all molded uniquely like clay in the hands of a potter and gave some other theological references and general edifications toward an individual’s humanity regardless of circumstance and the need for redemption.

I was very grateful that the mothers were able to understand the sermon but something very unexpected happened following the closing prayer and the small horde that approached the mothers and children to bless them and pray over them. Um Alaa began to weep. I wasn’t sure what had happened, if the stress had overtaken her or what exactly, but the other volunteer with me, Donna, told me shortly following that she was weeping because she had been so touched by the message. At this I was kind of surprised…I didn’t think it was that powerful of a message…sure it was good to hear about the success of this ministry and to hear again how God has made each individual special, etc… I thought maybe Donna was being a little too optimistic that it wasn’t something else, but then I noticed the other mother, while not weeping, was also visibly shaken…

This reminded me of, and strengthened my conscience concerning something I’ve felt over the last few weeks being here and in the course of settling in. The work my coworkers and I are doing by any outsider's standards would be seen as tremendous, incredible, awe inspiring, praiseworthy, etc; but the longer and more feverishly I do it, the harder it is for me to see this. I’ve heard analogies such as "you can't see the forest from the trees", or "you can't grasp the immensity of a sky scraper from inside the ground floor," and I think this fits both with my work at Shevet and my spiritual life to a certain extent. I may be driving kids in and out of Gaza, the West Bank, Jordan, making believers out of Muslims, ministering to the least, being a peacemaker between arch enemies, living humbly so that I can save others, etc. but unless I repeat that to myself, stop and step back and realize that is what I’m doing, I don’t see it when I’m actually in the process of doing it.

In the same way the radical nature of the Gospel is something that I need to be reminded of and refreshed by; not only that, but be truly impressed by the things being accomplished in Jesus name. The speaker was talking about a wonderfully successful prison ministry, to which my response was, “that’s great, another effective prison ministry built on the love of Christ,” but I lacked the enthusiasm of how glorious such an accomplishment is. I know that there are such ministries around the world and perhaps I am jaded by their number rather than overwhelmed by the joy of the enduring and vibrant work of Christ and his Church. I am used to the wonder of God, like the Israelites, like so many Great Revivals, my eyes have adjusted to the brilliant light; I know it's not the right place to be. Witnessing the response of these mothers, I think certainly more appropriate than my own by Kingdom standards, is a welcome reminder to pray for a new, fresh faith that can appreciate all these things, that will in turn encourage and strengthen me as I go about doing the work the Lord has graciously set before me to do in his name. Perhaps when you pray you can petition God to do this for me, so that I can feel newly inspired again and again, by all that he does, and for yourself if you find you are in this same place.

After the service ended the kids ran around the sanctuary taking pictures, smelling the flowers, enjoying being kids. Each of them, and the mothers, received copious blessings and prayers during this time. While I was not there with them, it’s my understanding that some of them, maybe more, went to church again that evening. Please continue to pray for the work God is doing in the lives of these families, physically and spiritually, today especially as I will be taking Halo, Alaa, and Omed in for their open-heart surgeries within the next 48 hours.

Emotional Rollercoasters Are by Far the Most Nauseating

I’ve preserved the drafts of this blog in their original form to better capture these experiences.

• • •

Written Sunday 2-15-09:

Abu Firdaus has been in very poor spirits because of the condition of his daughter who has not been struggling greatly the past week or so. Because of this his demeanor Abu Firdaus had, understandably, become very panicked and frustrated, which is a far cry from the kind and gentle spirit everyone had known him by. In the hopes of alleviating some of the stress, much of which he was putting on himself by being in the hospital, we took him out of the hospital environment he had been living in the last few months and brought him to the Shevet Achim house over the weekend. The outcome could not have been better!

After spending just a few hours in our home Thursday evening he seemed to be doing better; being around other families in similar situations who spoke his language gave him much encouragement, even simply being in a warm comfortable home seemed to make a difference.

