There were now four weeks until the next court date. Four weeks of dread hanging over him like a storm cloud, dark and heavy. So what? What did it matter if there was still time? He still had no hope of paying the debt or getting out of it in any way. The deadline was nothing but a ticking clock counting down to the inevitable.
Jabr returned to the little apartment, his steps dragging, shoulders slumped. The afternoon sun filtered through the thin curtains, casting long shadows across the room. Jomana was out, at the doctors for a routine check-up on the baby’s progress. He was grateful for her absence; he wasn’t ready to see her face when he had no good news, no hope to offer. Janiah watched him from the kitchen, her eyes narrowing as she saw him sink into a chair, his head in his hands, the very picture of despair.
“Well, Jabr, how’s the ‘wild donkey’ doing today?” Her voice was sharp, cutting through the silence like a knife.
Jabr looked up, frowning. The phrase struck a nerve. She always knew how to get under his skin. “Why do you always bring that up, Janiah?” he muttered, irritated.
“Because it’s who you are,” she replied, not missing a beat. “Or maybe who you were. We’ll see.” She emphasized the last word, her gaze unwavering. “A wild donkey of a man, just like the Scripture says. Genesis 16:12. Remember?”
Jabr flinched, the words ringing in his mind. ‘He shall be a wild donkey of a man, his hand against everyone and everyone’s hand against him.’ That old story, that old taunt. He thought he had left that framework behind. He had tried so hard to change. “I’m just not sure what to do, Janiah. I might be finished,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, his shoulders slumped in defeat.
Janiah’s face softened just a fraction. She put down the dish towel she’d been holding, wiped her hands on her apron, and stepped closer. “Perhaps that would be the best thing, then,” she said gently, but firmly. “Perhaps it’s time for you to be finished. Then, maybe God could take over, if you’d let Him.”
Jabr blinked, caught off guard. “How could I do that?” he asked, his voice raw, his eyes searching her face for some kind of answer.
She sighed, folding her arms across her chest, the lines of her face deepening with concern. “Jabr, you know more than that. You’ve been fighting all your life. Fighting everyone and everything, even God. But it’s not always about fighting. Sometimes it’s about surrender.”
He stared at her, truly puzzled. “Surrender?” The word tasted bitter in his mouth.
“Yes,” she nodded. “You must look to the Lord of Hosts. Who satisfies, Jabr? You know the Scriptures. Who satisfies?”
“God does,” he answered quickly, almost reflexively, but there was doubt in his eyes, a flicker of uncertainty.
She leaned in closer, her voice lowering. “Exactly. And you can’t cause that to happen. You can only ask. Ask, and let go of this need to control, to fix everything yourself. Stop wrestling with everyone around you, and especially with Him.”
He sat there for a moment, her words sinking in, cutting through the fog of his despair. Then, with a sigh, he pushed back from the table, stood up, and walked out of the apartment. The air outside was hot and thick, the street bustling with life —merchants shouting out prices, people haggling, the scent of grilled meats and spices hanging in the air, vendors slicing off meat for shawarmas. He moved past the market stalls, past the hanging carcasses of lambs, the glistening fish, the piles of vegetables, his feet moving almost of their own accord.
He walked without purpose, without direction, his mind racing, his heart heavy. He didn’t close his eyes, didn’t open his mouth, but he prayed. First, the Lord’s Prayer, the words flowing over his lips first like a habit then like water, and then his own request, spoken silently in his mind.
*God, I don’t know what to do. I’ve fought and fought, and I’m tired. I can’t see a way out of this. If You’re there, if You’re listening, show me what to do. Help me, please.”
For a moment, he felt a strange quiet, a stillness in the chaos around him. A tiny flicker of peace amidst the noise. And for the first time in a long time, he felt like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t entirely alone.
When Jabr returned to the apartment, he was greeted by the muffled sound of sobbing. He paused, dread curling in his stomach, and opened the door to find Janiah and Jomana locked in a tight embrace, tears streaming down their faces.
His chest tightened. “Oh no,” he muttered under his breath, his heart pounding. “Not another round about my debt.” He had spent the entire day convincing himself to set it aside, at least for now. The heat and dust of the street clung to him like a second skin, and he moved quickly to pour himself a glass of water, hoping it might wash away the anxiety rising within him.
“I’ve gone to the Lord about the debt. Let’s forget it just today,” he said, trying to sound calm, but his voice quivered.
