Oh, it is wonderful! The small room reverberated with the song of praise, but Brad could not join in—not until the middle of the third verse. Such mercy, such love, and devotion can I forget? The question was like a flame in his soul. No! No! he sang, his voice a fierce whisper of intensity. I will praise and adore at the mercy seat, until at his glorified throne I kneel at his feet.
The feeling of reverential supplication did not end with the hymn, and even the few small children present were subdued while the bread and water—on simple plates from the hotel’s dining room—were passed down the rows. Brad finally risked a glance at Miri as she passed the bread without partaking of it. In profile it was hard to see her expression, and he wondered if she could sense any of what the group was feeling.
When Ali finally stepped to the makeshift podium, clutching his notes tightly, Brad smiled his encouragement. Oh, how grateful he was to know this young Arab with the flashing grin and ready wit.
“My brothers and sisters…” Ali stopped and for a long moment stared down at his papers, visibly struggling for control of his emotions. He took a deep breath and tried again. “When I think what it means for me to call you brothers and sisters, I get a little overwhelmed. And so—” He held up the notes for all to see, his familiar smile flashing briefly. “In spite of the fact that I have here what is undoubtedly the best prepared sacrament meeting talk in Mormon-Arab history, I would like instead to tell you how I came to be your brother. And more importantly,” he said, looking directly at Miri, “I would like to tell you how I came to accept Jesus Christ as my elder brother.”
* * * * * *
By the time they had dropped Ali off in Bethlehem and returned to Miri’s apartment, it was dark, and the cool air held the slight nip of September in it. Brad turned off the lights and the engine; the nervousness he had felt earlier was suddenly back. After dropping Ali off they had been content to ride quietly. Now he knew it was time to talk.
Brad took a deep breath and cleared his throat, but before he could speak, Miri laid her hand on his arm, her face soft and radiant in the faint light of a streetlight a few yards away. “Thank you, Brad, for a very special day.”
He nodded, marveling at her loveliness, keenly aware of some feelings stirring deep inside him that he had never felt before. “Thank you! I think it really pleased Ali that you would come.” He shook his head slowly. “Why should Ali get all the credit? I am glad that you would come.” He took her hand, hesitantly, almost shyly, but she slipped her arm through his and returned his gentle squeeze.
“Good. I went to hear Ali, of course, but mostly I went for you.”
Immensely pleased, Brad searched her eyes, deep pools of almost liquid blackness, for clues to her inward feelings. “And?” he finally asked.
Miri’s eyes dropped beneath his probing glance. Her lips, soft and full, pulled down slightly in an expression of thoughtfulness. Finally she shook her head. “I don’t know how to describe it. As you know, my family is not religious. We do not go to synagogue except on special holy days. The holy-day services are times of great emotions—solemnity, rejoicing, mourning—but I don’t think we ever have the kind of feeling in our meetings that you had in yours.”
His brow furrowed as he considered that. “We try to have feelings of reverence and devotion in all of our meetings, but I’ve got to admit that today was very special.” His expression softened as he stared down at their hands. “It was the most meaningful sacrament meeting I have ever attended.”
Miri studied his face in profile, wanting suddenly to touch his cheek. Instead she squeezed his hand as she spoke, her voice husky and low. “I know, Brad. I could tell.”
His head came up, his eyes wide and searching.
“Your religion is very important to you, isn’t it,” she said.
The memory of the sacrament hymn and the feelings that had washed over him as he sang returned to his mind. “Yes,” he agreed. “Not nearly important enough, but it is the single most important thing in my life.”
“And for Ali too.” It was a statement, not a question and Brad just nodded.
“What he said today—” Brad unconsciously held his breath as she searched for the right words, “was very interesting.” She gave her head a quick shake of impatience. “No, not interesting.” She searched again, her face intense with concentration. “I don’t know the best word. Ever since his return I have wondered what would cause a Moslem to become a Christian. Ali talks about it so easily all the time. I would never have guessed that he went through such a struggle.”
