Where Shadows Hide the Sun, The First Years

By D. G. H. Delgado

"I'll do anything--I'll even preach!"
As a boy, Dave cut a deal with God to save his life. Decades later, Dave and his friends are on his final street-preaching trip. "Jesus came for all, so we should go to all!" With that attitude, Dave fights spiritual resistance as he and his young family endeavor to leave the life they've known and join a team of missionaries stationed in an increasingly militant Islamic country. "God's calling is clear," Dave's pastor reassures him. Yet Dave is unaware of how catastrophic his sin will be . . . or the dangers his children will face . . . or how deep the calling will go . . . in the land where shadows hide the sun.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Resource Publications
• Release date: Dec 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9781666783285

D. G. H. Delgado

D. G. H. Delgado developed a passion for declaring the gospel while on mission trips as a teen. As an adult, this passion led him to the streets of New York and then overseas. Now, he enjoys writing, speaking, and encouraging youth and families to follow the leading of the Holy Spirit and live for Jesus. Delgado lives in the Pacific Northwest with his wife and children and a dog named Jack.

Book preview

Where Shadows Hide the Sun

The First Years

D. G. H. Delgado

Where Shadows Hide the Sun

The First Years

Copyright © 2023 D. G. H. Delgado. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.

Resource Publications

An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers

199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3

Eugene, OR 97401

www.wipfandstock.com

paperback isbn: 978-1-6667-8326-1

hardcover isbn: 978-1-6667-8327-8

ebook isbn: 978-1-6667-8328-5

version number 11/15/23

Scripture quotations marked (ASV) are taken from the American Standard Version.

Scripture quotations marked (GNT) are from the Good News Translation in Today’s English Version- Second Edition Copyright © 1992 by American Bible Society. Used by Permission.

Scripture quotations marked (NASB) are taken from the (NASB®) New American Standard Bible®, Copyright © 1960, 1971, 1977, 1995, 2020 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission. All rights reserved. lockman.org

Scripture quotations marked (NIV) are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com The NIV and New International Version are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™

Scripture quotations marked (NKJV) are taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

He Reigns, Peter Furler and Steven V. Taylor. Copyright © 2003 Ariose Music (ASCAP) (adm. at CapitolCMGPublishing.com) All rights reserved. Used by permission.

There’s Something About That Name, Gloria Gaither and Willliam J. Gaither. Copyright © 1970 Hanna Street Music (BMI) (adm. at CapitolCMGPublishing.com) All rights reserved. Used by permission.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Acknowledgments

Act I

To Bargain with the God of Dirt

Soul

Victories

Casualties

Stages

Dirt

Dying

Hope

Breath

Homeless

Airborne

Act 2

Hearts Cry in the Desert Night

Welcome to Darkness

My Wife is Dead

Maestro

The Orange and the Elephant

Culture’s Grip

Backlash

My Son is Lost

The Spirit of Mohammed

Gods of Sand

The Non-Gospel

Beautiful

My Daughter is Calling for Me

In Your Heart

Weapons Found by Desperate Hands

Audience

Shadow of Death

Walls and Guards

The Question

Standing

Reaching

Disillusioned

Matches

Burning

Coal

The Intentions of Hawajas

Let the Children

Grasping at the Promised Keys

Water and Guns

The Camel Delivers a Word

To Change the Dance

Refusing

Ismail

Breaking Ties

Where is Jesus?

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Discussion Questions

Bibliography

For Cadia,

Mac,

Pony,

Princess,

and Cranberry

And for all who sent us

Acknowledgments

My utmost and multifaceted thanks to God the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

Extreme thanks to my wife and children, who patiently gave me space to write and who, without complaint, endured my 4 am alarm clock. I am thankful for all our time together, and I love you all more than I can say. I hope you see glimpses of that love in these pages.

To my parents, who introduced me to Christ and taught me so much about loving your kids and raising a family . . . I love you and miss you. And to my brother and sister, thank you for your faithful love.

