Miracle of the Prayer Cloth

By Amalie Sabali

Even though they came from different cultures and backgrounds, their love for one anther was real and deep. Author Amalie Sabali, of East Indian descent and a Muslim, was the sixth of ten children. John Aubain was a tall, Catholic Frenchman. They both wanted the same things in life and were married in 1969. In Miracle of the Prayer Cloth, she chronicles their story, including how a traumatic shooting impacted a good portion of their life together.

The memoir tells how Johnny was shot in the abdomen in February of 1980 and was in serious condition. Sabali shares the challenges they faced as a family, trying to raise two young daughters, keeping a roof over their heads and food on the table, and helping her husband recuperate after many separate health scares.

Miracle of the Prayer Cloth offers uplifting insights about devoted and unconditional love while also telling how faith, prayer, belief, family, and God can lead one through the most difficult of times. It narrates a story of travel, adventure, romance, and overcoming obstacles—from an unfortunate incident and suffering of a loved one to a renewed life and beginning.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9781532069215

Amalie Sabali

Amalie Sabali was a successful accountant. She and her husband, John, raised two daughters, and have five grandchildren. She currently lives in St Thomas, Virgin Islands.

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Copyright © 2019 Amalie Sabali.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-6920-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-6922-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-6921-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019903069

iUniverse rev. date: 03/12/2019

Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank the following people and organizations for the care of my husband, John Harry Aubain:

• Dr. Roy Lester Scheinder, Dr. Ruth Watson, and all other doctors, nurses, and caregivers at Knud Hansen Hospital and Roy Lester Scheinder Regional Medical Hospital

• Dr. Walter Lischick and all other doctors, nurses, and caregivers at Peninsula Regional Hospital

• Dr. Keith Lilimore, Dr. Chang, nurses Jennifer Coleman and Hope, and all other doctors, nurses, and caregivers at John Hopkins Hospital

• Dr. Barry and Luanna Lewis

• all the doctors, nurses, caregivers, and therapists at Chesapeake Rehabilitation Center

To Charlotte Dunaway, Pastor Phil and the Church of God of Prophecy.

To my immediate family, all my in-laws, friends from near and far for the unwavering support and prayers.

Special thanks my daughters Nisha Aubain and Sayeeda Marin.

And most importantly Thanks Be To God.

CHAPTER

ONE

On March 13, 1996, I was together with other family members in the Pennington Nursing Home waiting room, where we’d been waiting, waiting, and waiting again to get information on my husband’s condition. It was midnight, and everything suddenly was calm—unlike half an hour earlier, when the doctors and hospital personnel had hovered around Johnny, desperately trying to stabilize him. How many times had we waited in different hospitals for similar situations? Six … seven since the shooting incident. I couldn’t remember at that moment; instead, I reflected to the first time I met my husband, Johnny.

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I was excited; I was traveling northwest on the South Seas coming to Mount Hopeful from Kana Panna on Sunday, August 14, 1968. All my other cousins and family members had gone to other parts of the world. Upon my arrival in Mount Hopeful, I was disappointed when I saw the airport and the terminal building; the building looked like a big box. This is an American territory, I thought. Am I in the right place? Why is this place so run-down? I will not like this place. (If only I had known then how much I would love this place and come to call it my home.)

My brother, Dusty, met me at the airport, and after hugs and kisses, we surveyed and complimented each other on the way we looked. I had not seen Dusty in two years, but he looked the same. He was tall, slim, and handsome, and he seemed to have not aged at all. Then we proceeded to retrieve my luggage—only it was not there. After waiting and waiting, we inquired at the desk. The man behind the counter made several phone calls, but my luggage could not be located. We were advised to return the next day to see whether it was on another flight.

On Monday we went back to airport, but my luggage still had not arrived, so we decided to wait for the bus. (Dusty’s car was in the shop.) Dusty was telling me things about Mount Hopeful when we suddenly heard a loud screeching sound and saw a red Volkswagen making a U-turn in the middle of the street. Then it stopped right in front of us.

Dusty leaned toward the car and said, Hi, Johnny.

The man in the car said, Do you guys need a ride?

Dusty said we did, and we got into the car.

Johnny, Dusty said as he closed the door, meet my sister, Amalie Sabali. Most people call her Malie.

And that is how it all began. Johnny said later that he had seen the bus right behind him, and if he hadn’t made that U-turn, Dusty and I would had taken the bus—and he could not have let that happen.

On my journey to Mount Hopeful, the plane had stopped on several islands, either to let out passengers who had reached their destinations or to pick up others who were traveling farther on or also coming to Mount Hopeful. I thought that my luggage was at one of those ports, but it had never left Kana Panna—or had somehow found its way back there. After some investigation, my dad found it, and about four days after my arrival, I finally had my luggage.