“I knew it hadn’t been easy for him, but today was the first time I had heard about that final battle with himself—the fasting and prayer, and his wrestle with the Book of Mormon.”
Miri nodded, then leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. The dark lashes lay gently on her cheeks, her face a study of quiet repose. Brad watched her for a long moment, again keenly aware of the stir of emotions he felt in her presence. He gently withdrew his hand and turned in the seat to face her more directly.
“Miri?”
“Hmmmm?” Her eyes opened slowly, and her lips parted in a warm contented smile. Then she sat up and grew sober as she looked at Brad, sensing his sudden nervousness. “What?” she prompted again when he hesitated.
He had rehearsed the moment a dozen times, yet he still felt a quickening of anxiety. He took a quick breath and plunged in. “Today Ali talked about the Book of Mormon.”
“Yes.”
“And how it became the pivotal question for him.”
“Yes.” She was watching him closely now.
“Well, while that book has great significance for a Moslem, or anyone else for that matter, it was written by your people. It is a record of Jews who left Jerusalem. And more important, I guess, it was written for your people.” He reached under the seat and withdrew the book. “I would like you to have a copy.”
When Brad had first thought ahead to this moment, he had obtained a small paperback copy of the Book of Mormon. But the more he considered it, the less satisfactory that became. Then one day while in the Old City he had had a flash of inspiration. Olivewood was one of the most common tourist items of the Holy Land, and Bibles with olivewood covers were popular. From there it had been easy. Akhmud, Ali’s brother, was a major buyer of olivewood, and the manufacturer in Bethlehem was more than anxious to please him.
The Book of Mormon Brad handed Miri now was a large, hardbound edition with thin sheets of gleaming, highly polished olivewood bonded to each cover. “Miriam Shadmi” was engraved in small letters in the lower corner.
She took it from him slowly, her eyes finally raising to search his face. “Oh Brad, it’s lovely,” she whispered. She touched the cover, her fingers lightly caressing the smooth surface, then slowly opened it. She read softly what he had written inside. “To Miri, whose friendship I have, come to treasure more each day, I offer this gift, which I have come to treasure more than life itself. Brad.”
When she finally looked up at him, her eyes were swimming. “Thank you, Brad.”
He smiled and took her hand in his again. “Hey,” he said, keeping his voice light, “I just wanted to do something for the best guide in Jerusalem.”
Eighteen
Brad looked at the eager faces, tapping the chalk against his fingers. “Let’s see, what else can I show you?” he said to himself. His students sat at their desks, brown faces attentive, dark eyes sparkling with pleasure at their success. There were sixteen of them, nine boys and seven girls, the best of the school, according to Ali. But then Brad suspected that Ali thought all of his students were the best.
Brad hadn’t mastered all of their names yet, but nearly. He walked closer to their desks, watching them, feeling a great affection for these Arab children. Natasha, the oldest at fourteen, sat straight as an arrow, her jet black hair pulled back from her face and braided into two long pigtails. Abou, just barely seven and the youngest, sat next to her, squirming in anti
cipation, his cheeks round, his eyes sober. He was usually the first to shoot out an answer. Mahmoud, his older brother, usually tried to appear bored, but nearly always failed when Brad started challenging them. Nimra, Arabic for “tigress,” was very unlike her name. She reminded Brad of a darker version, almost a carbon copy, of his sister Brenda. Nimra was his favorite, with her shy little smile. But he had quickly grown to love them all: Ibrahim and Faisal, unable to stop poking at each other unless they were separated; Mohammed, his large dark eyes so expressive; Wojiha, at twelve already a lovely young woman.
Suddenly Brad had an idea. “Okay,” he said, pointing to them, “new word.” He turned to the chalkboard and sketched hurriedly, painfully aware of his lack of artistic talent.
Before he had even finished the drawing on the board, the class erupted into a cacophony of sound. The older boys jeered at him and started pounding their desks. The younger children made faces as they yelled and shook their fingers at him.
