Where Cross and Crescent Meet Chapter 7: Isa, a romance fiction | FictionPress
Read CHAPTER Cross from the story Fists and Lipsticks 2: The Silver Crescent by hiro (Mark Harold Larucea) with reads. fictionpress, soompi, lips what kind of houses or vroom-vrooms he would draw, where we would meet. His dream haunted me. He was certain he would die for Jesus at the hands of angry extremists - and I denied it, even when they took him. I lost count of how many times I've reread this and The Boy Who Talks To God. Yesterday, I was finishing this up again after work and something overcame me.
He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning nor crying nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.
Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known" 1 Corinthians When I think about meeting Him face to face, knowing Him fully, beholding Him without shame because of the righteousness He credited to me with His own blood, I can endure anything. My cup is nothing compared to the Cross, and insignificant compared to the weight of eternity. Other times I think about you and imagine you're here with me.
It's such a powerful thought it dulls the pain and gives me the strength to persevere through one more beating. I remember how you always made me believe I could do anything. Such trust in your eyes.
I was constantly trying to rise up to it, undeserved as it was, but even in that I never had to do a single thing to earn your love. It was always there, and you gave it freely no matter how many times I hurt you or screwed up. There was security with you, freedom to be myself. I never had to fear you would leave me or reject me - as I did my own family and everyone else. You were so faithful. I knew we'd be able to work through anything together, no matter how painful, and come out loving each other more in the end.
That's a gift, Ally. You are a gift, and I begin to think the very memory of you is God's grace to me right now. They tie me upside down by my feet and hit me with wooden sticks and cords. My blood and broken bones are their candy - it's the only prize they seem to want. I usually last a good thirty minutes before I pass out; I don't rightly know how long they keep me upside down after that. I'm pretty sure hanging upside down can kill a person, but they never seem to worry - which they should, if in fact they are saving me for something "special".
They also like to draw pictures on my arms and chest with knives. Faces, mosques, crosses, other weird symbols. The repeating theme is a picture of a sword drawn between a cross and a crescent moon. Sometimes I want to cut myself up more afterwards just so I don't have to look at those horrible images.
But of course my only weapon is this pencil, and I want it to last as long as possible. On the up side, the pain isn't so bad. It's only when they threaten to cut off my fingers one by one that I start to get queasy. They haven't done that yet. Lately they've taken to dragging me down the street, tied to the back of their pickup truck. Fortunately the street is dirt and not pavement, although I've sustained some serious injuries including a stick ramming itself into my thigh and a dislocated shoulder.
They pulled out one of my molars, burned me with cigarettes, shot my foot although I think that was an accident, since they brought someone out to treat me afterwardsand pierced my ear with a hook. I can't rightly recall which one has been the most painful, but my mouth still throbs and it's been a couple months.
You brought me a sheep, so to speak. I may never be reconciled with my dad, but it doesn't matter. I have a heavenly Father who runs to me, arms open, and there's no cloud He can't pass through. My relationship with Him is perfect, all-sufficient. I don't need anything or anyone else.
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You see, yesterday was Friday, and while they hadn't pulled me out for a beating in a long time, they suddenly had the urge to do so. This came off of weeks and weeks of not seeing Barkat, and I confess I was a little afraid. They roughed me up, went through the usual preliminaries, then blindfolded me. They shoved me in a car and took me somewhere - a frightening flashback to the day they first snatched me up - and then shoved me on my knees on some patch of dirt in the middle of nowhere and asked me if I would say the shahada.
For a minute, I really thought that was the end. Perhaps I'd become too complacent. Too confident that they wouldn't actually kill me; after all, then the fun of the game would be over. But whatever my attitude had been, I must have been relying too much on myself for courage, not Him. I was gripped with horrible tremors, and when I heard them shouting at each other not to 'fire' yet, I felt so weak I could hardly stay up on my knees. My mouth got this bitter, metallic taste and I realized I'd chewed a hole into my lip.
For a brief, horrible second I wondered where God was. I'm a puzzle to myself.
After all the beatings, all my convictions, how could I be afraid? I was more shaken by tasting fear than by the situation itself. I was so certain that when I died God would be right there, and I would see His glory just like Stephen did, and feel nothing but pure joy at the hope of bowing before my Savior at last.
But I experienced none of that, and I wanted to cry because I felt so forsaken. Then they stuck a gun to the back of my head.
I tell you, that cold metal pressed against me, reminding me with each slight movement that all it would take would be a twitch of the fingers and I'd be gone, was the most nauseating thing I've ever endured. You know how in the battle of Ai, it says the "hearts of the people melted and became as water" Joshua 7: That's exactly how I felt, like my heart was melting away.LOVE ME Audiobook Romance BEST SERİES
It's a feeling I never wish to experience ever again. In the end it was only a mock execution. But it taught me one thing: I am humbled; I hope I have no room left for pride. When I got back to my room after the whole thing I just cried before the Lord in a very intense season of repentance. When will the refining be complete? I'm exhausted from the fire. I hope to God Isa finds his son. And I hope to God that sheep in his dream is a symbol of finding eternal life in Jesus.
This morning he brought a radio into the warehouse and left it on all day so I could listen to it. He even bothered to change the channel every hour so I wouldn't get bored.
But then this behavior of his is nothing new. He's always showering me with a bit of kindness, often sliding secret gifts underneath my door: I always have to return these gifts before the night watch, but at least they afford me some small measure of entertainment and stimulation when I might otherwise have none. Maybe he's my angel. Realistically I'm sure that's impossible as he's staunchly aligned himself with the Islamic beliefs of the Askarich, but I like to think he is God's touch of mercy to me.
His name is Isa. The actual Qur'anic name for Jesus. I think it's a sign that one day he will come to align himself with Jesus not only in name, but in heart and mind also. I asked him once if he ever thought about what his name meant, and he was quick to assure me of its Muslim significance. Apparently Barkat told him he'd been given the name Isa because his life's mission was to fight for the honor of the prophet, ensuring that nobody dares to blaspheme Jesus with talk of His being the Son of God or of dying on a cross.
Isa takes this calling very seriously. Our unusual relationship was kindled the day Barkat assigned him as my caretaker. I remember that day, because I was half-conscious and suffering from a blinding, explosive headache that made every part of my body hurt. Isa walked into my cell and kicked me in the shins.
I couldn't move my head, so I stared half-lidded at his boots. He said a few words in Chazbet which I assumed to be words of mockery, then hauled me to my feet and made me stand. I remember thinking I should have fallen over, but somehow the Lord held me up.
Isa boxed me a few times in the gut - probably to intimidate me and establish for himself the reputation of being a tough guy. But to me he seemed more like a robot than a bully, and I felt sorry for him. I would have prayed for him out loud if I could have spoken coherently, but I settled for lifting him up in my heart.
It was crazy how it happened. He raised his hand as if to strike me again, but the emotionless scales over his eyes fell away and he faltered. I saw a flash of sympathy - only a flash, and then it was gone. But he put his hand away and turned and fled, and didn't return until the next day.