A Future and A Hope
Excerpts from Mishael’s Journal
For I consider that the sufferings
of this present time are not worthy to be compared
with the glory which shall be revealed in us.
~ Romans 8:18
e
Chapter 1
Abandoned caravan campground, Al Suwaiq Village, Yanbu.
Population: 117
Suwaiq Village was once a happy hunting ground for budget tourists and digital nomads who would travel in their rented caravans and campervans while they sightsaw picturesque Yanbu City. This heritage village provided an alluring backdrop for their video logs that documented their myriad adventures in the Saudi Arabian peninsula. However, that was before the war of Gog and Magog. Al Suwaiq had undoubtedly seen better days when General Micah ben Israel and I set foot here about two years ago for the soft-launch of the O:AU Yanbu chapter. Since then I had been in deployment here as its primary caretaker.
My sibling, Ariel, arrived three hours ago. On his furlough, he had been co-opted into Mika’s peacekeeping corps tasked with delivering payloads of food and water to the global O:AU initiatives on behalf of the IDF.
Ari sat back against a disused campervan, one of many that had been abandoned during the war.
Looking intently at me, he asked: “So you were in Jaffa with Mika before your deployment to Yanbu, you said?”
I nodded: “Do you want to hear about it now?”
“You have the floor,” he replied, priming himself to pay heed to my narrative.
I began recounting in a pensive tone: “Asher Kaplan’s parents emigrated to Israel from Thessaloniki before he was born. His father was a shipping magnate, so Asher’s birthright alone had set him up for life. Following in his father’s footsteps, he grew up to become a businessman. Unlike his father, however, he was representative of the new generation of entrepreneurs that applied their heart, rather than head, knowledge to drive their business to success. His father thought his methodology was a sign of weakness. Nehorai Kaplan often vocalised his disapproval of his son and sometimes converted his verbal abuses to physical ones. Thus, despite all that he had going for him, Asher was frequently paralysed by his father’s power to browbeat him into submission.
“His mother was no better: instead of providing him a safety net whenever he was abused by his father, Vitaliya Kaplan was known to berate him rather than demonstrate even a modicum of maternal duty toward him. She would go as far as to eviscerate him by belittling every woman he brought home for a visit. “Waste of space”, “Pariah”, “Sorry specimen of manhood”, were the kinds of vitriol she employed to undermine his mate-selection efforts.
“Although Asher was paradoxically strong- and weak-willed at the same time, he was extremely popular with his female colleagues and employees, in particular a woman by the name of Elisheva.
“Elisheva Danzig worked at Asher’s art gallery as its curator and sometimes dabbled in sculpture. She’d been working on a sculpture of her own bust when Asher asked her out on a date. After irreducibly winning each other’s hearts and desires, Asher and Elisheva began to court openly and officially. Eight months later they tied the knot; they went ahead with their plans despite Mr. and Mrs. Kaplan’s objection.
“Sadly, the couple’s dreams of matrimonial bliss were cut short by a mall shooting that would take Elisheva’s life and impair much of Asher’s short-term memory.
“Oh, let me insert a little detail I had forgotten here: before their tragedy, this couple bore the hallmarks of all that were romantic and fantastic about movie couplings. For instance, many a little girl fantasizes about a boyfriend and husband like Asher: protective, chivalrous, responsible. Every girl growing into womanhood daydreams about her future life and longs for such dreams to be actualized – a handsome husband, a half dozen babies and a suburban house surrounded by sunflowers and white picket fencing. Yes, it’s old-fashioned; but for all the political rhetoric about pluralism, feminism and subjective morality there are still many that long for the simplicity of those days when the lines between male and female, masculinity and femininity and a household’s division of labor were clearly demarcated. But I digress.
“It was in his state of isolated memory loss that Asher made his acquaintance with us – that’s Mika and me. Some fifteen months had elapsed between the sniper shooting and our arrival at Jaffa to minister to him and his family. This was at the request of Asher’s business partner who had served in the IDF for a long time. This woman, Liesl Verdoner, a believer, had felt that Asher’s conversion to biblical faith would benefit him mentally and spiritually.