Brad was stunned. His pupils had been alert and attentive just a moment earlier, each intent on being the first one to answer his next question. Suddenly he had a miniature Arab riot on his hands. They were all shouting at him in Arabic, but gradually the older boys prevailed, and the whole class joined in, slapping the flat of their hands against the desk tops and chanting “La! La! La! La!”
That much Brad understood. It was Arabic for “no.” But no what? He stood looking bewildered, trying to determine what had broken the floodgates.
The door opened, and Ali stuck his head in. It was like pulling the plug on a blaring stereo. One instant there was ear-throbbing sound. The next a pin would have sounded like an amplified thunderclap.
“Mr. Kennison,” Ali said sternly, winking at the children as he entered. The older ones grinned, the younger ones squirmed in anticipation. Teacher was in trouble. “Your firm hand of discipline seems to be losing its grip. Do you have a problem?”
Brad held up his hands in a gesture of bewilderment. “I don’t know. The only thing I can understand is that they keep saying ‘La! La!’ ”
Ali nodded sagely. “Somehow, it was my impression that you were supposed to be teaching them English, not them teaching you Arabic.”
“Come on, Ali. Find out what I did. Why are they so upset?”
The young Arab principal turned to face the sixteen eager faces and spoke briefly in Arabic. Someone plugged in the stereo again. They all waved their hands, jumped up and down, and explained the problem simultaneously. Ali plugged his ears and pulled a face at them. Gradually bedlam subsided. Ali selected Natasha and spoke to her. She responded briefly, pointing at Brad.
“I didn’t do it,” Brad wailed as Ali turned and walked up to him, “and if I did, I was insane at the time.”
Ali gently pushed Brad aside, revealing his artistic handiwork on the board. “Um humm,” he mused, his head cocked to one side. “And may I ask who is responsible for this masterpiece?”
“What? The pig? I drew it. We are working on vocabulary. If you think that is bad, you should have seen my horse. What are they, half-pint art critics?”
Ali looked at the class and shook his head, his face long and sober. “Mr. Kennison,” he said in great solemnity, “do you have any concept of what a pig means to a Moslem?”
Someone turned on the light in Brad’s attic. “Oh,” he said with a long drawn-out sound. “So that’s it. I knew that the Jews—but I didn’t realize—Moslems, too, huh?” He erased the board quickly.
Ali nodded, unsuccessfully trying to suppress a smile.
“Would you apologize to them for me? I didn’t mean to offend them.”
“Actually, to call someone a pig is a gross insult—not quite profanity, but close. They thought you were calling them a pig.”
“Oh no,” Brad said in dismay. “They were supposed to say ‘This is a pig.’ I was just trying to teach them some new words.”
Ali turned to the class and again spoke briefly. “Ah,” said the group almost as one. They smiled and waved their forgiveness.
Ali turned back to Brad. “Class is about over. Shall we dismiss them? I need to talk with you anyway.”
“That’s fine.” Brad stepped forward. “Attention,” he commanded them, coming to a ramrod stiff position.
“Ah-ten-shun,” they echoed, following his example.
“Can we show off a little?” Brad asked.
“You bet,” Ali responded.
“I am—” Brad pointed to himself.
“Tee-chur,” they called out, aware that they were performing for the principal.
Brad’s sweeping gesture included all of them. “You are—”
“Stoo-dents.” Again their eyes were bright and shiny.
He picked up the objects on his desk one by one, and they called them out in unison—apple, pencil, book, orange, shoe, and so on. Then he turned to the board and wrote one word after another—this, that, is, are, will, I, you, me, we. Again, usually before Brad finished writing, they called the words out.
He gave a little bow and applauded. “Very good.” He dismissed the children with a wave. “Salam aleichem.”
“Salam! Salam!” they cried as they burst for the doors.
“Hold it!” Brad bellowed, freezing them in their tracks. They didn’t know those words yet, but the tone was in a universal language.
“La, salam,” he said sternly, shaking his head. “La! La!” he waved again, “Salam aleichem.”
