... I always wear my silver crucifix.

It hangs down from the silver chain around my neck.

At the pharmacy yesterday where I went to buy some medications for my nagging flu, a woman kept looking at me.

She was lithe and had a white shawl around her head. Her features were middle eastern.

Her eyes with long thick lashes were demure as they darted between my face and the crucifix on my chest.

Discomfort embraced me as her gaze consumed me.

Time felt like it had slowed down until the pharmacist called my name and I walked over to the counter to collect my medications. It was brief. I turned around and walked towards the door.

Her eyes followed me.

She was whispering.

It was intelligible, yet it pulled at me, as though I needed to hear what she was saying.

I stopped and turned to her.

She looked up at me and spoke louder. It was in a foreign language. I couldn't understand it.

"I am sorry. I don't understand."

She continued speaking and pointing to my chest.

The pharmacist at the counter looked over at us. He was listening. His brow furrowed. Then he spoke. I turned to him.

"She says that you remind her of her husband. He was tall like you. She says that she cannot imagine how it must feel like to wear the crucifix so openly and not be afraid for your life."

"Why should I be afraid?"

He spoke to her in the language. She responded. He turned back to me.

"Her husband was beheaded for refusing to take off his crucifix."

"What?"

"She is a refugee from Syria. A Christian. A family sponsored her and her three children to Canada."

I turned to her.

Her eyes were misty and her hands were clasped together as though in prayer. She bowed slightly and raised her face back up at me.

In her eyes was an indescribable look. A mixture of emotions that tugged at my heart.

And standing there in front of her, I realised with such clarity, how much I take my faith and my freedom for granted.

She spoke again. Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it was in halting English.

"You believe?"

I didn't understand.

She pointed at my crucifix and spoke earnestly in her language.

The pharmacist was even more somber as he translated, his hands laid firmly on the counter as though for support.

"She wants to know if you believe enough in the salvation of Jesus Christ to die for your faith?"

I stood there.

And minutes passed.

Silently.

I knew the truth.

But I could not say it.

---Jude Idada

WOW.... thought provoking... do i BELIEVE in JESUS ENOUGH TO DIE FOR HIM LIKE HE DID FOR ME?
#Tears

Gibrima1:
... I always wear my silver crucifix.

It hangs down from the silver chain around my neck.

At the pharmacy yesterday where I went to buy some medications for my nagging flu, a woman kept looking at me.

She was lithe and had a white shawl around her head. Her features were middle eastern.

Her eyes with long thick lashes were demure as they darted between my face and the crucifix on my chest.

Discomfort embraced me as her gaze consumed me.

Time felt like it had slowed down until the pharmacist called my name and I walked over to the counter to collect my medications. It was brief. I turned around and walked towards the door.

Her eyes followed me.

She was whispering.

It was intelligible, yet it pulled at me, as though I needed to hear what she was saying.

I stopped and turned to her.

She looked up at me and spoke louder. It was in a foreign language. I couldn't understand it.

"I am sorry. I don't understand."

She continued speaking and pointing to my chest.

The pharmacist at the counter looked over at us. He was listening. His brow furrowed. Then he spoke. I turned to him.

"She says that you remind her of her husband. He was tall like you. She says that she cannot imagine how it must feel like to wear the crucifix so openly and not be afraid for your life."

"Why should I be afraid?"

He spoke to her in the language. She responded. He turned back to me.

"Her husband was beheaded for refusing to take off his crucifix."

"What?"

"She is a refugee from Syria. A Christian. A family sponsored her and her three children to Canada."

I turned to her.

Her eyes were misty and her hands were clasped together as though in prayer. She bowed slightly and raised her face back up at me.

In her eyes was an indescribable look. A mixture of emotions that tugged at my heart.

And standing there in front of her, I realised with such clarity, how much I take my faith and my freedom for granted.

She spoke again. Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it was in halting English.

"You believe?"

I didn't understand.

She pointed at my crucifix and spoke earnestly in her language.

The pharmacist was even more somber as he translated, his hands laid firmly on the counter as though for support.

"She wants to know if you believe enough in the salvation of Jesus Christ to die for your faith?"

I stood there.

And minutes passed.

Silently.

I knew the truth.

But I could not say it.

---Jude Idada

Hmmmm I feel for woman, She has in repairable experience.. as for a big question of fAith had been put forward to you.. Islamabad!!!