The Hand of God

By: Venessa

As I thought of the troubling night before, including mosquitoes buzzing near my ear, a nightmare of impending death with narrow escape, and a sudden waking to what I thought had been a man’s voice in my apartment, I felt that it was part of the spiritual battle we face as believers. Remembering that the enemy is fully armed, but the One I serve is stronger, I prayed, asking the Father to strengthen me with His armor and protection. Then I left the house.

Today was the last day of Ramadan, the day to break the month of fasting. Running to board bus 35, I noticed that five men with rolled up prayer rugs were getting on ahead of me. I also realized that because this was a Muslim holiday, the bus was filling up faster than normal. As we neared my stop, I started wondering how I could ever get off the bus. I started pushing my way through the packed aisle, but didn’t make it to the door in time to get off at my stop. I yelled out but the bus was already in motion; I could only get off at the next stop.

As I made my way up the sidewalk, I saw the intersection near Dabai department store was blocked with orange cones, and men had already spread out their colorful prayer rugs facing East in diagonal rows across the entire street. The further I walked, the closer I got to the main mosque where the early risers had taken their places. I saw that more side streets and sidewalks were filled with the same—men and boys of all ages sitting cross-legged or sitting on their knees, wearing anything from street attire with the familiar white brocade skull-caps to white robes and turbans. Shoes lined the edges of the carpets, and the men were abuzz with conversation, some talking with those next to them, others on their cell phones. Many craned their necks to stare with various expressions as I moved past. Others stood and took pictures of the sight of so many preparing to pray—a sight that both they and I considered impressive: hats and more white hats in rows as far as the eye could see—about 200,000 men.

I wound my way along the edge of the crowded sidewalk, passing many policemen in their dark blue uniforms as well as handfuls of veiled women of all ages. I was nearly at the mosque, though I could only see its minarets. I paused to stand near some young women; maybe I’d just stand in that spot; the sidewalk ahead was nearly impassable. I started listening to the voice reverberating over the speaker system. Some men seemed to be listening too, but the crowd was still full of low murmurings, a dull roar.

Just then a man and his son removed their shoes and made their way to a prayer rug directly in front of us. The little boy was dressed in a small, brown beaded robe with a little skull cap. He looked just like a little man. The veiled girl next to me exclaimed, “Isn’t he cute?” and I agreed.

That’s how our conversation began. She smiled and asked if I could understand the speaker. “No, not really,” I admitted. She commented, “We can’t understand either. Part of it is the quality of the speaker system and part of it is because it’s in Arabic. We can understand most of the Chinese though.” I asked her about the meaning of the event and she replied that this was the day of breaking fast after a month of getting up at 4:30 to eat before sunrise and followed by fasting until after sundown. It was a time to recall times of famine or poverty and cherish what we have, especially food and drink.

As the men stood and bowed down in unison, she added a commentary, “Now they are praying for blessing in this new year. See how unified they all are, all standing and bowing as one,” she said in obvious admiration, and then asked, “Do you have faith?”

“I believe in the One True God,” I answered.

“Oh, she also believes in God,” she told the girl next to her. “So you’re a Muslim?” she continued.

I repeated, “I also believe in the One True God.”

The ceremony soon came to a close and the crowd started to move. “Will you come to our home with us?” the same veiled girl asked.

“Really?” I queried.

“Yes, please come.” And with that her eight-year-old son and his ten-year-old cousin grabbed my hands and started leading me along through the crowd. I enjoyed chatting with them as we walked through dusty back roads.

Every once in a while, I looked back to make sure my two new friends were still behind us. They were and were joined by an older lady, wearing a black velvet headdress; I realized that this woman was their mother and tried to read her expression at their having invited a foreigner to their home for the breaking of fast. I wasn’t sure she was happy, but as I entered their home, I realized it had just been her exterior expression. She was immediately welcoming and proceeded to take pictures with me and her little grandchildren.

At first, they invited me to sit down and served me eight-treasure tea. The men came and joined me around the coffee table while the women busied themselves with the cooking. At first, I felt a little uncomfortable being the only woman, but soon realized that these men were very kind and friendly. They kept offering me food, but telling me not to worry if I couldn’t finish something; they knew that I might not be accustomed to their food. Soon the women came to join us too and we ate a mid-morning meal. There was steamed bread, many kinds of small cookies, deep-fried, crunchy noodles, several fried dishes, a tomato-based soup and pulled-lamb ribs dipped in red spice. I liked the lamb best.

It was easy to converse with this family—there seemed to be a lot to talk about. Sometimes I could only guess the meaning of the dialect they spoke in turn with each other. Once when the youngest girl translated it into Chinese proper, she told me that her mother was inviting me to come to their home every weekend and telling her to make good friends with me. I recalled my fleeting prayer of a day or so ago, asking that Father connect me to a local family here.

As I said my farewells, they filled my purse with fresh pears from their own trees in the country. Then as I wound my way out of the neighborhood on the arm of my new friend, we both marveled at the meeting that came about because of a comment about a cute little boy. She called it “destiny” and I silently called it “the hand of God.”

Please join me in praying for Destiny and her family. As you pray, God moves.