Bella’s Bible

Little Bella sat awkwardly on the stiff sofa, her face tired, her backpack hanging off her shoulders, and her children’s Bible clutched tightly to her chest. It had been a terribly long, frightening day, and as the darkness gathered outside the windows of the women’s shelter, a full 24 hours had passed since the nightmare began.

But really, the fear, the poverty, the angry yelling, and sometimes violence had been part of her life for as long as she could remember. At 8 years old she had a worldly wisdom about her that helped her look after her 6-year-old sister and 2-year-old brother as a little mother. Papa never hurt her, but he would get loud and break things, sometimes treating her mother roughly.

“Can you read to me?” Bella handed me the Bible as I sat next to her in the dimly lit waiting area of the women’s shelter. Bella loved the colorful photos and stories.

A Family in Crisis

After the family moved into the small, crumbling house at the top of our street, their two little girls were often romping with the other children in the street. Their mother, Yazemin, was a little wisp of a thing, heavily pregnant, with large, guarded brown eyes that scarcely looked at me when I greeted her.

More than a year passed before I had the chance to get better acquainted with Yazemin, but soon after, she began opening up to me about her difficult life. She had eloped at 17 and given birth soon after. Her husband gambled, used substances, and sometimes hit her. Her parents, who lived just across the village, had more or less abandoned her to her fate. Many days I sat holding Yazemin’s hand as she cried, feeling helpless. I knew I couldn’t solve her problems, but I could be her friend through them. I told her God loved her, I prayed with her, and I tried to befriend her husband.

One night I dreamed that I was holding Yazemin’s son against my chest as if he were my own child, and we were moving through some kind of trouble. Not long after my dream, Yazemin asked me if I would help her get to a shelter. The city was campaigning to combat domestic violence and had billboards everywhere with a hotline and an app to report abuse. We called the number and were instructed to wait at a meeting place: a local restaurant. While we waited, Yazemin’s little boy fell asleep on my chest, and I remembered the dream.

Despite the public campaign, finding a safe place for Yazemin and the children proved much more difficult than we expected, and we were sent from one wrong place to another across the busy city until nightfall. Even when we finally reached the shelter, Yazemin was referred back to the same officers who had first sent us on this wild goose chase.

“How could you do this?” He asked me. “How could you take my family from me?”

While we waited for the domestic violence officers to return, I opened the children’s Bible to the page Bella showed me. In the story the Israelites were camped by the Red Sea, their enemies close behind and impassable water before them. In answer to Moses’ prayer of faith, the waters parted, and the frightened people walked across on dry land, away from their slave masters to a life of freedom.

While the officers took Yazemin to the hospital for an examination, we were instructed to return to the police department. Yazemin joined us there, where we waited with other weeping women, and she finally gave a statement. Yazemin’s husband began calling me, and thinking it would be safe, I handed my phone to the police. To my surprise, they told him where she was and invited him to come. Not long after, I sat uncomfortably across from him and Yazemin’s mother in the waiting room as they argued with each other about who had treated her worse.

When the officers were ready to take Yazemin and the children to the shelter, my heart broke watching her husband weep as he kissed his son goodbye. He was clearly less concerned about his daughters.

“How could you do this?” He asked me. “How could you take my family from me?”

I had thought he might be dangerous, but instead he looked broken.
“I’m so sorry for you,” I told him honestly. “I did not do this. I only did what Yazemin asked me to do. You did this when you chose to put your hands on your wife. You did this when you chose not to give her money for food, and when you chose to use drugs. But you can get straight! God can help you. He loves you!”

Yazemin’s mother, clearly ashamed by the ordeal, droned on about how difficult life was for her. Here were two people isolated from the powerful message of hope God sent through His Son, Jesus. I did not think I could do much to reach them, but with Yazemin safely out of their reach, I prayed for God to work in all of their lives.

Protected by the Shepherd

Two days after Yazemin and the children were accepted at the women’s shelter, red and blue police lights flashed in front of my house on a Sabbath morning. Yazemin and the children had been miserable in the shelter and had decided to return home, as her husband was supposed to have left to stay with his family. What followed was a day of stressful conflict: Yazemin’s father and in-laws trying to take the children, us trying to have our Sabbath worship, police officers coming and going, and Jacob and our big dog, Teddy, standing guard in front of the house.

It was after dark when they came, after all our other guests had left except for one old teyze (aunt). Yazemin’s husband stood behind his brother, who was screaming and brandishing a small knife.

