Page 63 of Rescuing You

Her bitterness surprised him.

“Jasmine was a fool to believe she would listen. Mama could never stand up to Baba. She is…she was…” Her voice trailed.

Was?

“Did something happen to her?”

“She’s been gone nine years. Cancer. I didn’t know until Jasmine told me.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” The van was moving at a steady speed now, so Michael risked snaking one arm around her. “I’m so sorry.”

She held herself to his chest as if finding comfort there. “I prayed for her all those years, but she was gone. Even before that, I prayed for her—and Baba. From when I first came to know Jesus, I prayed she would be safe. And now she is gone, so there is no hope for her. She is lost to me forever.”

He ran his hand down Leila’s hair, unsure what to say. It took a moment before words came. “Maybe you and your sister had an impact on her. More than that, we know God heard your prayers. Maybe He reached her, but she was too afraid to tell anyone.”

“If that is the case, then is it real? If she was too afraid to admit, then is that not denying Him?”

This was getting a little too theoretical—and theological. “We can only know that our God is never looking for reasons to deny somebody entrance into His presence. From the garden all the way through the scriptures, God demonstrates His desire to be with His people. In fact, there’s nothing He wants more. So, if your mother opened a door to Him, I believe He walked through it.”

“Do you think she did?” Michael didn’t miss the spark of joy in her voice.

“We can’t know, Leila. But there’s always hope.”

She settled her cheek against his chest. The physical desire that had hummed inside him was gone, replaced by a holy desire to protect this courageous woman who’d lost so much.

The van slowed and came to a stop, and this time, the radio’s volume went down.

Leila looked up at him with wide eyes.

He shook his head. With no radio and no road noise to cover them, they needed to be silent.

He’d been trying to guess the van’s route through the city. By his calculations, they should be nearing the outskirts by now.

A harsh voice barked, “Papers.”

“Yeah, okay, man.” Splat, speaking English, sounded nervous, as well he should. Any American who didn’t feel nervous at the sight of armed Iraqi soldiers would be deemed either arrogant or foolish. Splat would do his best to appear as neither.

Omar spoke in Arabic. “We’re transporting furniture for a colonel’s wife.” He made a joke about American women and all their stuff, but the soldier didn’t engage.

“We will search.”

“Okay,” Omar said. “I’ll open up.”

Footsteps thumped past them, and then the door in the back of the van rumbled.

Bright light filtered through the narrow openings in the crate.

Michael pulled the handgun from his holster. He had no idea what he’d do if they were discovered.

Shooting a soldier would probably get him killed.

But Splat would try to get them out of there before that happened.

We need You now, Father. Protect us.

The van bounced as the soldier—no, soldiers, based on the multiple voices and footsteps—climbed on.

Leila clung to him as if he could protect her. As if holding onto him would make her invisible.