“Although he was showing progress in his recovery process, Asher had no memory at all of Elisheva’s ever being in his life, much to Jared and Netanya’s distress. The latter were Elisheva’s grieving parents. And Asher had no memory of his life as the owner-director of one of the largest art galleries in Jaffa as well.
“The crux of Asher’s problem laid in his inability to function in his responsibilities, personal and professional. And, so, gradually, but surely, Asher became a tatterdemalion and a shut-in.
“Asher’s parents had by this time repented of much of their former actions and attitude toward their son and daughter-in-law; all they wanted by this time was for their son to be whole and happy. After half a year, Mika and I had a breakthrough and it was in the most unlikely way: Asher would be involved in another act of terrorism, which would force him to stare down the barrel of a sniper’s gun for the second time. However this experience would resolve his major crisis point: the recollection, recognition and acceptance of his wife’s death.
“His gallery reopening, not long after, was the milestone event with respect to his triumph over his trauma. It was at the gallery that he planted a kiss on the sculpture of his wife made by Elisheva herself but completed by her mother, Netanya. Posthumously dedicating the gallery to Elisheva, Asher was then able to leave the premises with a smile on his face. It’d been a long time coming, to see him crack a smile.
“Mika said that in light of the psychological trauma that had beset him and his success in subduing its onslaught, the kiss was symbolic of his healing. Mika also believed that Asher’s healing had been a miracle, but even more miraculous had been his willingness to listen to the gospel preached to him and his family – both his parents and in-laws. It was a miracle because until now Israel’s Jewry had still been resistant to Messiah, resistant to Yahushua as their Messiah spoken of in their law and prophets.
“Well, Ari, this concludes my little anecdote.”
I gazed on my brother. He appeared dispassionate, stony, and so I waited uneasily for his response.
At length my brother commented: “Fallouts stemming from a trauma are always hardest to peer into and understand in order to resolve and get closure. You’re right; Mika was right: you were both handed a miracle. It was a miracle Asher broke out of his psychological imprisonment, and then received Messiah into his life at the end. Well done, you . . . and the General.”
“Mika did all the heavy lifting,” I admitted, while appreciating my senior’s positive feedback. “I mostly prayed behind the scenes.”
“Selah,” Ari said.
“Selah? Why?” I asked.
“‘Incomers’,” he explained.
A group of refugee kids, mostly aged two and three, skipped out of a shanty to head in our direction. Among them was little Sofiya, whose adoptive mother was one of my Bible Study leaders right here in Al Suwaiq. And she was one of my converts.
In anticipation of meeting Sofiya’s mother, Ariel and I respectfully rose from the grass.
My sibling gripped my shoulders hurriedly and said: “Meet you back at yours. I’ll make supper.”
My brows rose: “Oh, okay. See you ba . . .”
Ari had begun to dematerialize while I was speaking.
“Later,” he whispered.
The little orphaned children surrounded me, their arms curled round my knees. Many of them were from war-torn Syria, Lebanon, Kuwait and Yemen. Among the faces looking up at me was Sofiya, of course.
“Uncle Misha,” she squealed with the carefreeness of childhood and abandon of innocence. She had stretched out her little chubby arms to me, a gesture so delightful and charming I could never resist responding to it. I picked her up and cuddled her in my arms.
“Miss Sofiya Hanna Youssef,” I smiled, “but what are you doing out here?”
She shunted her delicate body and pointed at the shanty. “Momma,” she cooed.
I peered into the shanty through a spindly wooden door with the familiar irreparably rusted post-Byzantine era door knocker. There was her mother in the midst of a small group of widows. All of them were refugees from neighbouring regions: they were evicted from their desert dwellings when their men, all their husbands and sons, were forcibly conscripted to fight in the Gog-Magog war. One after another, these desert Badw, perished in the war.
All the widows were women of modest means: their existence once depended on the stipends of the oligarchy. Of course, that was before the Antichrist suspended the welfare system. This notwithstanding, they had a future and a hope, guaranteed them by the blood of the Lamb, Yahushua.