Janiah pulled him down to sit beside her on the worn-out couch, her grip leaving a red indentation on his forearm. Her eyes, usually so sharp and discerning, were clouded with worry. “It’s not the money. Forget that. Jomana just got back from the doctor at the mission hospital. Did you forget that? You should have been with her.”
Jabr blinked, his mind scrambling. “The appointment…” he mumbled. He had forgotten, his mind too consumed with his own troubles to remember anything else. Guilt clawed at him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, glancing at Jomana. But she was sitting right there at the kitchen table, wasn’t she? She was back, so surely everything was okay now.
“Jabr, ask her about the baby,” Janiah nudged him, her voice a mixture of frustration and urgency.
He turned, confused. “Yes, that’s it. That’s what I want to know.”
Jomana’s sobs grew louder, her shoulders shaking. She shook her head as if to dismiss the whole conversation.
“The doctor’s worried about her blood pressure,” Janiah finally explained, her voice tight.
“What does that mean?” Jabr asked, his brow furrowing. “Can’t the doctor just give her a pill or something?”
Jomana looked up, finally meeting his gaze. Her face was pale, her eyes red and swollen. “She said I have a small amount of protein in my urine too,” she murmured.
Jabr stared at her, clueless. “Okay, I’m not a doctor. I don’t get it,” he said, his frustration showing. He felt like he was floundering in deep water, unable to find solid ground.
Both women began to cry again, their tears flowing faster. His ignorance felt like a slap, and he realized how disconnected he must seem, how uncaring.
“The doctor told me it might be pre-eclampsia,” Jomana finally managed to say between sobs.
Jabr felt a wave of confusion. “I don’t know what that means,” he confessed. He glanced at Janiah, searching for an explanation, but she merely shook her head, her lips pressed into a thin line.
Jomana’s voice was low, trembling. “If you had been there with me, you would understand,” she said, her tone a mix of hurt and frustration. “When the mother’s blood pressure goes up and there’s protein in the urine, it means both the mother and baby are in danger. It’s serious, Jabr.” Her words hung in the air, heavy and oppressive.
Jabr’s face softened as he began to grasp the gravity. “You have to tell me more,” he urged, feeling a knot tighten in his chest. “You seem to know more than you’ve said so far.”
Jomana’s eyes hardened, and she wiped at her tears with the back of her hand. “I know because my mother had the same thing once. The pregnancy went too long, and she almost died. My sister, the baby that was delivered, didn’t survive the birth,” she said, her voice now steady but filled with a quiet pain. “I was five years old. I remember all of it. My father didn’t get it either, not until it was too late. He thought pregnancies and babies were always fine. They’re not.”
Jabr felt a chill run down his spine. He reached out, trying to comfort her, but she stiffened, pulling away. “I’m trying to get it,” he said softly. “What’s to be done at this point?”
“Dr. Fleming will check me every week,” Jomana replied, her voice growing firmer. “If my blood pressure gets too high, so high that I might die, she’ll have to deliver the baby early.”
Jabr frowned. “How early?” he asked, his voice cracking. His mind raced with possibilities, each one more terrifying than the last.
Janiah quietly rose and retreated to the bedroom, leaving them alone to navigate this crisis.
“Maybe two months early, maybe even three” Jomana said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Jabr’s face went pale. “But that can’t happen,” he stammered. “I’ve seen babies born that soon at the mission hospital. They’re not ready… most of them don’t make it.” He got up, his body restless, and began to pace the small kitchen.
Jomana stood, reaching out to take his hand, her touch gentle yet firm. “I think you’re getting it now,” she said.
Jabr stopped, looking into her eyes, and felt the weight of a new kind of fear settle over him. His mind tried to reconcile his worries — the crushing debt that had gnawed at him for months and now this, the fragility of his new family. They weren’t even on the same plane; the debt had solutions, hard ones, but perhaps they existed. Pre-eclampsia? He had no idea what to do with that.
He squeezed Jomana’s hand, both caught in a silence heavy with unspoken prayers. He silently pleaded with the Lord to fix this, to make everything right with the pregnancy. He knew he had to trust, even when his faith felt paper-thin.
Yet, even as his worry for Jomana and the baby deepened, the debt crept back into his thoughts, like a shadow he couldn’t escape. He was back at square one, still waiting on God for answers, still searching for a way through the fog of uncertainty.