My three older brothers had left home to live on their own when I was about twelve years old. The two oldest brothers kept in close contact with me; they were interested in my everyday life. My dad took us everywhere—movies and concerts—and he returned for us after the event, if the rest of the family did not go. Asa, my oldest brother, often told Dad that he would take me home. Asa often asked Dad’s permission to take me to house parties, and sometimes Dusty, my second-oldest brother, did the same.

My suave, attractive brother Asa taught me to dance. He taught me the bolero, the meringue, calypso, the waltz, and whatever dance craze was popular at the time. When I went to parties, my friends would say, How did you learn the new dance already? I’d say, I have a real fine brother who looks out for me. Asa was a regular on a local TV show called Teen Dance. We tried to watch his performances on Saturdays; he danced so gracefully and smoothly as he glided across the floor.

I was at a concert one time—my dad had taken me there with some friends—and at the intermission, Asa came and sat with me for a while. Then he said, My girlfriend is over there. I have to go back now. About twenty minutes later, he returned and said, I need you to tell my girlfriend that you are my sister.

As we walked toward his girlfriend, I thought if looks could kill, I’d be dead. Her eyes were like fiery darts stabbing into me.

I decided to have some fun. Who are you? I asked.

I’m his girlfriend, she said, pointing at Asa.

So am I, I said.

She started on him. You dirty son of a bitch. You are a stinking liar.

I couldn’t help it; I started to laugh.

Asa said, Would you please stop it and tell her the truth?

I was grinning like a fool, and she said, Is it true? Are you his sister?

Yes, I said, but you had already concluded that I was something else. I had every intention of being honest with you, but you didn’t give me a chance.

You are so pretty, and I saw him hold your hand, she said.

He helped me down a stair, I said. That’s how my brothers are to me—gentlemen first. They will make great husbands when they choose their wives.

My brothers got into trouble with their girlfriends because the girls often thought I was their competition.

After the day I met Johnny, he was at our house every night. Dusty would often ask him to stay for dinner with us. A week after our first meeting, Johnny arrived with a large beautiful bouquet of white roses and lilies, got down on one knee, and proposed.

I was stunned. Now I know that you’re really crazy, I said. People don’t act like this.

Johnny said, The very first moment I saw your face, I knew that I loved you, that you were the one I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.

You’re crazy, I said again. I don’t know you. Marriage is one of the most significant commitments that I will make in my life, and when I marry, it will be forever. I have to be sure that it’s with the right person. I don’t love you.

That’s okay, Johnny said. You’ll get to know me and love me. I’ll wait.

He was right; he grew on me. When we had dinner, and it was my turn to wash the dishes, Johnny would help me—he’d wash, and I’d dry the dishes and put them away. Dusty would look at us and smile.

One night, Johnny didn’t call, nor did he come by. I kept going out on the porch to look for him.

Finally, Dusty came out to sit with me on the porch. You miss him, don’t you? he said.

Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just sitting out here, I said.

Yeah, you care about him.

Oh, hush.

It was true; I had grown to love him. John Astro, this man who had professed his undying love for me, was a six-footer with hazel eyes and blond hair. He was of French descent and came from a family of fourteen children. I was of East Indian descent and was the sixth of ten children.

Our cultures were different, but we wanted the same things in life—a nice house and lots of little ones running around. Our desires and values were the same.

I first came to Mount Hopeful because my loving brother Dusty and his wife, Sharma, had sent for me to be an assistant to Dusty in his computer operating job where he worked. Sharma was also of East Indian descent; she came from Kana Panna. I lived with them and their two sons, as well as Harti, Sharma’s sister.

Harti and I were about the same age, and we shared a room. We became close and confided in each other. Harti liked to listen to her radio at night, but she kept the volume low so she didn’t disturb me. She had arrived in Mount Hopeful about a year before I did. She was quiet and caring in her own way; she took care of Dusty’s two boys.

Harti, Dusty, and I went to the Laundromat on Saturdays because Sharma worked two jobs. Harti and I sometimes went to the movies or took the boys for walks on the weekends. Like Asa, Dusty also protected me in every way. I’d always had a man in my life—first it was my dad, and then it was Dusty, and finally it was Johnny.

I worked as Dusty’s assistant. I messed up a few times, but he assumed the blame. Dusty had come to Mount Hopeful as an employee of the Mount Hopeful Hotel, having been transferred from Kana Panna. After his contract at the hotel expired, he left that job and became a computer operator at Thor Crantonson’s accounting firm. He taught me all about the