I approached the shanty with Sofiya still in my arms. The women’s conversation was noisy, merry, their demeanor warm. Nyla Almusa caught an earful of her daughter’s giggles, which she recognized, and rose from her chair to receive us.
“I’m so, so glad to catch you before you leave, Misha,” the former Yemeni National smiled. She wrapped her arms around me and her daughter, and gave us a tight squeeze. “I know you don’t like saying goodbye, you have told us so many times, I know, but . . . my baby girl here, my precious Sofiya, she will miss you. All of us will miss you so much.”
I nodded as I returned her little girl to her. I let my tears generously occupy my eyes.
This was a woman with whom I had a Paul and Timothy relationship who, I dare say, was my daughter in the faith: I was leaving her and her friends in a matter of days and my heart was unexpectedly aching. Yet I was proud of Nyla, of her growth as a disciple of Yahushua and of her accomplishments. Indeed she had grown to be a pillar of this village, many of whose female residents had become ardent followers of Yeshua Ha Mashiach because of her.
“I shall miss all of you so much, too, more than you’ll ever know. But ours is not a parting of the ways,” I intonated with bravery.
“Indeed,” she concurred, “since our hope is in our Mashiach-Nagid, we shall certainly see each other again in glory.”
“Yes,” I stated, “Christ in us is the hope of glory.”
I was then feted to a goodbye tea, which I hesitantly accepted. At this time, Nyla informed me that her proselytes were planning to form a small-scale collective to make textile and kitchenware for charity, particularly in aid of the orphans and widows in the village.
“The barter system’s going to be reinstituted,” Nyla explained.
“That seems the right path to take,” I replied.
Nyla’s news had filled me with wonder at the villagers: for although of humble means, these were women of paramount consequence by virtue of their resourcefulness and charity. Of course, I wished their cause tremendous success.
“The Lord will bless your enterprise,” I told Nyla.
At some length, at the end of the usual formalities that came with departures, I was permitted to exit from their company. I went on my way, teleporting back to my cottage near Yanbu’al Bahr.
Ariel met me at my seaside cottage perched at the end of a long corniche. It was time to say goodbye to my sibling as well.
“How will you be occupied for the rest of your furlough?” I inquired of him while we sat down to sup on the hearty meal of goat-meat Kibbeh. How my brother was able to whip that up in the short time we had been separated was a mystery. Maybe it was just good old-fashioned angelic magic.
“Sorting out my personal effects, for one,” he replied. “I’ve a lot of that to do. As Mika has commanded, everything must be incinerated and destroyed since nothing can be brought with us to the Father’s house. For another, Gabriel has said he’d like for me to hang around Headquarters – to be on call to assist with reinforcements should any brother need it.”
I nodded while I enjoyed the party of flavours and crispiness in my mouth. “This is very good, A,” I told him. “You never fail to impress me.”
“Oh, thank you,” he said, adding, “and what about you: when do you finish up here?”
I shrugged: “When I can, I guess. Officially in about a week. I received my repatriation notice from Gabriel yesterday morning. In the meantime I have a wedding to attend – that’s in a few days.”
“Mm,” Ari grunted while he swallowed his mouthful. “I shall look forward to your homecoming soon.”
Nod, nod, nod.
“Now . . . about Oman,” Ari reminded me.
“Oh, right,” I sighed, “about that . . .”
My brother qualified the rubrics once more: “Describe a mission that one, fulfilled your mission objective; two, caused a character change in you; or three, saw growth in you as a warrior for Yah.”
“Not grading me, are you?” I asked him.
He shook his head: “Relax, you’re no longer in training. But this exercise helps us reflect and assess how well we have met the stated objectives of our mission to ascertain if we have made progress in our personal and spiritual growth.”
“Okay,” I began, “well, as you know I haven’t been deployed to many places, not as many as you have, so my options are limiting.”
“But all had been pertinent to your training as a disciple of and warrior for the Lord,” Ari interjected.
“Yes,” I replied, “I concede that my assignments on all my mission fields fit your rubrics; that said, I’d have to count my training with Mika, in Oman, as my most important insofar as fulfilling our mission objective.”
“Not just because you were able to observe Mika in action?”
