Previous Challenge Entry (Level 3 - Advanced)
Topic: HOPE (joyful, confident expectation in salvation) (03/05/15)
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TITLE: Count It All Joy | Previous Challenge Entry
By Jean Elizabeth
03/12/15 -
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Ahmad had only a few square feet in a "cell" he shared with four other prisoners on the violent criminal ward. Only a curtain separated him from the murderers and rapists. As a Christian pastor in Iran, he was a criminal and a hated man. Threats came daily from both the guards and other prisoners. Many nights he woke up to see someone standing over him with a knife. Several times he was robbed of his few possessions. There was no medical treatment for the internal injuries he sustained from repeated beatings. His clothes were threadbare and he was covered from head to toe in lice.
Today was a good day - he managed to get one of the few, meager blankets. There were many days that he went without. His bones ached from sitting on the cold, stone floor as he fashioned a cross out of a scrap of paper. He hung it on the wall next to a handwritten note that said, "Privileged to suffer for Christ." It would be Easter soon. His desire was to boldly proclaim the Savior who had died so he could live.
Ahmad stood up and stretched his cramped legs. It was his turn to get in line for the day's water ration. As he reached for his cup he was grabbed from behind and forced to the ground. There were two of them - guards who particularly enjoyed tormenting him. One of them had a knee in his chest while the other held his arms.
Ahmad couldn't move. He was alone with the guards. If anyone walking by saw what was happening, they did nothing to stop it.
"So, you want to suffer for your Christ?" one guard asked leaning in close to Ahmad's face, his breath hot and putrid.
"They nailed him to a cross, right? Let's see how you like it."
Ahmad gasped as he felt the stabbing pain in one hand and then the other. He heard the ringing sound of metal as the guards stood up and dropped the nails on the floor. They ripped the paper cross off the wall, laughing as they left him bleeding on the cell floor.
Ahmad felt his accelerated heartbeat in each wound. He listened for the sound of the guards returning, but he heard nothing other than the usual commotion and shouting of the overcrowded prison. He sat up, cradling his hands against his chest, and reluctantly tore his shirt into bandages.
The nails were not big, but long and thin. Dried blood covered the bottom half down to the pointed tip. Ahmad bent each nail into the shape of the letter "j" and using thread from his shirt he joined the two nails back-to-back. He hung it where the cross had been, saying "This hope I have as an anchor to my soul."
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