Despite all the months that had passed, it was hard to believe he and dozens of others had been buried beneath the rubble on that horrible Sunday morning at the church she’d attended for all of her fifty-three years.
A church that was only a distant memory now, like the life she’d once known—when being a Christian in Syria had been tolerated.
When she and Yesoph had shared laughter-filled dinners every night with their two young sons while the aroma of her grilled kufta kebabs, the lamb redolent with garlic, and her dawood basha, the meatballs tender in her secret tomato-herb sauce, whetted everyone’s appetite.
When bombs hadn’t been a constant threat and they could attend church without fear.
Now all that was gone.
A sob rose in her throat, but she curled her fingers until her nails dug into her palms, choking back the tears.
She must not cry.
Despite all she’d lost, God had blessed her and Thomma and Elisa, plucking them from a place of despair and destruction and giving them a new life in a town with a name that held such promise.
Hope Harbor.
How strange—and providential—was that?
“Teta?”
At the soft summons from her granddaughter, she turned toward the four-and-a-half-year-old.
Gone was the grimy waif in tattered clothing who’d shared the cramped living space at the refugee camp with her grandmother and father.
Now, Elisa’s dark auburn hair was sectioned into two short ponytails on either side of her head, and her bangs were combed. The blue jeans she wore were brand new, as was the sweatshirt that featured two seagulls and the words “I ♥ Hope Harbor.” Clean socks and new shoes—the laces untied—completed her outfit.
Mariam’s throat tightened again. Such a sweet, beautiful child—and her future had taken a dramatic turn for the better with their arrival in Hope Harbor yesterday.
Yet her expression remained solemn.
Perhaps it always would.
The specifics of her trauma might fade as the years passed, but the effects would last a lifetime.
A wave of fresh grief pummeled Mariam.
There was nothing she could do to erase Elisa’s bad memories—except pray the blessing of this second chance in a safe place would heal all of them.
She called up a smile for her granddaughter. “Do you need some help with your shoes?”
“Ee.”
“No. English.” They were in America now, and it was important to use the native language as much as possible—even if Thomma had yet to show any interest in learning the simple words and phrases she’d picked up in the refugee camp and taught her granddaughter.
“Yes.”
“Good. Come.” She patted the other twin bed in the room they shared, the comforter on this one decorated with butterflies and fanciful flower fairies designed to appeal to a little girl.
The kind people of Hope Harbor had gone out of their way to make her small family feel welcome.
Another blessing.
Elisa climbed up and traced the outline of a flower on the quilted fabric with her finger. “Jamila.”
“Pretty.”
The child repeated the word.
“Yes. Is pretty.” She needed to learn more English herself, but until she did, the bulk of her communicating would have to be done in Arabic. She switched to her native language. “Where is your father?” She tied one of Elisa’s shoes.
“In his room.”
“Is he up?”
“I don’t know. The door is shut.”
Mariam frowned.
Perhaps Thomma had had difficulty sleeping his first night in the apartment they now called home and was tired . . . or wasn’t feeling well, after their long journey through multiple time zones . . . or was writing in the journal he’d begun keeping after they’d left their home for the refugee camp.
Or perhaps he was in a bad humor, as usual, and was shutting them out. Again.
She lifted her chin.
That was no longer acceptable.
All these months, she’d given him space to work through his grief. The losses he’d endured—especially a wife and young son—would bring any man to his knees, and her heart ached for him.
But he wasn’t the only one grieving—and somehow, despite their sorrow, they had to accept their new reality and move on. God had spared the three of them and given them the gift of this new life, and they needed to lean on him . . . and each other.
A lesson her son had yet to learn.
Mariam finished tying Elisa’s shoes and stood. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll get your father, then we’ll have breakfast.” She pulled a picture book off a shelf filled with toys and stuffed animals and handed it to her. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
She closed the door behind her as she exited, crossed the hall to the other bedroom, and knocked.
No answer.
“Thomma—are you up?”
Silence.
She twisted the knob and walked in.
Her son was sitting on the side of the bed, still in his underwear, forearms on thighs, hands clasped, head bent.
He didn’t look up as she entered.
She shut the door behind her. “It’s morning. We have to eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
He never was.
She scanned the thin frame of her once robust son, pressure building behind her eyes. The meager rations they’d subsisted on in the months following the bombing weren’t the main reason for his dramatic weight loss.
Food didn’t interest him anymore.
Nor did living.
In fact, there were days she feared he’d . . .
No!
She crushed the insidious thought that kept her awake more nights than she could count.
After all they’d survived, Thomma was not going to give up.
She wouldn’t let him.
God, help me console and encourage him. Show me how to reach him. Please help him find new meaning and hope.
It was the same prayer she uttered every day.
So far, it hadn’t had any effect—but perhaps here, in this small seaside town so far from everything they had known, her son’s heart would begin to heal.
“You have to eat.” She walked over to him.
“I told you, I’m not hungry.”
“Your daughter is.” If she had to use Elisa to break through his shell of grief, she would.
“The kitchen is stocked. You can feed her.”
“You’re her father.”
“You’re her grandmother.”
“She needs you, Thomma.”
“She has you. That is enough.”
“No, it is not. A grandmother is not a father.”
He didn’t respond.
Letting out a slow breath, she lowered herself to the bed beside him. “We have all had more than our share of tragedy, my son. But Elisa has her whole life ahead of her. You and I must work together to give her the opportunity to be all that God wants her to be.”
“God.” He nearly spat out the Almighty’s name, and a flash of fury kindled in his dull eyes. “Where was God when our church was bombed? Why did he take all the rest and leave us?”
It was a question without an answer.
“I don’t know—but we must trust there is a reason.”
He shot to his feet and began to pace in the small space. “Trust? You want me to trust a God who would allow terrorists to kill my wife and son and brother and father? What kind of loving deity would permit such tragedy?”