“Sure: that may have contributed to my decision, in my subconscious; and I did learn plenty from observing the General. Goes without saying.”
“Of course. Mika’s the Optimus Prime of angels.”
We laughed.
I continued: “Anyhow, I hope I don’t put you to sleep with my anecdote so, here goes nothing. But first . . . a brief exposition to put the story in some socio-cultural context.
“Ever since the dawn of the twenty-first century world events had been converging to pave the way for the rise of the Antichrist as humanity’s saviour. The world’s citizenry had been astounded by the political and social unrest taking place in northern Africa and its domino effect on the political landscapes of the Middle East that began first in Tunisia, which was quickly followed by Egypt, then Bahrain, Saudi Arabia, Syria and Libya. I was told that back then there had been a lot of excitement in the news about the political changes that appeared inevitable in these regions; most of the free world was eager to see these nations peacefully transition their economies into something resembling a democracy.
“That failed to eventuate. Instead the Islamic caliphate rose to rival for hegemony in the region, contiguously deposing the Middle Eastern depots of their rule. The leadership vacuum left in the region would clear the path for the Antichrist’s ascension whose subsequent global influence culminated in the emergence of the New World Order. The world was then subjugated under Antichrist’s ten-nation oligarchy.
“Shimael taught us that the puppets that successfully aided the New-world potentate to form the current International World Order had been the globalists that comprised dignitaries from all the nations of the world. Shimael also said that behind the scenes their strings were really being pulled by the chief mischief-maker, Lucifer who had been manipulating the Islamists and globalists to fulfil his dream . . .”
“You’re right so far,” Ari interjected, “but it wasn’t just the Islamists and globalists. The western Media Industrial Complex, the Military Industrial Complex, the Medical Industrial Complex, Big Pharma – all were complicit in pushing the Luciferian new-world agenda.”
I nodded: “And now here we are. Two decades later.”
“Yes, here we are: a new social order without civil liberty, privacy and freedom of religious expression,” Ari concurred.
His voice and speech were orotund.
“Well, not entirely . . . ,” I demurred somewhat. “Not if you’re one of Antichrist’s ten oligarchs I mentioned earlier . . . and this, at last, brings me to Oman.”
“Proceed; I’m all ears,” Ari informed me.
“I can tell,” I grinned. Then continued: “So the tale with which I’m about to regale you involves a Muslim apostate, whose real name must remain anonymous for her protection. But for ease of storytelling let’s just call her Elif Alameri. Mika had been notified about Elif’s attempted defection from the sultanate, and I was a member of the squad involved in his latest engagement. FYI, Elif Alameri was the adopted daughter of a former Imam, who happened to be one of Antichrist’s ten oligarchs, mentioned twice before. This point is pithy, as you shall see in a bit.”
Ari threw me the politically-incorrect ring sign.
I continued: “At this stage I should give you another exposition, this time in respect of Miss Alameri and her upbringing.
“She was adopted by the then Imam of Oman. The Imam, Mustafa Al-Ihsan, had been in Jakarta for a summit of Muslim clerics when the hotel he was staying in became the scene of an inferno. And he had been the one responsible for it. Apparently he had been chain smoking into the night when he fell asleep, and his unfinished cigarette unfortunately met the hems of the drapery, setting it ablaze. In the same room was a scholar from the Tunisian entourage: Ustad Hamdi awoke to the scent and heat of smoke and, forsaking the safety of his own life, went on to rescue the Imam. Both men had inhaled much of the smoke by the time they were safely evacuated from the hotel whose entire sixth floor was all but razed by the fire. The Imam survived but owing to his advanced age, the Ustad would succumb to his severely damaged lungs.
“Now, this older man was a widower who had been looking after his only daughter. As I said, we shall call her Elif Alameri. The Imam was married to a Singaporean woman named, Nurul Jane Wang-Abdullah, and they made the decision together to adopt the orphaned girl. With the adoption process completed without much fanfare or hindrance, all three returned to Oman to build a happy family life together with the couple’s three other offspring; they were two sons and a daughter.
