The doctors at Jibla Baptist Hospital had assured me that Kevin’s hepatitis would not last long. There was nothing I could do but wait. I washed my raw hands again and groaned as Madison cried from her bedroom.
“Mommy, I’m throwing up again!”
I hurried to her room with a wet washcloth, passing Jack who was running to the bathroom.
“Mommy, I have diarrhea again!” Jack wailed.
“I’m sorry, honey!” I hurried past him. “I’ll be back in a minute to help you!” I called over my shoulder.
I sponged Madison’s face and washed out the basin. “Feel better?” I asked.
“I feel sick!” Madison cried.
“I know, honey.” I stroked her cheek. “It will pass soon. Jaden’s virus lasted one day, and now he’s outside playing. Maybe tomorrow you’ll be outside playing, too.”
Madison leaned back against her pillow as I smoothed her hair. “Just rest, sweetheart. Maybe a good story will help.” I kissed her forehead and handed her a book. “It’ll be over soon.”
I hurried to the bathroom. “My bottom hurts!” Jack wailed.
“I know, honey. Why don’t we run a bubble bath and you can sit and play in the tub? It’ll make your bottom feel better.”
I put the stopper in the tub and squirted liquid baby wash. I turned on the faucet. A stream of water poured thinly out before it trickled away to nothing.
“Oh great! The water’s off again.” I slapped the side of the tub as I stood up. “Great timing!” I threw a washcloth hard at the wall.
I was tired. I had spent three endless days caring for sick children and a sick husband. And now, in the middle of intestinal viruses and hepatitis, the city water was off again, an event that had become a common occurrence in the three months we had lived in Hudaydah.
I realized Jack was watching me. “Don’t worry.” I smiled at his pouting lips. “I’ll turn on the pump. We have a cistern full of water under our house. You’ll have a bubble bath in no time!”
I went into the outer hall to switch on the water pump. It clicked twice, but the pump did not come on. I switched it off, then tried again. The motor clicked but did nothing else.
“Not now,” I growled. I picked up the wrench and tapped the pump gently on the lever as Kevin had shown me when the motor was jammed. I tried the switch again.
The pump no longer clicked. It was silent. I whacked the pump hard with the wrench and jerked the switch. Silence. I kicked the pump with my foot, threw the wrench at the switch and tried again. Nothing happened. The pump was dead.
Tears spewed out as I shouted at the ceiling. “I could use a little help down here, Lord!”
The frustration of the last week boiled over with the frustration of the last three months. We had tried to meet the locals, but they did not want to meet us. We had tried to initiate life-improvement projects, but nobody seemed to want them. Nobody seemed to want us.
I looked at the ceiling again, dabbing my eyes with my T-shirt. “We could use a little help down here!” I repeated softly.
The words of my morning devotion came back to me. “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid” (John 14:27).
I sat down on the step. I had pondered that verse when I had read it that morning. I had wondered what Jesus meant by “not as the world gives.”
I trudged back to the bathroom, lugging one of our ten-gallon jugs of drinking water. “We’ll use this water,” I told Jack, who was sitting naked in the empty bathtub. I poured the water in and sloshed it around with my hand to make bubbles. Jack dumped his bath toys and began to play.
Not as the world gives. I closed the toilet seat and sat down, pondering the Scripture again. Then I understood. Jesus’ peace was not the absence of conflict or problems. It was the presence of a Person—His Person, the Prince of Peace, abiding in me.
I smiled slightly, “Okay, Lord, I get it,” I whispered. “My mind set on You. That is peace, even when everything else is chaos.”
Late that night I e-mailed our families and prayer partners, urging them to increase their prayers. We had faced an onslaught of sickness from the moment we arrived in Hudaydah. The Tihama was an area unreached by the message of God’s love. Doors would not open, and the onslaught would not end without strong prayer intercession.
I opened an e-mail from a well-meaning friend. “With all that you are suffering, are you sure you are where you are supposed to be?” she wrote. “Do you think this is a sign that you are not supposed to be there?”