This time they remembered, smiling. “Goodbye,” they said as one.
“Very good,” Brad nodded. “Goodbye.”
They were gone like a shot.
“Well?” Ali said, pulling up a chair and dropping into it.
Brad sat on a corner of the desk. “Well what?”
“How is the experiment going?”
Brad gave an audible sigh. “I don’t know. If I could speak even a little Arabic so I could explain things to them. It’s like trying to communicate with a very small child. I have to repeat and repeat.”
“When did you learn to speak English?”
“All right, as a baby, but—”
“Funny thing. That’s how I learned Arabic too. Maybe you’re onto something with this ‘new’ method of yours.”
“Well,” Brad conceded, “I do feel as though they’re making some progress. They can understand and make simple sentences now. Anyway, it’s fun. Have you heard from your other teacher yet?”
“Yes, she finishes her other job this week. She’ll take over from you starting Thursday.”
Brad nodded, a little sad to know he wouldn’t be continuing. “I am glad we changed the class to morning instead of afternoon, but I still feel guilty only teaching them four days a week.”
Ali shrugged that off. “Friday is their day, Sunday is yours. You came to Israel to see Israel, not to spend your time in a classroom.”
“I know,” Brad replied. “But this has been a delightful experience for me. I can see why you feel so strongly about your people. They are really special.”
“There are a few exceptions to that, but all in all I would have to agree with you.”
“You said you wanted to talk to me,” Brad reminded him.
“Oh, yes. Miri called.”
“She did?”
“Yes. She wants you to meet her here instead of at the hotel. She had to be out this way anyway.”
“Does she have a ride here?”
“I guess so. She didn’t say.”
“Okay. What time?”
“Ten.”
Brad glanced at his watch. “That’s right now.”
“I know. That’s why I came in. That, and to put down a small insurrection. By the way, how is she coming?”
Brad shook his head in discouragement. “You know Miri. She wants to know, and she seems to accept things, but I keep getting this feeling that it’s only an intellectual acceptance. I think she finds Mormonism attractive in the same way that a person finds Plato’s philosophy more attractive tha
n Aristotle’s. It’s an intellectual preference, but there’s no spiritual commitment.”
“I don’t know,” Ali mused. “She’s constantly asking me questions. Every time I deliver something to the hotel, she corners me for fifteen minutes or so and quizzes me.”
“I know,” Brad laughed. “She keeps saying ‘Ali said this or Ali said that. What do you think?’ ”
“Maybe we’d better start checking our answers beforehand. I mean, I’m hardly an expert on Mormonism.”
“But what fascinates her about you is that you, a non-Christian, should decide to join the Church. Miri has told me that several times.”
“How did she react to Brother Spencer’s talk the other night?” The BYU faculty advisor had spoken on the prophetic relationship between Ephraim and Joseph, using Ezekiel, chapter thirty-seven, as his theme. He knew Miri was there, and he hadn’t pulled any punches. He had defined the stick of Judah as the Bible and the stick of Joseph as the Book of Mormon, and then had talked about the significance of their being joined together.
“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask Miri?” Brad suggested.
“Ask me what?” Miri said, as she came into the classroom.
Both Ali and Brad jumped. “Hi,” Brad called, aware of the sudden excitement he always felt when he saw her.
She smiled brightly, then turned to Ali. “So? Ask me.”
“We were just wondering how you felt about the fireside Saturday night.”
She laughed. “You two and your conspiracy to make me a Mormon. What hope have I?”
“Only one,” Ali replied soberly.
That caught her off guard. She had expected a light response in return. “What’s that?”
“There is a Church policy against baptizing unconscious candidates. Otherwise we would have knocked you over the head and dunked you in the River Jordan weeks ago.”
Brad watched the two of them as they continued to banter back and forth, envious of Ali’s easy manner concerning the topic. Brad knew he always reacted too intensely to any hint of progress or any sign of rejection. And he knew why he reacted that way. There was much more than a convert baptism at stake for him.