“Life wasn’t at all easy for Elif growing up. Under the cloak of family life, Nurul Jane would run the household like a despot whose children were mobilized for banquets and dinner parties as if they were her subjects. Disobedience and rebellion were swiftly met with verbal and emotional censure: daughters were body shamed and sons eviscerated.
“Elif Alameri would give as much as she got. She would unashamedly employ spite and back talking to deflect any hypocritical participation in her mother’s shenanigans. In the presence of their guests . . . her parents entertained a lot . . . well, in their guests’ presence, Elif would test the socio-economic boundaries that existed in the family hierarchy with comical imitations of the manners of a plebeian without refinement, manners eschewed by her upper class family. What Elif was doing was simply an articulation of her rebellion toward the external signs of wealth, propriety and decorum that her family must maintain in order to keep up appearances.
“However, beneath her mock defensive exterior and pretend ambivalence toward her family’s activities was truly a tender and forgiving spirit, one that was openly affectionate toward her siblings and secretly longed to contribute to the family’s oil business and net worth of three trillion Globo. She was denied this: in the tradition of her patriarchal society, Elif wasn’t situated in any position of eminence in her family, albeit being made a Doctor of Philosophy in Finance and Accounting from her years of attending higher education.
“Neither her own laurels nor her family’s fortune meant anything to Elif when, twenty years hence, she would hear the gospel of Yahushua, which was being preached at an underground church in Casablanca where she was holistaying. She surrendered her life to Yeshua’s Lordship despite facing the prospect of mandatory death, which was the prescribed punishment for apostasy from the Islamic faith.
“And at this juncture, some hearing this tale must be thinking, ‘Right, this narrative contains a loophole so big it strains credulity’. After all, aren’t all forms of traditional religious expression already outlawed in this International World Order when the event took place? Including Islam?
“Well, the answer is yes, and no. As I had pointed out earlier, Elif Alameri’s father was one of the oligarchs of the Global Unity and a globalist; so, he’d been exempt from compliance with the religious bans.”
“Ah, of course,” Ari interrupted, “that makes sense. Carry on.”
I smiled: “Well, a year after that, Elif made up her mind to leave her country for good. This was a risky task owing to the large protective services detachment that surrounded the former Imam’s family and its estate.”
“This is where Mika’s squad came into the picture?” my brother asked.
I nodded: “For mere mortals, smuggling Elif out of the compound undetected would be a death wish but the operation was an elementary one for the squad: we crept into the compound the night of our scheduled engagement, supernaturally put every one of the guards to sleep and staged the scene to resemble an elopement. Once safely out of the compound, we sailed her away on Jekuthiel’s Apache, over which Jacob had used the cloaking device to render it invisible.”
“But why elopement?” Ari asked.
“Well,” I explained, “this was the one variable in the engagement that had worked in our favour: Elif had been building a long-distance romantic relationship with a man from another country, someone of Caucasoid stock, since their post-grad days. Of course, the matter of interracial marriages was expressly forbidden by her family and culture, so the relationship had been kept a secret. It worked to our advantage that this man had discussed marriage with Elif and even proposed to her; ergo, the love struck Elif was easily sold on the idea. Together they spoke about Elif’s defection to his country and settling down there to begin their new life together. Hence, the idea of an elopement had seemed to Mika the more tenable option: it was between that and Foreign Work Experience in Canada . . . or something of that nature.”
“So Elif Alameri is safely out of Oman and living with her suitor,” Ari inferred.
“She is,” I replied.
Ari averred: “They say truth is stranger than fiction. Though, I have to say: if this had been a work of fiction, the suitor’s marriage proposal to, er . . . save the day, so to speak, would be deemed a contrived plot device.”
“You mean, like a deus ex machina?” I suggested.
“Mm-hmm,” Ari nodded, “exactly like that.”
I smiled once more: “Mika’s take was that from the get-go, from the time of Elif’s birth, the Lord had had His hand on the entire matter – moving all the chess pieces of her life in position to culminate in this finale, in the fulfilment of His will.”
“Mm, that’s a very good point,” Ari stated. “Eheyeh’s our good Shepherd. He knows His sheep and will move heaven and earth to ensure not one remains lost for good.”
