Delivered

By Peculiar People

Brought up in a strict Muslim home in London, Sulafa has recently experienced the transforming power of Jesus Christ. Now, despite fear of discovery and its consequences, she knows she has to spread the good news. In an act of bravery, she sends out postcards with a single message: Let me pray for you. Her simple postcard request impacts lives and brings hope in the midst of hopelessness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peculiar People
• Release date: Feb 3, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452468907

Peculiar People

Peculiar People is an international Christian collaborative fiction group founded by Amy Michelle Wiley. PeP's goals are to bring writers together to create quality unique fiction that spreads the love of God.

Book preview

Introduction

When I first had the idea for a book centered around postcards that said, Let me pray for you, I had no idea how or why the cards were sent out. Oddly, I felt that part wasn’t my story to write, so I began checking with some of my writer friends to see who would be interested in taking the lead writer role.

When Helen Paynter agreed and sent me the first draft of the opening chapter, I was astounded, and knew immediately why God had chosen her to write that character. Her story idea was beyond anything that had crossed my mind—very powerful and so fitting for the political situation right now. Other writers from around the world then joined in with an array of wonderful stories that will touch readers in many ways, and artists contributed to create the lovely cover.

The creation of this book took considerably longer than expected, for a number of reasons. I was in an intensive college program, training to be a sign language interpreter while juggling the book project. Then I became very sick, battling severe pain, debilitating fatigue, and bouts of cognitive dysfunction. Eventually I was diagnosed with Fibromyalgia. As my college schedule lessened and allowed me to learn to manage my disability by keeping a very quiet schedule, my symptoms have lessened and I’ve finally been able to get back to the postcard project.

I know other contributing authors and our editor have also had a difficult time, due to health or other issues. I would like to thank everyone for their patience, prayers, and help, and give a special thanks to Joanne Sher for jumping in to assist in any way she could, and to Helen for all the work she did.

I pray this book lifts the hearts of you, the readers, and reminds each of you of the special love and concern God has for you and every aspect of your life.

All of us involved in Peculiar People would like to thank and praise our Heavenly Father for the gifts He gave us of talent, enthusiasm, and dedication that made this book possible.

To God be the glory.

Blessings,

Amy Michelle Wiley

Contents

Your Kingdom Come Sulafa’s Story, Part One By Helen Paynter

African Grey By Elizabeth Burton

Unfettered By Lisa Mikatarian

Hope in a New City By Chrissy Siggee

Forever Young, Forever Faithful By Laury Hubrich

Forgive Us Our Sins Sulafa’s Story, Part Two By Helen Paynter

Vent By Helen Paynter

Reaching Out to Josh By Donna Emery

Self-Sufficiency and the Souvenir Shack By Glenn A. Hascall

God’s Amazing Timing By Petra van der Zande

Chains By Amy Michelle Wiley

A Child Will Lead Them By Joanne Sher

The Gray Men By Dub Wright

God Did Miracle You By Jan Ross

Maiden Flight of Mercy By Valora Otis

Prayer Changes Things By Monika Starr Langguth

God, You Are There? By James Clem

Deliver Us From Evil Sulafa’s Story, Part Three By Helen Paynter

More Than a Drink Coaster By Julie Arduini

Sakinah’s Wish By Molina Benoit

A Fresh Start By Debbie Roome

A Divine Encounter By Darlene Suter

Alyssa’s Hope By Karri Compton

Prayers in New York By Carolyn M. Kenney

Difficult Situation By Joanney Uthe

Heaven’s Gate By Rita Garcia

Renée By Garnet Miller

Journal to Jesus By Rebecca O’Connor

Forever and Ever, Amen Sulafa’s Story, Part Four By Helen Paynter

About Peculiar People

Meet the Contributors

Sulafa’s Story, Part One:

Your Kingdom Come

By Helen Paynter

The brown packing tape wound off the reel with its familiar sucking noise. Sulafa secured the parcel, tearing the tape with expert teeth. Crossing to her computer, she punched in the assignment number and printed out the delivery note, which she attached firmly to the parcel. This one was headed for Minnesota.

She carried the carton across to the delivery bay. That’s the last one, Harry.

