An innocently and inquisitively asked question posed by a young Turkish Muslim boy whose family practices Islam. A question I can now answer with a deeply wholehearted confirmation.
Before delving into the context, lessons, and beauty surrounding the question and response, I must make an infallible declaration — when we ask, He answers. When we seek, we find.
The unassuming village of Stambolovo, Bulgaria, is where my team and I found ourselves this month. We partnered with John and Jane Goodwin, pioneers through planting a ministry base in the village. A majority of the ministry consisted of yard work, digging trenches, moving bricks, and piling stones. Their vision for their ministry, Worship With Us, is to create a platform that fosters encounters with the Lord as well as to house missionaries who will not only develop the property and strengthen relationships with members of the community in Stambolovo, but also to reach surrounding villages and towns in Bulgaria. After being with them for the month, I can attest to the mission’s purpose and the space they have left for the Holy Spirit to continue directing and inspiring thoughts and ideas. The practicality of this vision in the context of our month involved their current project, the barn. The property has a spacious barn (or shell of a barn, rather, consisting of mostly wooden frames separating room from room, a roof, and a floor) they wish to convert into a house for missionaries to utilize, whether teams, or long-term missionaries in Bulgaria. Having recently planted a church in their own town, St. Mary’s, in Canada, their dreams for the property are repeatedly paused and resumed between each visit, holding fast to the heart the Lord has given them for Bulgaria. They have been traveling to and from Bulgaria for nearly twenty years, and it has become evident to them that He wants them in Canada permanently, but to continue growing and pursuing their ministry in Stambolovo. John and Jane lived in the same house with us this month, and we shared every meal together, worshipped God every single day, and simply did life with them, so to speak. I could more deeply elaborate on the joy these two brought me this month, the interesting discussions I had with John, the laughs, the wisdom, and ultimately the gift they were, but alas, this blog would be much too long. Let me assure you, though, as I sit on the train after having left then, I experience a strange mixture of sadness and thankfulness, grateful for the people who were recently strangers yet currently feel more like family.
Stambolovo is a village whose demographics reflect a population of Gypsies, Turks, and a surprisingly considerable number of English people. Aside from the grueling labor my team took part in (half joking half serious) we also played with the local kids in the center every afternoon. John has formed a lasting relationship with the children in the village, evident by their excited yells and incessant demands for the ball the day John and Jane arrived.
I will not soon forget the first day we timidly approached the center of the village prepared to play with the kids we did not know, and the experience 0.3 seconds later of seeing a sea of children run towards us with open arms. That was the initiation of a beautiful friendship. A friendship of few words. A friendship of playing ninja, dancing, playing football, and every other easily explainable perhaps even mime-able kids game we could think of.
Mostly all of the children were Turkish. A reality I approached with trepidation, considering my family’s Armenian background and the history behind the two people’s relations. Even in the context of the destructive genocide, however, I was always taught to love the Turks, a lesson whose precedence stemmed from my great grandmother who experienced the most cruel realities of the genocide and whose life and testimony are evidence of God’s grace and mercy. It was not until this month that I had ever interacted with a Turkish person so closely. I am fully aware of the fact that I did not walk through the genocide, neither did my mother, and nether did my grandmother. Regardless, the history is there and the stories will always be seared in my mind. The result of which was a slight uneasiness and nervousness when meeting these kids.
What I observed after getting to know them, although somewhat predictable yet nevertheless powerful, will forever remain.
They are just kids.
Kids like the kids in Chile, Argentina, Bolivia, Cambodia, and every other country we have been to. The relationship that developed between us was innocent, free of any trace of knowledge about the past and its implications for the present.
As the month progressed, my team and I felt as if it would be an opportunity missed if we did not host a VBS-esque event consisting of food, songs, games, a skit, and a Christian message. We prepped, planned, and hosted. Aside from the chaos of having children over (a reality one has to accept when hosting such an event), the event went off without a hitch. That is, until the message.
As formerly stated, the kids in the community are all Muslim. Coincidentally for me (mostly likely extremely purposeful from God) I had been reading a book authored by the late Nabeel Quereshi, Seeking Allah Finding Jesus. Quereshi was a former Muslim turned Christian whose life of searching and wrestling with uncovering the truth about God depicts the Lord’s incessant fight for His children when they cry out to Him. It is an absolutely phenomenal book and the way God intervened in this man’s life and utilized his intelligence and testimony was nothing short of a miracle. My mom and aunt have been inspired by Nabeel Quereshi for quite some time, and I have been intending to read this book for over a year now. Why did I read it this month? I have no idea. Yet, I found myself devouring every word, infatuated with his story. Not only did I find his personal relationship and walk compelling, but I also developed a fascination for Islam and all of the aspects to which I had been extremely ignorant.
Through Quereshi’s words and stories, I grew in understanding of the religion — while I am under absolutely no assumption that I now understand it fully — and appreciation for acquired insight into a people group of whom I had had no previous knowledge. I came to grow in curiosity about the complexity of Islam, the arguments Nabeel poses against his former religion simply through the unveiling of the truth, and increased understanding of the vast diversity of culture within it.
Again, how ironic it was that nearly all of my interactions with people outside of the base would be with Muslims. Now I can resume the story.
The team and I had decided to share the Gospel through salvation bracelets, a piece of jewelry that seeks to explain the main points of the Gospel through different colored beads. In the planning process, we determined it was an engaging way to simultaneously share our faith while also gift the kids with something to remember it. However, as our Bulgarian friend began explaining the bracelet and the symbolism behind the colors, simple, explanatory words were met with adamant resistance.