I nodded.
My brother reached his hand to the nape of my neck: “Well, done, M. You chose a good example for our exercise, and it passes the rubrics’ muster.”
“Phew,” I sighed. “But I have to give all praise and glory to Eheyeh, for the success of the mission.”
As the night was still young, my brother and I proceeded to share narratives of other experiences we’d had on our individual missions. In between we shared coffee, sweet potato crisps, ice cream and selfie photos as well, eating and talking in this manner, far into the night.
Between the spoonfuls of yam-flavoured ice cream, made by a family in Yanbu that I knew well, I suggested half-jokingly: “You should stay the night, A. It’s already after midnight.”
Surprisingly, my brother agreed: “But I’d have to ask Gabe first – just to make sure my assistance isn’t needed tonight. Just a sec.”
My brother disappeared into an alcove to make a Swype call on Gabriel. Seconds later he reappeared with permission for the sleepover with me.
“Gabriel sends his love, by the way; Mika, too,” Ari had added.
“Gabriel’s an understanding Dad,” I remarked out of left field.
Ari nodded: “He’s just Gabe to me.”
“You’ve never addressed him as ‘Dad’?”
“He says he prefers Gabriel . . . or Gabe. Or Riel.”
“Copy that,” I replied.
During a lull in our feverish conversations, Ari left the table to get started on the mountain of dishes. I went away with excitement to make up his futon.
On my return to the living room, I promptly suggested to Ari that we played, Never Have I Ever.
Ari winced: “Ooh, that’s nail-biting . . . but sure, I’m game. Only let’s increase the severity of the stakes: loser must answer a question from winner honestly; agreed?”
I took a deep breath: “Eep, yea, that sounds emotionally risky, but you’ve got yourself a deal.”
Ari tossed a coin to determine who would start the ball rolling. He’d called heads and he had won the toss. Feeling suspicious, I grabbed the coin to make sure it hadn’t been tampered with, that there weren’t two heads on it. My competitive nature led to my feeling genuinely disappointed that the coin was legitimate. Ari laughed and thought I had been irrationally suspicious. Then he informed me that he was opting to go first.
“All righty, then,” he smiled mischievously, “um . . . okay, here goes: Never have I ever kissed a girl.”
I grimaced before shooting my sibling a suspicious scowl: “You found out, didn’t you?”
Ari’s brows rose: “What? You mean to say that you have? A real human girl? You’ve kissed a girl?”
I nodded.
“Wait; wait, wait, wait, wait,” Ari laughed. “I mean on the lips . . . right? Not the cheeks, not the hand, not the hair.”
I nodded again: “Yep.”
“Was it anyone I knew? Achante? Was it Achante Montagna?”
“Is that your question?”
Ari scoffed: “Will you check your competitiveness at the door? You know you have to clarify your first response.”
“Okay, okay. No, her name was Pilar . . . a Filipino, and a collector of objets d’art, she’d told me: she wanted to know if I could help with the conservation of her leather coasters, a family heirloom, since I dealt in leather. It took me by surprise – the kiss, I mean – as she was the one that had taken the initiative. And she was older. Yeah, nah, it wasn’t romantic or anything of the sort. Maybe it was to her; I don’t know. And I never saw her again after that. Your question now, please, Ari.”
My brother thought briefly then asked: “What’s been your biggest regret to date?”
“Easy,” I replied. “Not making up with brother Kemuel sooner. I’m only just realizing how much wisdom brother Kem has to impart to us.”
Ari nodded: “But of course. Brother Kem’s lived several hundred human life times, after all. He would’ve been witness to all the major historical events, as well as incidents that didn’t make history but nevertheless occurred, in private and in public. His mind would be an argosy of invaluable knowledge. Speaking of Kemuel, I’m stoked to see how tight-knit you both are. And you’ve led his team to win the last four Scalar races as well. Well done, Team Kem.”
“Yes, thanks,” I smiled. “I’m proud to be on Team Kem, as well. Right, it’s my turn now. Hmm . . . okay. Never have I ever been hospitalized.”
Ari’s eyes rolled. “Not the most fair . . . all of us have.”
