“Loved ones and relatives are to observe a three-day mourning period,” read one website on Islamic death rituals that Marseille had looked up on her iPhone after the service. “Mourning is observed in Islam by increased devotion, receiving visitors and condolences, and avoiding decorative clothing and jewelry.”
Marseille hadn’t wanted to sit around and “observe” everyone’s mourning, however. That’s why she’d offered to help as much as possible. She’d taken special care to make sure Dr. Shirazi had a fresh cup of Persian tea by his side at all times, with a little drop of honey stirred in, just the way he liked it. She’d helped set out and arrange the food people brought. She’d refilled buckets of ice and made pot after pot of coffee and tea. When she’d noticed that neither of the Shirazi sons were doing it, she had emptied the trash can under the sink in the kitchen, replaced it with a new Hefty bag, and taken the overflowing bag out to the can in the garage. She’d answered phone calls and taken messages when the Shirazi family members were busy. She’d washed dishes as needed and made sure there were enough forks and spoons and napkins available. Perhaps most importantly — or at least most usefully — she had continually refilled the Kleenex canisters strategically positioned all around the first floor.
All the while, however, she tried to keep a low profile, acting more like the hired help than a friend of the family. She wanted to show her love to the Shirazis, but she didn’t want to presume to be part of the family. Nor did she want others to perceive her as acting like one. She didn’t want any of the real friends of the family asking who she was or why she was there, in large part because she had no idea how to answer such questions. Who was she to these people, really? Why was she there? She couldn’t just come out and say the truth. She wasn’t even entirely sure what the truth was. Was she doing this for the purest of motives, out of genuine, sincere love for the family? Or was she doing it for David, though he probably had no idea she was even there?
She could see the enormous pain in this family, and not just because of Mrs. Shirazi’s passing. These relationships were broken. The boys were estranged from one another. Worse, they seemed estranged from their father as well. There were clearly deep tensions just under the surface, and there were moments she feared those pains might explode into the open. She prayed throughout the day that they wouldn’t and that no one else would notice.
For some families, tragedies brought them together and helped heal old wounds. This didn’t appear to be one of those families. What the Shirazis needed most, Marseille began to see, was the same thing her father had needed most but never found. Not ancient traditions or a house full of family and friends or a piping-hot cup of Persian tea. What they needed was the healing touch of God’s Son, Jesus. They desperately needed Christ’s love, his comfort, the “peace of God, which surpasses all understanding,” that he had promised to all who followed him. She wanted them to know the love and mercy and healing she had found after her mother was killed in the Trade Center attacks. She wanted them to know the amazing truth of God’s great love.
But now didn’t seem the time to say anything, and again, who was she? Why should they listen to her? Yes, Christ had poured into her heart an everlasting, transforming love she hadn’t known existed. He had adopted her into his family and truly healed the wounds in her soul. She desperately wanted this family to know the Jesus she knew. But “there is an appointed time for everything,” she recalled from Scripture. “And there is a time for every event under heaven… A time to weep and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance… A time to be silent and a time to speak.” Tonight, she knew, was a time to be silent, and so she was.
Marseille glanced at her watch. It was now well past midnight. This very long day was finally winding down. She stepped into the kitchen and took a look around. Most of the guests who had come to mourn with the Shirazi family had gone or were in the process of saying good-bye. Dr. Shirazi hugged the last few to leave and then headed upstairs without a word. He had to be exhausted. But Marseille felt a twinge of disappointment that he wouldn’t take a moment and say good-bye to her as well.
She quietly began helping Azad wrap and put away the mounds of food that people had brought over. A few moments later, Saeed stepped into the kitchen but continued out to the back deck without a word, fixated on his BlackBerry and raising not a finger to help. Marseille tried not to let it bother her. She was exhausted after such an emotional day. She needed a good night’s rest and some time to herself before packing up and finally flying back to Portland late the following evening. But as tired as she was, she couldn’t quite bear to leave. Not yet. So she began wiping down tables and then rinsing dishes and loading them into the dishwasher.
There was something special about being back in this house. She loved how it looked, how it smelled, how it felt to be here. She smiled, remembering the love and affection the Shirazi parents had for each other. They held hands. They took long walks together. They doted on one another, and they seemed to genuinely enjoy each other. Marseille suspected they would have been deeply in love anywhere on the planet, regardless of the circumstances, for they were, at heart, classic romantics. The kind of love they’d had for each other — the kind they seemed uniquely wired for — was at once special and magical and deeply mysterious, and Marseille found herself wondering if David was wired for that kind of love as well.
Fond memories notwithstanding, she had never really expected to be standing here again after so many years. Not after how she had treated David. Yet here she was, alone with David’s family, trying to love them and comfort them in their loss, while David was somewhere far away. Life had a funny way of working out, she told herself as she rooted around on her hands and knees under the kitchen sink, looking for some dishwasher detergent.
She wondered if she would ever see David again. Surely she would, right? God hadn’t brought her all this way to reconnect with his family only to lose him all over again, possibly forever, had he? The very thought made Marseille wince. She again offered a silent prayer for David, for safety and for his speedy return. She’d been foolish to wait so long to reach out to him. He’d been so warm and encouraging when they’d met, glad to see her again after so many years. Perhaps her fears had been misplaced. Perhaps David was still her friend. Perhaps he could be more than just a friend.
She wondered where he was at that very moment. What was he doing? Whom was he with?
David felt his phone vibrate, signaling an incoming message. He checked it as he kept jogging and found that it was actually a Twitter post from Najjar Malik. Where was Najjar, he wondered. And why hadn’t the FBI found him yet? The man had been Iran’s top nuclear scientist and the CIA’s top prize, and now he was gone? How was that possible? Who was the moron who had let Najjar escape?
Then again, though he couldn’t admit it to anyone on his team, David wasn’t entirely disappointed it had happened. Najjar was a transformed man. He had not only had a vision of Christ in Iran but now had the courage to tell the world about it. Najjar was fast becoming the modern-day apostle Paul of Iran, and David found himself intrigued by every tweet the man sent. And he was not alone. Najjar’s Twitter following was surging exponentially, and he was using all the sudden interest to urge his countrymen to turn away from Islam and turn to Jesus. He was linking to sites exposing the evils of the Iranian regime and warning about the dangers of the Caliphate and the Twelfth Imam, whom Najjar openly and unapologetically called a “false messiah.”