We quickly walk the direction of the apartment and are greeted with open arms. We are told that worship has already started so in gentle words, “pick up the pace”. We are ushered into a small room that has flags from different countries and balloons hanging from the walls. The window is closed and it is another warm African Saturday afternoon.
A girl waves me to the back of the room where there is enough room for me to stand. I make my way back between the dog, cat, and other feet. I manage to right myself and face the same direction as everyone else. The words to a familiar worship song are being projected on the wall and above the English lyrics were the lyrics in Arabic.
We sing a few songs, dance, and pray in very different languages. Then the young girl who waved me back stands up and makes her way to the front of the room. She unfolds the papers she had in her back pocket and takes a deep breathe.
She begins to tell about an elderly woman she met in a park. This elderly woman was a refugee now moved to Turkey because of war. She shares in her native tongue a hope that the pain of this world doesn’t last forever. That there is a King, one that does not ask for work in return, one that loves her, one that can offer love and peace. To a refugee I can only imagine hearing news of a king that is sovereign and is peaceful. The elderly woman in the park, forced out of her home, forced into a new country, met the true King. The elderly woman is now our sister. She kept going back to the park day after day for the 24 days she had there and shared about the hope the true King could offer. She saw little kids to the elderly come to know Christ in the park.
She went to Turkey against her mother and father’s wishes. She told them she was only going to help friends translate. Her mom, father, two brothers, and sister don’t know she is a believer. Her proclaimed atheist brother suspects, cannot confirm, she is and her sister has asked but she remains secret. She keeps this secret, not to protect herself but to protect her friends that she helps translate. She is not afraid of what will happen if her family finds out, although she will be persecuted, but she will protect her friend’s secret at all costs.
She begins to cry when she starts to talk about leaving Turkey and shares that she prays the Lord will take her back someday. I began to cry because though I am not ever in fear of persecution but because I know how it feels to long for some place that isn’t your home.
She folds up her papers, puts them back in her pocket, and comes back to sit next to me. I turn to her and she smiles. She thanks me for coming and listening to hear speak. I can’t form words for her; I just look at her with wide tear filled eyes. How can I stand up for her?
To be able to speak with us that night she had a twelve-hour round trip, she had a fight with her mom for leaving the house and again, her brother approached her with allegations of Christianity.
I catch my taxi and come back to my apartment. I think about her and her story daily.
If you pray for me, would you add the persecuted church to the prayer? Would you pray that more answer the call, pray that a revival would happen here and spread like fire. Pray for her.