I tittered diabolically. “My question for you now: What’s your favourite thing about your Dad?”
My brother’s brows knitted together as he answered: “Riel? What’s my favourite thing about Riel?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Well, that’s not something I think about at all, to be honest,” he replied. “Ooh . . . I guess, for me, it would be the fact that Gabriel’s very protective of the kindred. On any team assignment, he’d always organize for a brethren to walk ahead of the procession, and he’d walk in back. This way the brethren both in front and in back would be the ones to take any sling or bullet launched at us.”
I concurred: “Mm. Gabriel’s love for us is selfless and sacrificial like that. Well, Ari, I believe I won that round, so it’s your turn next.”
“Right: Never have I ever been to space.”
I objected noisily: “Cheater; you already knew I have. I was the one that told you about it, in fact.”
“Well, baby brother, that’s the whole idea of the game, isn’t that?” Ari laughed. “It’s all about how well we know each other and what we remember about each other?”
“All right,” I acquiesced, “you’re right. I apologize for the ad hominem. So, what’s your question, Ari?”
Ari took a sip of his coffee. I realized that he had made us a fresh pot while I was away making up his futon. My Moka Pot was brimming.
“Here’s my question then: What do you think is Mika’s favourite thing about you?”
“Wha . . ?” I exclaimed. “Are you serious?”
Ari nodded.
“How am I supposed to know that?” I thought out loud, shaking my head.
“Take an educated guess,” requested Ari. “Mika’s the closest individual to you, is he not?”
I supported my head with my palms and thought long and hard. It surprised me how little I knew my Dad, especially how little I knew in respect of his feelings toward me. But was this even important? Wasn’t it enough to know that he loved me?
After some time, I suggested: “I think it may be my honesty.”
Ari smirked. Then his head shook.
“Do you know something I don’t?” I asked him. “You do know the answer to your own question, don’t you? So, what is it? Tell me: what’s Mika’s favourite thing about me?”
“Ah-ah,” Ari replied. “You know the rules. Only the winner gets to ask the question.”
“Fine,” I sighed. “My turn now: Never have I ever had a supernatural experience.”
Ari whimpered: “Ooh, clever. Almost everything we experience is of the supernatural.”
“Heheh,” I snickered wickedly. “Your question then: What is Mika’s favourite thing about me?”
Ari shook his head again: “I knew that was coming. Well, it’s ‘Elementary, Watson’. You’re his son . . . that’s his favourite thing about you. With Mika, it’s never been about what you are, or what you do . . . it’s always only been about who you are.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“He’s told Riel and me . . . many times. He tells us all the time, to this day. As often as he would tell us how much he loved you and was proud of you. Mika’s love for you is like the energy of the Planck Constant, without the parameters.”
My face felt hot all at once. I went away to fetch the rest of the sweet potato crisps. And to avoid being caught weeping.
“I do miss him,” I told Ari as I laid the crisps on the table. “My Dad.”
“Of course, you do,” Ari stated compassionately. “You haven’t seen him for close to two years now.”
I cleared my throat: “Uh-hmm . . . yeah. Uhh, whose turn is it?”
“Mine,” Ari said. “You ready? Never have I ever ridden on a camel.”
“Ah, you win,” I stated with resignation.
Ari replied: “Oh, you have? Ahahaha! This you must explain.”
“Uh-huh, just last week: my landlady let me ride on Al Bikra – that’s her camel’s name,” I informed my brother.
“How was it?” he pursued.
“I found her a bit slow,” I replied. “And high off the ground. Your question, please, Ari?”
“My question?” he replied. “Oh, right. Uh . . . what’s your most noteworthy achievement in Yanbu?”
Thankfully, this time it didn’t take too much mind racking to come up with an honest answer. I replied fairly promptly: “I’d have to say it’s having led the women here to salvation in Yahushua. Nothing’s more important than saving souls.”
“Perfect,” Ari concurred. “Your answer’s perfect.”
“I merely sowed the seeds. Yah did all the rest. Is it my turn now? Okay . . . uh, never have I ever hopped a turnstile.”