Her e-mail irritated me. I grumbled at the keyboard. “Why do people think obeying God means walking a path of roses? Roses can’t grow without broken ground and thorns!”
I typed fervently on my computer, explaining our circumstances and pleading for prayer. I assured my friend that the presence of opposition affirmed the fact that we were exactly where we were supposed to be. I hit the Send button and buried my head in my hands.
I thought about the boys at the fish suq and hundreds more like them we had not yet met. “Lord, there are four million people in the Tihama like those boys, people hungry to know more than they do, hungry to be loved as only You can love. Work in this land, Lord,” I prayed. “Move Your mighty hand and draw them to Yourself.”
I prayed passionately, longing for the Tihama people to hear and know Jesus. Then, as I prayed I became suddenly overwhelmed as I saw God’s power. I saw His ability to move across Yemen as the Almighty God, pouring His love, surging forward to bring His peace and reconciliation to every man, woman and child.
I was ecstatic. “Yes, Lord! Do it!” I cried. “Move forward!”
But then I saw God holding back. It was as if He were standing on the crest of the mountain ready but waiting. He was capable, with every resource at His command, fully able to take over the valley. But He was not moving. He was waiting.
I was confused. “Why, Lord?” I did not understand. “Why are You waiting? You desire that every one of these people be saved and come to know the truth. Your Word says so (see 1 Timothy 2:4)! Why are You waiting?”
I heard the Lord’s clear answer. “I am waiting until My desire is the desire in the hearts of My people. I am waiting for My people to want what I want and to ask Me for it.”
Tears misted my eyes as the picture faded slowly away. One by one, I closed my program files and turned off my computer. Did God’s people desire Muslim nations to hear God’s message? I stared at my face reflected in the darkened monitor. Were God’s people praying like they desired it? Were they praying like they believed God could do it?
I slowly walked to the office door and stopped to look back through the uncurtained window. A green neon sign flashed in the distance from the pinnacle of the neighborhood mosque, illuminating the mosque’s presence. I stared at it several minutes, thinking about the Light God had sent to illuminate His presence. Yemen had yet to see and understand that the Light is Jesus.
I closed the office door behind me. “There’s a lot of work to do, Lord, but it’s not going to start in the Tihama.” I turned out the lights in the hall. “Our work has got to start back home, calling Your people to pray.”
One morning not long after, the sun splashed color through the stained-glass kamariahs as I looked at myself in the mirror. I was wearing the most American outfit I owned: khaki pants and a button-down blouse. I held my balto limply in one hand and my hejab in the other.
“Should I wear them?” I whispered at my reflection with my eyes on the balto and hejab. “What if they get mad and don’t invite me back?”
I was about to join a group of American and European women, the only English-speaking women I had met in Hudaydah. I had met them through an American couple who had been in our home for dinner. The couple worked in Hudaydah periodically with a Canadian oil company. Although we had been mutually disappointed in each other’s lifestyles, the wife introduced me to other Western women in the city. I ha
d been thrilled by their invitation to join them for a shopping expedition in a nearby village.
But their invitation had put me in a quandary. These women were not personally interested in the local women. Their hired driver drove them where they wanted to shop, answered their curiosity about local customs and negotiated sales for them as needed. They did not wear baltos. In the Tihama heat they wore T-shirts with cotton skirts, bare legs and sandals. They were polite to the locals but were not interested in friendships with them.
I was. But I wanted my English-speaking friends, too. Our family comprised five of less than twenty Westerners living in the entire city of 450 thousand. I was lonely. I had not yet made local friends, and I did not want to lose my new Western ones. If I wore my balto, I knew I could.
The gate bell rang. I hurried outside and climbed into the Land Cruiser. “Good morning,” I said brightly.
One woman snickered. “Well, look at you! Good morning.”
Another woman murmured a greeting while another said nothing. She scowled at my hejab.
I swallowed and pretended not to notice. “I can’t wait to see this village! Thank you so much for inviting me!”