The delivery man grinned at her. In good time as usual, Sulafa. I’ll get these off to the airport. See ya tomorrow. His cockney accent made him sound cheeky even when he was being serious.

Sulafa walked back to the packing area, adrenaline surging in her blood. Seventy packages taped and addressed. Seventy parcels heading across the Atlantic. And each one containing a little something extra. Something tiny but immensely powerful. Something so small that no one would guess it was there–until they opened the package. Scatter-bombing, her brother called it.

She shut down the computer and wrapped herself in her raincoat, checking her headscarf in the grimy mirror. She had a visiting permit to see her brother this evening.

The packages would be delivered within forty-eight hours.

Hussein was thinner than last month, his beard untidy and his face grey. He sat behind the screen, his fingers drumming on the counter.

Sulafa sat in silence, waiting for him to speak. She glanced at the soft brown eyes that used to laugh with her over their after-school milk, and then quickly dropped her gaze.

Sulafa. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing above his open collar.

Hussein. She kept her voice soft. Are you well?

As well as can be expected. The showers have been cold for a week.

Father sends his love. He hopes to visit next month.

Tell him to bring Salim with him. I need to speak to him about something.

Yes, Hussein.

And Mother? Is she well?

Yes, Hussein. Mother is fine.

They lapsed into silence, the unspoken words yawning between them like a desert. It had been so since Hussein arrived here, eighteen months ago. Looking down the barrel of a twenty-year sentence, his small talk had evaporated. Sulafa, for her part, was stupefied by what had happened to the brother she loved. Hussein, a terrorist. It still seemed like a bad dream.

It was here, six months ago, that Hussein had suggested she might like to deliver some birthday presents for him. The flick of his eyes toward the guard, combined with the almost imperceptible clenching of his teeth, told her more than his words, but not quite enough.

Of course, she had replied, buying time.

See Amaan. He’d smiled briefly. He will help you choose the gift wrap.

Since then she had visited every month, her luminous eyes signaling to him like riding lights. She had his mission in her sights. It had never been mentioned between them again–until now.

She waited until visiting time was over, and the prison guard was standing beside her to show her out. Leaning forward, fumbling in her handbag, her mouth was close to the speaking grill.

I sent some birthday presents today.

The dark eyes were hooded momentarily. I’m sure everyone will get what they deserve.

Hidden in her room, Sulafa had a forbidden cache. Later, when her father was at evening prayers and her mother clattering loudly in the kitchen, she locked her door and put a chair under the handle. Next she put on a CD of good Islamic music. Finally, she drew the curtains and lifted the floorboards under one corner of the carpet.

The book she pulled out was long, difficult, and often perplexing. She often wished she could find someone to help her understand it, but that was out of the question. After eight months of study, she was barely scratching the surface. Yet she knew it contained all she needed to pursue the secret life she lived.

Sulafa! The door handle rattled. Her mother’s voice chafed in the hallway. Sulafa! You have a visitor. Amaan is here to see you.

With practiced fingers, she slid the book into its hiding place and replaced the carpet. Her parents thought Amaan was a suitor and, applauding his impeccable Islamic credentials, wondered why they delayed announcing their engagement.

She knew his intentions to be quite different. Hastily, she put on her headscarf and opened the door to her public life.

Sulafa. Amaan bowed his head in greeting, then turned to her mother. May I take her for a walk?

Of course, she beamed. We know you will take good care of her.

Meekly, Sulafa allowed herself to be ushered out the door, her mother’s benediction lingering around them like smoke.

Once they were alone, his tone became brisker. Well? Did you get them sent off? He gripped her upper arm tightly.

Of course, she murmured, feeling his grip slacken at her words.

Hussein will be proud of you. He smiled, his eyes cruel. I knew you wouldn’t let us down. We’ll extract you as soon as the first one explodes.

Seventy packets on three different flights. Forty-eight of the states are targeted. I’m sorry I couldn’t cover all of them, but we didn’t have any business with the others this week.

Believe me, those little bombs are powerful enough to change the course of history. He licked his lips. It takes such a small amount of the agent. Beautiful in its simplicity. He looked down at her with sudden appreciation. You are quite a girl. I might marry you.

She lowered her eyes as if in bashful gratitude. Not while I draw breath.

