I know Jesus could have healed me instantaneously. He has the power to do that. But it's possible that my family might have thought I just snapped out of the coma, and Dr. Hussein had simply been wrong in his diagnosis. So over the next few days, Jesus healed me progressively. Each time, He touched a different part of my body. After my hand, it was my right leg. Jesus came in a vision the following morning, and with just one finger He touched my knee. The paralysis left instantly.
The next day I gained a full range of motion in my neck and shoulders. My face muscles began to work, except that my eyes would not open, and I still could not speak. But then, another day later, my eyes and mouth opened while my whole family watched. I looked straight up, my eyes staring toward the ceiling, as Jesus faded from the room.
The first words I heard my father say were "Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!"* But my first words were "Jesus, Jesus, don't leave me! I love You."
That certainly quieted the room. My shocked family could not comprehend the words that hung in the air.
Then... boom! A massive explosion in the street interrupted the stunned silence.
In Deir ez-Zor, peace is short lived. Even after a great miracle like I experienced, the brutal reality of war set in. Oil fields — and the massive Conoco oil facility — along our part of the Euphrates River means that in eastern Syria no city is more coveted by international powers. Iran, Russia, and America are all there.
Our morbid history includes the slaughter of Armenians by the Turks in 1915 to show that Islam triumphed over Christianity. And at the time of my healing, the Islamic State maintained a strong presence in the city to prove that they were the new champions of the Muslim faith. Chaos, carnage, and confusion were normal in Deir ez-Zor.
After Jesus healed me, the war worsened, and my family fled Syria. We could go either north to Turkey or south to Jordan, but the border in northern Syria was nearly impassable because of Turkey's battle against the Kurds. So we headed south.
The streets in Jerash, Jordan, didn't look much different than the streets of Deir ez-Zor. Refugees have nothing to do, so even many of the men had no work to go to during the day. But I was on a mission. I wanted to find Jesus — somehow.
Where could I go, I wondered, to find out more about the Man who had healed me? Obviously I couldn't talk openly to anyone with my family present. Although they often discussed the healing in my life, they gave credit to Allah, not to Jesus. Yet I knew the truth.
Then one day in the outdoor market, I saw a woman wearing a cross necklace. In Deir ez-Zor, you could get killed for doing that, but I guessed Jordan must be a little laxer.
I followed her, working up the courage to ask a question. When she stopped at a vegetable stand, I saw my chance as she was picking out cucumbers.
"Jesus healed me of paralysis when I was in a coma."
I blurted out the words and could see that I'd startled the woman. Who is this mysterious person in a burka talking about Jesus? she must have wondered.
"Do you know how I can find out more information about Jesus? I'm a Muslim, so I think I have a lot to learn. And marhaba. My name is Jamila. What's yours?"
The woman just looked at me for a moment, then introduced herself as Maria. And had Jesus ever led me to the right person!
Despite my abrupt, awkward self-introduction, Maria was warm and gracious. Over tea during the next couple of weeks, we became good friends. I asked her every question I could think of about Jesus. Although I was already convinced that Jesus had all power and was the Savior of the world, I had to know what it would be like to become a believer in a radical Muslim family.
When Maria told me that I was the one sent by God to reach my family, I was ready. I gave my life to Jesus; it was a day I will never forget!
The glorious thing is that Maria was right. Over time, every single person in my family — including my father — came to faith in Christ. What a miracle! It's rare that a family of people who practice fundamentalist Islam all become believers. So I am privileged and blessed beyond anything I could have imagined. Jesus used the miracle of my healing to open the hearts of my family.
Still, it wasn't easy. The process took a long time, and we faced spiritual warfare all the way, but my mother, father, and siblings are now in the family of God. We're a Muslim family from Deir ez-Zor that loves Jesus!
My healing was the key. How could they deny what had happened? Everyone saw the miracle, and how could they deny the transformation in my life? I used to be negative and caustic, but today, I'm filled with the love of God.
I let Jamila's story sink in. Then the group began worshiping Jesus, and I encouraged them by reading Scripture. We prayed for Jamila and her family. They're believers now, but they're also still refugees. And after years of streaming into the country, displaced Syrians are often despised and rejected. Yet you would never know that by looking at Jamila's joy-filled face.
The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit. Many are the afflictions of the righteous, but the Lord delivers him out of them all. — Psalm 34:18-19 ESV
*Allahu akbar is Arabic for "God is great! God is great!"
Excerpted with permission from Women Who Risk - Secret Agents for Jesus in the Muslim World by Tom and JoAnn Doyle, copyright Thomas James Doyle and JoAnn Marie Doyle.
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