One woman nodded; the other two looked out of the window as we pulled away from my gate. They began to talk about their cocktail party the night before and the unbearable heat of the Tihama. They ignored me. My heart sank.
We arrived at the village, a cluster of mud-brick huts with thatched roofs nestled between small concrete block houses. A small white mosque stood off to the side. Next to it was a one-room building with the black letters madrasa (school) fading on its weathered sign. On the other side of the mosque was a well. A pink plastic bucket dangled above its stone-edged hole.
The SUV bumped through a sandy alley and stopped next to an awning made of palm fronds. Two men sat underneath with a large wooden loom between them. We climbed out of the car and walked over to watch.
The weavers nodded to us, neither smiling nor frowning. They faced each other from their cross-legged positions on the ground. One slid the threaded shuttle across the loom to the other, who wove it through and slid it back. They were weaving stripes of red, black and yellow interspersed with slivers of lime green.
The driver explained the process. “They are making two futas [wrap skirts] at the same time. See the open threads in the middle? They will cut them apart when they are finished. Then they will weave a border for the edges. They can make any word you want in the border. If you give them a name, they will weave it.”
“Where do they get the colored thread?” I asked in Arabic. One of the weavers looked up.
“Ah, you speak Arabic! This is good!” The driver responded in Arabic. The weavers grinned, nodding in agreement.
The driver continued in English. “The women dye the thread, or they buy it colored.” He showed us a basket of thick cotton thread sitting next to the weavers. “When the weavers finish, the women take the futas to the sea and beat them in the water. The salt sets the colors and makes them shiny.”
He took a finished futa from a stack and showed us. It looked like polished cotton. We marveled over the craftsmanship.
The Western women purchased several through the driver, who pocketed some of the payment before giving it to the weavers. The women said nothing, as if this had been done before.
I looked down the alley at the row of huts. Each had windows, but none had glass panes. Their wooden shutters were propped open with sticks. Thatched roofs rustled in the breeze over mud houses while corrugated tin crackled over concrete ones.
A movement in the nearest doorway caught my eye. We were being watched. I tried to make out who it was. I noticed movement in other doorways. The village women were watching us, peeking discreetly from the darkness of their homes. I smiled at them and nodded. I saw a flash of teeth as someone smiled back.
The women were exuberant on their ride home. They were happy with their purchases and excited about using the futas as tablecloths. They talked about a village that made pottery and made plans for another shopping expedition. But their plans did not include me. They talked as if I were not there. I swallowed.
When we stopped at my gate, they turned briskly to murmur good-byes. They watched me get out of the car and then drove their SUV out of my life.
I sobbed on Kevin’s shoulder. “I wanted so much to have friends,” I wailed. “I wanted them to like me.”
“You did the right thing, sweetheart.” He hugged me close.
“I know. But that doesn’t make it easier.” I blew my nose. “But still, that village was so cool. They make those futas on an outside loom on the ground. Two guys by hand! I want you and the kids to see it. Do you think we can go back?”
“This afternoon? Are you sure?” Kevin scratched his head. “I guess we could go after lunch.”
At 3:30 we pulled into the village. The weavers were stretched out asleep, but they sat up as we parked next to their awning.
Kevin greeted them with a wide smile and an outstretched hand. “Asalam alaykum! Kaif halikum? [Peace/Greetings. How are you?]”
The men answered and grinned, motioning for Kevin to join them. Jaden sat down with Kevin. The men showed us the futas they had completed and offered Kevin a twig of qat. They offered Jaden a leaf too, but Kevin declined both with a smile.
I looked down the alley. A woman waved to me from her doorway, stepping out to greet me. She was followed by her neighbors and children, who appeared from multiple doorways. They crowded around Madison, Jack and me with smiling faces and curious eyes.
“Hadtha koyis [This is good].” The woman tugged my balto sleeve and touched my hejab.
“Ta’allee, ta’allee [Come, come],” her neighbor beckoned. Another woman pinched Jack’s cheek and kissed him as three older girls encircled Madison, chattering excitedly in Arabic. Madison smiled uncertainly. Jack scowled.