“Don’t come in!” my husband, Jacob, shouted as they approached the gate.

Teddy, our big dog—half German shepherd, half Turkish shepherd—who was usually so mellow, turned into a mass of snarling rage, hurling himself viciously at the gate, standing face-to-face with the man on the other side.

“Yazemin, you have to call the police now!” I insisted again.

The man tried again to open the gate, kicking it savagely, but the gate was jammed shut from the force of Teddy slamming into it. Finally giving up, he began to walk away, still yelling and hurling stones at the house.

Once again the police came, but all they did was ask for statements. It was 10:00 p.m. when I sat in the bleak, whitewashed office across from a bored-looking officer who asked routine questions and tapped away at a computer. On the wall hung the familiar banner about domestic violence.

“Did you want to do this job, or did you want a different career?” I asked the officer. In the local educational system students are funneled into careers based on testing rather than choice. Teaching and other public-service positions are often filled by those who score poorly on their exams.
“I wanted to do something else,” he admitted. “I wanted to be in politics or something.”
“That’s too bad,” I said, looking at the poster. “It’s too bad someone who really cared about helping women couldn’t be in this position.”

He smirked and kept typing.

The Seeds Continue to Grow

Yazemin’s family took her in, and she found a job in a factory. The children continued to see their father until he was imprisoned for drug trafficking. Meanwhile, we walked our children to school and remained alert. We prayed no one would seek revenge against our dog.

One day Yazemin asked me to teach her more about our faith, which thrilled me. With her parents’ restrictions, it was not easy to meet for Bible study. When I finally had the opportunity, I went straight to the point. I shared the gospel with Yazemin and invited her to accept Jesus. She agreed without hesitation, and I led her in a simple prayer, inviting Jesus to be the Lord of her life.

Somewhere in that home…is a children’s Bible hidden away, and I pray that it will not return void.

We met and studied a handful of times, and I encouraged her to use a Bible app on her phone to study on her own. I became acquainted with her parents and sisters and visited their small village home often. The home was full of tension and conflict. I struggled to know how to support Yazemin while maintaining healthy boundaries.

“Jesus, You know I cannot meet all their needs,” I often prayed as I traveled to and from their home. “Please be sufficient for them!”

When I could no longer do all for her that she wanted, Yazemin leaned more on her family, and I did not hear from her as much. Had I done the right thing? Had I failed the one friend who was open to Jesus? Or was her interest more in material things than in eternal truth?

Bella, now 9 going on 10, and her sister came regularly to the English class I taught with some other neighborhood girls.

“My family said I can’t read the Bible,” Bella said one day. “I took it to school, and my teacher said it isn’t true. My aunt took it and told me she was going to throw it away.”

Several times Bella had commented on the difference between our faiths and how she had been told mine was false. How could I encourage her without directly contradicting those who had the greatest influence in her life, people on whom she depended and whom she should respect? I explained just a little about the differences between Islam and Christianity and assured her that the Qur’an does indeed teach about Jesus. Otherwise, I said little.

But one day when she brought it up again, I asked her, “Bella, have I ever lied to you?” I knew how much she hated being lied to and how often it happened in her family.

“No,” she said.

“Do you know why?” I asked. “It’s against my religion. My religion allows only truth. Does your family lie to you?”

“Yes,” Bella frowned.

I said no more, praying for the little seeds to germinate in Bella’s tender heart.

One day I received a court summons to testify against Yazemin’s brother-in-law. “If you do not appear, we will come and bring you by force,” the notice threatened.

On the appointed day, Jacob drove me to the city, and we wandered through the large courthouse until we found the right room. Soon Yazemin appeared. She looked healthy, despite the head covering her father now required her to wear.

“I’m still following Jesus,” she told me. “I learn from Jacob’s lessons on YouTube.”

I no longer had the privilege of studying with Yazemin, but I prayed that God would honor the prayer she had prayed when she gave her life to Jesus.

The last time I saw Bella, we stood saying goodbye on the small veranda of her home. She stood with her grandmother, both weeping, and my heart ached.

“Bella,” I said, speaking words I had wanted to say before but hadn’t, “I believe we will meet again. Remember that Jesus loves you, and when you need anything, you can call out to Him and He will hear you.”

Somewhere in that home, I am pretty sure there is still a children’s Bible hidden away, and I pray that it will not return void.