Ari’s eyes rolled: “How do you come up with stuff like that? You’re a genius. Okay, you win. I’ve hopped a turnstile, many times.”
“So have I, actually,” I laughed. “So . . . your question is: Have you cried at a movie? If yes, what movie / -s?”
Ari nodded: “The Passion of the Christ; Mr. Holland’s Opus; and Shadowland.”
“Were you alone? Or were you with someone?”
“I was alone, in New Canaan; I’d always watch a DVD . . . from my own collection, before retiring for the night.”
“Mm. I always knew you were the sentimental kind. It’s why you have all that empathy. Anyway, Ari, it’s your turn.”
Without having to think for long, Ari stated: “Never have I ever run for my life.”
I sighed for the infinite time that evening: “We all have, A. Seriously.”
Ari laughed. “I know . . . kekeke. Right; my question for you now: Excluding our Dads, who among the elders do you think have the aptitude suited for the role of, one: earthly father; two: earthly uncle; three: earthly brother?”
I scoffed: “Hah, easy. First of all, Raphael – or Rafe Feldman, as is his alias. I think Rafe would make an ideal father. Because he’d be able to cure all his kids’ illnesses without spending much moolah otherwise required to consult a doctor or specialist.
“Second of all, Uri Stahl; he has many qualities well-suited for the role of an uncle. Among others are his broad shoulders: can you imagine how useful they must be? He’d be able to give his nieces and nephews piggy back rides. And he wouldn’t tire easily.
“Third of all, Shimael. He’d be a useful brother because you could rope him in to help with homework and school assignments. Shimael has a photographic memory and excels at Math and Science.”
“Whoa,” Ari sighed. “Have you been thinking about such things for a while? Your answers came much too quickly.”
I pressed my index finger to my lips: “Shh.”
Then I added: “It’s my turn now: Never have I ever given alms to a beggar.”
Ari shook his head, looking sincerely sorry for me: “I’m sorry, Mish. I’m afraid I’ve never given alms to a beggar.”
“What?” I exclaimed. “Never?”
Ari shook his head: “No, never.”
My heart sank: “Okay, I guess you win this round. What’s your question?”
“There are no real losers,” Ari maintained. “Come on now. All right, my question is, what would be the first thing you would say to Eheyeh when you meet Him?”
“Ooh, nice,” I smiled. “I’d just love to meet I AM again. I’d ask Him about the bottled tears He keeps and what He’s going to do with them in eternity.”
“Ah, good answer,” Ari stated. “I’m curious about that, as well. That Yah would regard our tears precious enough to warrant collecting and keeping them in a bottle must speak to the depths of His love for His creatures.
“Well, on that note, Mish, I think we should end our game here. OK? I had a great time getting to know you so much better. But it’s after two, and I can see you’re starting to look out of it.”
I nodded: “I’m sorry. I do feel quite tired . . . it’s been another long day for me. Shall we call it a night then?”
“Yes, let’s do that,” my brother said, adding: “I’ll help you clean up all this mess first.”
Ari and I made short work of tidying up my living room. Empty packaging, gone; crumbs on couch, table and floor, gone; used mugs and glasses, washed; ditto my Moka Pot and the double-decker Magewappa box that had been a gift from the late Hamadas.
Thereafter, we retired for the night.
As we had always done, we fetched our well-worn Bibles to read together. That night I had felt drawn to read the book of Titus and, so, made the suggestion. Ari acquiesced graciously.
We read the book in one sitting and then settled into our beds. We couldn’t help ourselves: it was much too late already and both of us were finally badly craving sleep.
I remember dozing off while I was still meditating on my favourite verses from the second chapter.
‘Looking for the blessed hope and glorious appearing of our great God and Savior Jesus Christ, who gave Himself for us, that He might redeem us from every lawless deed and purify for Himself His own special people, zealous for good works.’
I knew that these verses would soon be culminated: we were living on the cusp of the Glorious Appearing. Ari and I had been looking forward to this event from the time Shimael and our Dads began tutoring us in the Word.
The next morning, I awoke to find myself alone.
There was a note on the futon; I read it silently and then pegged it next to my Polaroid of Mika –