We were led through a concrete home to the back porch. “Barrood [Cool],” the woman of the house explained.
We sat on a wooden bench under a thatched awning propped high with skinny tree trunks. The group crowded around, pushing to get a closer look. The woman of the house whispered something to her neighbor, who scuttled into the alley. I heard her call to someone else as she hurried away.
Our hostess looked at me and the children and asked “Mussihiya [Christian]?”
I nodded, looking at the faces gathered around me. “I follow God through the Way, Jesus,” I said evenly.
Our hostess went inside her home and returned with a small photograph carefully displayed in an oversized, scratched-up frame. She smiled proudly as she handed it to me. “Bentee. Ismaha Miriam: Mairr-ee. [My daughter. Her name is Miriam: Mary].”
She pronounced the word carefully in English. She knew Mary was an important name in Christianity. She seemed proud of her daughter’s connection to it.
I tried not to show my surprise. I congratulated her and complimented her daughter’s name. I admired the fine photograph and smiled as she pulled her five-year-old daughter from the crowd for me to greet in person. The little girl grinned, reaching out to touch the embroidery on my balto. I pinched her cheek and kissed my fingers, in their custom. Then I introduced my children to the crowd. Madison gave the swarm of women a shaky smile. Jack buried his head as hands reached for his cheeks and curly white hair. I explained that my older son, Jaden, was with his father and the men. The women nodded approvingly.
I asked them about their village and the futas. They took me into the dirt yard to show me vats of dye and colored thread drying on a wire clothesline. A basket of snow-white thread sat waiting beside the vats. I touched the drying colors and complimented their fine work. Their faces beamed as they showed me stacks of futas ready to be washed in the sea.
The neighbor returned from the alley with a tray of cream-filled cookies and a single tin cup, which was filled with water and a floating cube of ice and carefully served to me. I took the cup like a treasure, knowing the effort it had taken to
provide it in a village without electricity or running water.
Madison and Jack reached for the cup together. “I’m thirsty.” Madison took a big gulp.
Jack took the cup after Madison, and we drank it dry together, thanking the women profusely. I prayed silently for protection against amoebas. We ate the cookies as the women watched. I motioned for them to take some but they declined with wide grins. I praised them for their generosity. The women smiled their pleasure.
Kevin’s voice called from the alley. “I must go,” I told the women. “My husband is calling me. But, God willing, I will see you another time.”
“You must,” the women answered in unison. “You must come back and visit us again.”
On our car trip home I fingered the futas Kevin had purchased. I thought about the crowd of hands that had waved good-bye to us.
“Feel better?” Kevin reached for my hand.
“I do,” I answered. “I may have lost my English-speaking friends, but I feel like I gained an entire village.” I sat silent for a minute. “You know, Kevin. It matters how I present myself to them.”
After several months in the Tihama, we requested and received permission from the mission board to return to the U.S. for a six-week advocacy trip to speak to churches across the country. We logged nine thousand miles on a borrowed minivan while introducing God’s people to the people of the Tihama and calling them to pray and partner with us. Two weeks into our advocacy trip, Kevin and I faced a potential detour. We discovered I was pregnant—at 42.
Four weeks later we returned to the Tihama, and I found myself housebound with constant morning sickness. After losing yet another meal, I washed my face with cool water and returned to my recliner. “Lord, why now?” I cried. “When there’s so much to be done, why this pregnancy now?”
I felt caged in when doors were opening all around us. Neighbors of neighbors invited me to visit. Villages invited us to initiate projects. So many things we had prayed for were happening. And I was sidelined to a recliner, fighting to keep food down.
But God’s people were praying.
A month later I met my neighbor Firdoos, who not only invited me to visit but also invited our neighbor Nabila to join us. We sat together in the one-room hut that Firdoos shared with her husband, an electrician’s apprentice. The cement hut was attached to the outside wall of a two-story villa. Firdoos told me the villa stood empty most of the year. Its owners lived in Sana’a and came to Hudaydah during winter months.
Behind the Veils of Yemen Page 16