Friday the traditional day of prayer in Islam, I took Abu Firdaus to the Old City so that he could spend some much needed time in prayer (see the subsequent excursus on this). The prayers begin at 11am and we left at approximately 10:45 so I knew we were in a rush, however, on the way to the Old City Abu Firdaus kept pointing me toward the Arab market and trying to get me to go there with him. I thought this was curious because I knew we were late for prayer, but he seemed to be very hurriedly tasting some of the greens in the various shops to find the right one, eventually he found what he was looking for: celery. I didn’t know why he was so interested in the greens, and celery of all things, I thought perhaps it had something to do with the prayers…would he be praying so fervently he would need something to sustain him, celery of all things?…would he be making…an offering? After he found it I thought, “certainly we’d better rush to pray,” but he started walking in the opposite direction hurriedly checking out the food stalls once again! When he grabbed a dented can of tomato sauce and started rushing back in the direction of the Shevet Achim house I was completely baffled. Well, as it turns out, Abu Firdaus had had lunch cooking on the stove before we ran out and these were the ingredients he needed to finish the meal. When we visited Abu Firdaus and his daughter in the hospital we talked on a few occasions about his restaurant business back home in Iraq and we often joked that we would love to have him cook for us, and that we would hire him on as our staff cook. He decided to surprise us with that very thing! After some much needed translation through Dorothy, I was told by Abu Firdaus that “of course I would love to go with you to pray, but after lunch!”

After eating a delicious lunch, Abu Firdaus and I finally ventured into the Old City to pray at around noon. I left him at the entrance to the Temple Mount as only Muslims are allowed in most times, and we agreed to meet back at the entrance at 4pm. In the midst of the most dire situation a man can face, his child’s life hanging by a thread, Abu Firdaus emerged with joy visible on his face and embraced me. He later told me after praying, “I am at peace now,” and I believe it, he could hardly keep from smiling on the walk home. On the walk back we enjoyed a sweet from a shop, and I had the pleasure of watching Abu Firdaus do some genuine Arab haggling over some green beans (we got them down to 7 sheqels a kilo). We walked the entire way back through the winding streets of the Old City, up and down the Arab market, and then to the Shevet house arm in arm (which is a feat in itself given the foot traffic).

He had been so uplifted by his day and our loving care to him and Firdaus that he prepared the staff three full dishes for dinner as well!

Abu Firdaus spent the rest of the weekend taking in Jerusalem and getting a much needed break in mind and spirit from the circumstances he is facing. We brought him back to Schneider Children’s Medical Center today a renewed man.

As we learned in a prior visit to him at the hospital, Abu Firdaus has been diligently reading the New Testament each day since he received a Kurdish version from our Jordan coordinator Dirk. He also took interest in one of the Kurdish Bibles we have on our shelves here at Shevet and cracked it open and began to read without hesitation. He showed no signs of hesitance or offense to walk with me arm in arm, even in front of all the Muslims, despite me lugging my enormous and conspicuous Bible to and from the Old City on our outing. Team members have also spoken with him about what it means to pray in the name of Jesus as an intercessor and Abu Firdaus has been moved to take part in this as well for his daughter. Abu Firdaus is a man of great spiritual fervor and sincerity, please pray that the Lord would continue to draw him near and that through these most difficult and painful times where there seems to be no hope and no chance for life, that he would receive the gift of a new life, and hope in the one who freely gives it. Please also continue to pray that God would act in miraculous ways in the life of baby Firdaus, and that the work God is already doing in her now would be only a foretaste of what is to come.

It’s when crazy things like this happen that I know what we are doing is working, and that it really is from above. The notion of a 50 year old Muslim man walking joyfully, literally arm in arm, with a 23 year old Christian through the streets of Jerusalem being joined together with the hope of saving his child’s life…there's something about it.

• • •

Written Wednesday 2-18-09




Firdaus died yesterday. After being stable and on the road to recovery the child took a turn for the worse about one and a half weeks ago which she never recovered from. I know some of the medical details about her condition and operation and the difficulties that had the potential to make her unsavable but I didn’t ask for any further when I heard the news, and I’ll spare you all the details. Almost as difficult for me was the fact that Abu Firdaus was put on a plane last night as well before I had a chance to see him. Yesterday, I drove for 7 hours, and spent 6 hours in Wolfson hospital in Tel Aviv; between two trips to Gaza to pick up and drop off children and 3 trips to Wolfson, and then getting back to Jerusalem, it was all I could muster to reach my bed and collapse when I got home. When I awoke this morning he was already in Amman, Jordan with Firdaus.

I was told by the Shevet staff who went to him after hearing the news that he was on his knees weeping when they arrived, still cradling the small yellow pillow that belonged to Firdaus. They left the hospital with him shortly after. This father that did all that he could for his child, breaking every social, cultural, and religious barrier to save her could now do nothing more than give her just one last kiss before the tiny body bag was zipped over her face.