Back in her room, Sulafa again drew her secrets from their hiding place. Cushioned in bubble wrap beside the book were seventy fragile glass bottles, each containing a gram of anthrax toxin and fitted with a small detonator charge.

On top of the bottles was an article torn from a newspaper. Who can stop the rise of the world’s only Superpower? The paper was creased and well-thumbed. She laid it aside and reached again for the book.

Since finding it on the underground train eight months previously, she had been consuming it like water in the desert. There was so much in it she didn’t understand, but she had learned to love the Jesus it spoke of. Since she had started praying to Him, her life had been clearer, more purposeful, somehow freer.

The Bible fell open at 1 Timothy, chapter 2, a page that was marked at many points. Sulafa took up the book and kissed it.

"I urge, then, first of all, that requests, prayers, intercession and thanksgiving be made for everyone—for kings and all those in authority, that we may live peaceful and quiet lives in all godliness and holiness. This is good, and pleases God our Saviour, who wants all men to be saved and to come to a knowledge of the truth."

She replaced the seventy glass bottles deep into the hole beneath the floorboards. In their place, in seventy cartons on three aircraft, were seventy packets of postcards. The right side of each card was pre-addressed to her own name and work address. On the front, each bore a single sentence: Let me pray for you.

She didn’t know what she would tell her brother and Amaan when seventy vials of anthrax failed to burst upon an unsuspecting America. She didn’t know how she was going to dispose of seventy grams of the deadly toxin.

But she knew there was a war on. And she had enlisted. And she had sent out her bombs.

African Grey

By Elizabeth Burton

It had been three months since Gena’s father, Howard, died. Two months and twenty-nine days since she wrote her first Parrot for Sale ad:

20-year-old African Grey male. Intelligent, with large vocabulary. Can accurately mimic voices, machines, other animals. Healthy and well-socialized. Owner recently deceased; loving new home needed. All offers considered.

Not one taker, Gena said, looking at the No Messages display on her answering machine. Hear that, Birdbrain? Nobody wants you. Especially me.

How-ard, aawwrck! How-ard! The parrot in question answered loudly, flapping his wings in her direction.

Guess you’re smarter than I thought. Dad wanted you, all right.

She knew she should feel flattered her father had trusted her to care for Gus. My most prized possession, he’d called the parrot in his will. But a pet was the last thing she needed in her life, and the will hadn’t stipulated how she was to care for him.

I’ll make sure you get a good home, she said. The bird eyed her warily, his head cocked to one side, as she added, You’re used to a lot of attention. I have to work, so you’ll just be here alone all day. It’ll be a lot better to find someone who has more time for you.

The words sounded unconvincing, even to Gena. The truth was she had plenty of time. She would claim exhaustion any time her old college friends invited her out, but her work at the car assembly plant was really an easy, but mind-numbing seven-thirty to three. She simply felt out of place listening to them talk about establishing careers and looking for Mr. Right.

Her father never could understand why she’d taken the factory job in the first place. He’d shake his head in bewilderment, saying, All that education, and then you go to work on an assembly line just like I did. Your mother and I wanted more for you.

Was that before or after Mom left? Gena always countered, knowing it would make him retreat.

But she couldn’t have given him a reason, anyway. The research lab should have been her dream job, but it made her miserable. She’d applied at the plant for something temporary while she figured out what she wanted to do. That was five years ago, yet she was no closer to a decision than she’d been in the beginning.

Carrying her sandwich and potato chips to the couch, Gena settled in to watch television. Gus edged to the end of his perch closest to her. His eyes never left her face.

The box fell in slow motion, paper spreading like lava across the floor. All Gena could do was watch and groan.

Stupid bird. Look what you’ve caused!

Gus squawked out an exact echo of her voice: Stupid! Gena! Aawrrck! Stu-pid!

Now I’m being mocked by a bird. How pathetic can you get? She bent down and reached for the papers, aware of the parrot’s gaze. Of course, it’s also pathetic to call a bird names! In spite of herself, Gena giggled.

Her voice was light when she addressed him. You’re lucky the factory doesn’t mind me bringing home the junk mail for you. I’m not about to waste money buying that recycled liner paper like Dad did. I never could figure out how ink was supposed to hurt you. Besides, if you’re as smart as you’re supposed to be, you’ll probably like having something to read.

