Jbar pulled into the apartment parking lot with a sigh of relief, one that was long overdue. He and Mary exchanged a brief, strained glance before silently exiting the car. The weight of unspoken words clung to the air between them. Jbar hoisted their bags onto his shoulders, leaving the sack of rupees stashed in the trunk. Mary broke the hours of suffocating silence as they reached the apartment door.
“Don’t tell her anything about my new plan. Please,” she said softly, but with a sharpness that pierced him.
Her request caught Jabr off guard. He hadn’t intended to share anything with Jomana, but the way Mary phrased it, as if pleading yet commanding, left him cold. What new plan? His jaw tightened as he nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
When the door swung open, the atmosphere lightened instantly. Jomana greeted them warmly, holding the baby snugly on her hip. “We’re delighted you’re back so soon!” she said, her face glowing with a mother’s joy.
Jabr felt a strange comfort in her presence. She didn’t ask about Akeem—something he feared would come up—and for that, he was grateful. Instead, Jomana’s attention shifted to her mother.
“Mom, I trust the exit from the Egypt debacle was completed?” she asked, her tone casual but expectant.
Mary, already halfway out of the room to avoid interrogation, responded over her shoulder. “Yes, that’s over and done with.”
She offered no further details, and Jomana didn’t press. Jabr observed the exchange, feeling an unsettling familiarity settle over him. “So that’s how they’ve always communicated,” he mused to himself. The unspoken agreements, the selective silence. It dawned on him that Jomana didn’t want to know more, at least not yet. She was content, or perhaps resigned, to live with the mysteries of her mother’s decisions.
As the evening wore on, the distant sounds of children playing echoed through the apartment walls. Jomana, visibly tired, sighed as another round of shouting from neighbor children pierced the quiet. “Not again tonight,” she muttered, retreating into the bedroom with the baby.
Janiah, ever the diplomat, flashed Jabr a knowing smile and said, “It’ll pass. Let her rest.”
Sunday arrived with the usual bustle of preparing for church. By late afternoon, they gathered for the evening service. Pastor John made his rounds, among the congregants, stopping by to check on Jomana and the baby. When his eyes landed on Mary, he lit up with curiosity.
“Mary, is it? I haven’t had the pleasure. Jomana tells me you’re new to the area,” Pastor John said, extending a warm hand.
Mary accepted it gracefully. “Yes, before his death my husband was the senior pastor at Grace Presbyterian Church in Cairo.”
Pastor John’s face brightened. “A pastor’s wife! Well, I’ll be. That’s a calling in itself. Do you miss that life?”
Mary smiled, a flicker of emotion crossing her features. “I miss my husband, most of all. And the music.”
His eyes widened with interest. “Music, you say. Did you play or sing?”
“Oh yes,” Mary replied, her voice lifting. “I played piano and led the hymns. It was my greatest joy.”
Pastor John clapped his hands, his excitement contagious. “Would you believe our pianist is out today? We could use a hand if you’re willing.”
Mary hesitated only a moment before nodding. “I’d be honored.”
As Jabr watched the exchange, a bitter taste crept into his mouth. Mary seemed to thrive in these unexpected moments, whereas he felt as though he was sinking deeper into his own burdens. He remained stoic as Mary, Janiah, and Jomana grew animated at the prospect of Mary playing for the service.
Pastor John’s introduction was jubilant. “Congregation, please welcome Mary Albian. Her late husband was a beloved pastor at Grace Presbyterian in Cairo, and today she’ll lead us in worship with music.”
Jabr slumped back in his seat. “Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath, loud enough for those nearby to hear. Jomana, who sat beside him with the baby cradled in her arms, turned and shot him a sharp glance. Her smile faltered.
Mary played with a grace that defied the weight of her own recent struggles. Her fingers danced over the keys, and her voice, strong and steady, filled the room as she led the congregation in two hymns—”It is Well” and “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing.” Both were favorites of Jabr’s, hymns that once gave him solace, but now the sound of them stirred nothing but resentment. He couldn’t fathom how Mary, after everything, could so easily slip into this role, as though nothing had changed.
Jomana, beaming, swayed gently with the baby in her arms, lost in the music. Janiah, noticing Jabr’s unease, cast him a puzzled glance, her brow furrowing slightly.
Jbar closed his eyes and offered a silent prayer. “Make this feeling stop.”
Pastor John’s voice rose from the pulpit, reading from Ephesians 3:20-21. “Now to him who is able to do far more abundantly than all that we ask or think, according to the power at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, forever and ever. Amen.”
The words landed heavily on Jbar’s heart. He couldn’t shake the sense that despite the chaos, despite the sack of rupees hidden in his car, despite everything he had endured, there was still something greater at work. A flicker of humility crept in. Perhaps, he thought, Pastor John was right. He had orchestrated none of this—Jomana’s survival, the baby’s health, even the money that had found its way to him. True abundance.
As they filed out of the chapel, the weight of the day still pressed on Jabr’s shoulders. Jomana and Mary chatted animatedly, their voices full of light and joy, while Janiah remained silent, as if sensing the unspoken tension hanging over Jabr.
Back in the car, Jabr breathed deeply. The day had been too much, and yet, for the first time in weeks, he felt a glimmer of something he hadn’t expected: hope.