I could not understand the words they spoke (obviously) but the declarations of, “No, Muhammad,” “Allah … Bog,” were easily decipherable as insistent pushback on the Christian message and passionate affirmation of their religion, Islam. With expressions of shock and mild panic, my team and I exchanged glances that spoke to my inner feelings of “What. The. Heck.” Never had I ever seen youth so vehemently fight for their faith. Despite clearly considerable differences in opinion, I have to admit a part of me was inspired by their conviction about something they most likely did not even fully comprehend.
While reading a section of Seeking Allah Finding Jesus the following day, it almost felt as if Nabeel was speaking directly to our experience the day prior.
“Because of hadith and tradition, Muslim religion, culture, heritage, and identity all find their core in the person of Muhammad. That is why Muslims see an attack on his character as equivalent to a personal attack on them and everything they stand for. That is also why, generally speaking, Muslims cannot dispassionately discuss Muhammad. They bring immense baggage to the table, and the discussion will doubtless be colored by apparently unrelated things, such loyalty to kin or even current affairs between Israel and Palestine…” (Quereshi, 2016).
Despite how you may guess the arguing could have progressed, the event ended rather peacefully, both parties having held fast to their own beliefs. They were just kids, after all. However, it was around the bonfire after the party had ended and the number of people had begun to dwindle that I had the most impactful conversation over Google Translate I have ever had.
A young boy, Stanimir was sitting next to me, asking questions about my life.
Out of nowhere he asked, “Do you believe in God?”
I immediately thought, “Were you not at all listening to the message?” Deciding to resist snarkiness in a moment of potential evangelism, I responded, “Yes, I do.”
“Have you seen him?” he wrote.
“Yes. I see him every day in nature and in people.”
After a pause, I asked, “Do you believe in God?”
My question was met with a shrug.
“Do you pray?” he asked me.
“Yes. Do you?”
“Not until you guys arrived.”
Frozen with surprise and excitement, I forged forward, asking him how he likes praying.
Again, another shrug. Just then, another boy approached and having heard what we were discussing over translate, interjected.
“No, No, Allah,” he asserted.
I then asked if their families were Muslim.
“Yes,” they responded.
It was the next few moments that proved to be the most cathartic and poignant of the month.
I heard him dictate the question in Bulgarian and looked down at the screen to read, “Do you love Muslims?”
I looked into his eyes which depicted a mixture of fear and hostility. The mixture perhaps reflecting copious emotions swirling inside of him from stories told by his parents or grandparents or experiences of discrimination personally experienced.
“Of course.”
I looked again to observe a wave of relief as a smile grew across his face.
“Do you love Turks?”
The next question perhaps harder to answer. Harder to answer not because I do not, but because of the generational baggage carried from the tragedy of the past.
“Absolutely.”
Just two days ago I was praying fervently to feel God’s love. I have lately been walking through issues of identity, a struggle I am confident will consume another book of a blog. To summarize though, the crux of the issue stems from not fully grasping God’s love for me. During worship, I was saying to Him, “God, now would be a great time for me to feel your love. Please. Just once.”
Well let me tell you, be careful what you pray for. It was not until this morning that I fully comprehended what happened last night.
It was our last night with the kids, and Stanimir had messaged me earlier in the day. I told him to be in the center at 5 pm so we could say goodbye. In the stress of packing and cleaning, Meg and I were running late as we approached the center. It was completely empty aside from Stanimir sitting with his family under the statue in the middle of the center.
I truly cannot express what happened next. For some reason unbeknownst to me (at the time) I was overcome by an overwhelming feeling of love for Stanimir. I watched the sweet smile spread unassuming on his face, and I could not fully understand why I felt such a tangible and inexpressible love for him. As Meg, Sam, Lauren, and I passed the ball with him, my feelings became too much to contain. I turned from the group attempting to be discrete, but about ten seconds later was forced to confront the group, eyes flooded with tears. Most likely feeling confused and awkward, Stanimir turned to Sam who attempted to gesture, explaining that I was sad to leave. In that moment I felt so heavy. A heaviness, again, I do not really know why or how it came upon me. I just wanted him to know. I wanted him to accept. I wanted him to believe. As the little Muslim Turkish boy said, “Alli, no cry,” and looked at me with bewilderment, I have never felt so heartbroken in the face of the reality of truth, salvation, heaven, and hell. My heart hurt for him, and continues to hurt. My mind was reeling with Nabeel’s story, God’s ability to reveal Himself to anyone who seeks, and the fact that this boy is so lost. He is so lost, yet I also feel he is so on the cusp of a breakthrough.
In the taxi as we pulled away from the center, I again broke down. Wrecked by it all, I could hardly explain to Meg and Sam what I was feeling and why. It was then that Meg said, “Imagine how Jesus feels.”
It wasn’t until this morning when I was reading my Bible that I understood what those words meant.
“God, let me feel your love.”
That request, that plea, I had made days prior reverberated through my mind.
I do not know how I had expected Him to answer this prayer, but I now know He did. It was through a Muslim boy and a broken heart. It is through the lump in my throat and water in my eyes I am experiencing right now as I write this and think about Stanimir and his sweet smile. It was through feeling one millionth of an ounce of what He feels for each of His lost children.
I had been asking to feel God’s love, and in Stambolovo, Bulgaria, I did.