I have written him the following condolences for Dorothy to read to him in Arabic over the phone:

Abu Firdaus,

I am very sorry I was not able to see you before you left or offer you any comfort in person, I was needed all day to bring children to and from Gaza. I am so sorry for your loss and I know there is little that can make you feel better at this moment. I myself am deeply grieved and mourning for Firdaus as well. I would like you to know that even though you are leaving now, our relationship and your relationship with those who know of you around the world does not end here. It is especially now that we will bring our prayers for you and your family before God so that you may know he has not abandoned or forgotten you. I pray that God would grant you peace that surpasses all understanding and that in the midst of the difficulty and pain, God may use it somehow to draw you nearer than ever before.

With hope and love,

Justin

I know God is not done with Abu Firdaus, he is a better father than many men I know who call themselves good fathers, and practices a purer and more active Christianity than many people I know who so casually call themselves Christians. Perhaps these very events have set that in motion, and I hope it is true that our Father will not end prematurely any good work he begins in us.

• • •

Excursus: Some Uncomfortable Questions

After writing the last section I questioned whether or not it would taint the visceral nature of the blog to include an intellectual excurses on a Christian taking a Muslim to a mosque to pray, lest you think I am not in emotional shambles, or that this grievous event is anything less, but I think it may be helpful to anyone who may have been caught off guard or be apprehensive about it. I don’t mean to provide an answer to every concern, indeed I have my own, but here are just some considerations that most people would not grasp at first thought on the matter.

First, on the idea of different God’s in Christianity and Islam. Etymologically, there can be no argument reasoned from the word “Allah” as this is the standard Arabic word for God, used by Christians and Jews who spoke pre-Islamic Arabic languages like Ancient (Northern) Arabian and Syriac for hundreds of years prior Islam. Today there are at least 30 million Arabic speaking Christians that pray to Allah and have the very same beliefs about Him and Yesua (Jesus) that you and I do. To say that “Allah” is a different god doesn’t make much sense in practical terms. Without the bias against the term “Allah” we would be saying in English “God is a different god from God,” which is linguistically nonsensical. What therefore would be in dispute would be the nature of God in Christianity and Islam, rather than having an entirely different deity on our hand. We have to ask then, do prayers by someone who has different, incomplete, or even heretical beliefs about God not ascend to Him? What percentage of correct belief about God does it take or is it relevant?

With regard to prayer, the issue of Islam’s Mohammed need not come into play much either. Muslims don’t pray to Mohammed, they believe he was a prophet and they do not pray to prophets, they only pray to God. In fact, this is a significant snag that Muslim converts to Christianity face at the onset, as we pray to Jesus (God in flesh). Muslim’s venerate Jesus very highly as a prophet or even higher as a messenger of God (they also regard most Bible characters as prophets as well). This is often surmounted by explaining prayer “in Jesus name” as using Jesus as an intermediary between man and God, that he as our divine peace maker and ransom is the only one through which it is worthy to bring prayers to God, or that because of his special relationship to God Jesus is granted power to appeal God more on our behalf.

It is with this in mind that I have to step back in humility for how Abu Firdaus prayed. This is a man that has been reading the New Testament every day since he has been here, more than I have had time to that’s for certain. It would not surprise me one bit if in fact Abu Firdaus was on the Temple Mount praying in Jesus name for his daughter. This produces more questions for those that haven’t encountered Muslims converts or those in the process. Is it wrong for a Christian to pray 5 times a day at the traditional Muslim times and with the same movements? Is it wrong to pray to God in Jesus name in a mosque? Will a Muslim who tries praying in Jesus name be granted his petition if he has yet to come to faith in Him and is seeking if Jesus has real power? What beliefs must they have about the authority of Koran and Mohammed to be received by Christ?

I believe God is just and merciful, and that he extends the most grace to the little children of faith who have just begun to seek and knock on the door. I did not just see this event as Abu Firdaus going to meet God in prayer and hoping that he would pray in Jesus name. Prayer is where man meets God, where divine pierces mundane, it cannot be the other way around, only God can break this barrier to both receive and answer. I therefore took him there to pray not in the hope that Abu Firdaus would grasp the formula and reality of Christ’s efficacious work and pray accordingly, but that God who has the power to reveal these things to man would encounter Abu Firdaus at this time; that it would be from Heaven down. I don’t know what God revealed in prayer, but if the sense of peace and joy that Abu Firdaus emerged with were from Him, I know that God is indeed at work in this man.