She took the deep Moooo Gus gave in response as agreement.

Let’s see what kind of entertainment you’ve got this time. She jostled the box, looking through the papers. Newspaper, flyers—concert, poetry reading, yard sale, babysitting, looking for work—ads from the grocery store... What’s this?

It was a plain white postcard with a mailing address printed on it:

Sulafa Malik

E.P. Exports

43 Honiton Avenue

London, SW3 6ND

UK

She turned the card over. Typed in the middle were the words Let me pray for you.

Let me guess...I send off the card and some crazy cult guy shows up at my door, ready to help me trade all my worldly possessions for an entry pass to heaven. Like I’m going to fall for that!

With a dismissive laugh, she tossed the card into the garbage can.

The bird preened, his feathers ruffled up to make him look twice his size.

What? she said. You’d rather keep it around? Gus stared at her, unblinking. Fine.

Feeling silly, she retrieved the card and put it back with the rest of the cage liners. Praying never did Dad any good, you know, she said.

Gus’s eyes widened. Flapping his wings, he shrieked Pray! over and over until Gena ran into her bedroom, sandwiching her head between two pillows to block out the noise.

**********

I guess that would be okay. This afternoon’s fine...around three? See you then. She hung up the phone.

Looks like you’ve got an admirer, Gus, she said. Some friend of Dad’s wants to come visit you.

Gus barked, then laughed maniacally.

At least you’re never boring, Gena rolled her eyes as Gus started whistling the theme song from The Andy Griffith Show. We used to watch that together, didn’t we, boy?

She stretched her arm out and the parrot climbed on. Just like old times. She could remember the day her father brought Gus home—a small, trembling, gray clump of feathers. He’s yours, sweetie, he’d said. They’re supposed to be great company.

At age ten, Gena had understood and appreciated the gesture. She’d been inconsolable since her mother left with the bull rider. She barely spoke or ate, and only left the apartment when her father made her go to school.

She had overheard him telling her counselor that she was drifting away, getting lost in her inner world of regrets and fears. Let her be, the woman had advised. She needs to find her own way. So Howard had stepped back.

Many nights she’d felt his presence in her room. She feigned sleep, but when she peeked at him, she could see his face in his hands, tears slipping through his fingers. Each time, she resolved not to mention her mother again. Focus on the positive, as her counselor said. Her father’s pain was heavy enough; Gena couldn’t bear the thought of adding to it.

The bird was supposed to be a safe place for her fears. And he was, at first.

The young parrot grew rapidly: chirping, singing and trying to sound out words. Gena was the first thing he ever learned to say. She’d swelled with pride, eagerly going to school again so she could take news of Gus to her friends. The grin she developed from hearing the oohs and ahhs of her classmates would last all day.

Every day after school she ran home, excited to discover what new wonders Gus would bring.

And she talked to him. About her mother saying she was going to leave if Gena didn’t clean her room. About waking up to find her gone. About wondering if her room really had been the reason Mom left. With every revelation, Gus listened, his head nodding up and down as if he understood. Gena considered him her best friend.

Until the day he betrayed her.

It had been a gorgeous afternoon, too warm for early spring. A month before, her father had begun attending a Wednesday night Bible study. The church was having a picnic at the park that day, and he wanted Gena to go with him. Shy and frightened by the prospect of being the new kid, she’d begged him to let her stay home. It was only when he suggested taking Gus along that she’d given in.

Howard had worked diligently, rigging up a long leash that could attach to the bird’s leg. When it met with Gena’s approval, the odd little trio set out. Howard held Gena’s hand and Gus rode on her shoulder, his head whipping back and forth to take in each new sight and sound. Together, the three marched to the park like wary troops going to battle.

Gena needn’t have worried about making friends. Gus was an instant child magnet. She had been thrilled to introduce him and show the other children how to hold out their arms for him to climb on.

Things had been perfect until he’d climbed to the shoulder of a little girl with pigtails and glasses. She was enchanted and wanted to know everything about him. What does he like to eat? Why doesn’t he fly away? How many words can he say?

Gena answered everything until the girl innocently asked, Where’s your mommy?

Gena