To my youth pastors, Tim and Jeri, Mike and Lisa, thank you for the opportunities you gave me to minister alongside you and for all the time you spent discipling me. I hope you see the fruit I know you planted.

Thanks to Dr. Oyola, who modeled patience and kindness to all students, deserving or not; Dr. Berg, whose lessons on interpreting scripture were gently corrective; Dr. Griffin, who modeled authenticity no matter the audience; and Dr. (Death) Nelson, whose grading pen bled dry on my essays. Thank you for training me as you did.

To Paul and Aaron, thank you for your friendship, for loving our kids, and for all those hot days walking the streets, preaching Jesus. Memories of your laughter lifted our spirits.

To Pastor Phil and Pastor Al, who got us started and backed us up all the way. Leaving such two great guys was hard, but having your support made stepping forward easier. And to everyone at Brookfield First, thank you for being such a loving home church for us and our kids.

To all who encouraged us and sent us on this journey, including, but not exclusively, pastors Phil, Al, Randal, Lou, Mark, Paul, Richard, Bob, Jim and Sharon, Tim and Jeri, Ed J, Brian J and Courtney, Tim and Jacquie, Karen, Jerry, Charles, Tom, Glenn, Randy, Betsy and Marcos, and Larry, thank you for leading your congregations in love, support, and prayers for us. In Mark 5:19, Jesus said, Go home to your people and report to them what great things the Lord has done. Please consider this my report back to you all. It was an honor to meet you and your congregations along the way, and I hope to see you again soon.

To our team leaders, Jed and Gigi, Luke, and Nash, thank you for all the love you showed us and our kids from our first day until our last. I cannot thank you enough for your patience and care for me and especially for your forgiveness. And to our teammates, Pan, Artie and Kristin, Carrie, Jubilee, Willow, Samantha, Kellie, Prairie, Sasqu, Fayina and Jotham, Santiago and Ana, Korey, Teresa, and Renee, thank you for your open hearts and friendship and for allowing me to both hide and reveal you in these shared memories. I treasure you all.

To all those who caught us on our return, especially P Brian and Marilee, Rod and the team at Fairfax Community Church, Bill and Judy, Norm and Diane, Barry and Bodil, Verne and Sue, Garry S, Miles and Diana, Mirko and Janette, Hugo and Connie, Len and Irmi, John and Marnie, Gerry, and the congregation at Sardis Community Church, you have our utmost gratitude and love.

To my proofreaders: Marilee, who encouraged me while the first version was still a draft; Betty, Marg, Karyn, Brittany, and Caleb, who helped me with all their insightful questions and keen eyes for errors; and Pony, who read and talked to me about every version that ever came along despite having fallen in love with the second . . . you have my hearty, and humble thanks.

To John and Leslie, who came alongside and encouraged me with prayer. Spiritually speaking, you are always a breath of fresh air. Thanks for the push.

And to everyone at Wipf and Stock, thank you for all your help in this final stretch and all that is still to come.

Muchas gracias,

Dave

Act I

The portable TV is on in the kitchen, and we’re dining on steak and tater tots, or french fries, or string beans—no one cares. The steak’s the main attraction, and since I’m only seven or eight years old, I’m wielding a knife but cutting pieces too big, so I end up choking. My parents are distracted with my younger brother and the news, and since no one has ever shown me all the wild pantomiming actions choking victims should do, I have to save myself. I try swallowing the meaty log jam in my throat, but each attempt causes my body to dump down more saliva, which only serves to drown me. No longer able to breathe, I panic. I leave the table to refill my glass, but that’s a bad move. Now nobody is facing me, and my add-more-water trick has only made things worse. I’m gonna die. And just in case having my heartbeat drumming in my ears and my lungs angrily pinching my chest from the inside out isn’t enough to make me cry, I start seeing spots. At what must be my last ticking second, the part of me that’s tucked down deep finally gets a grip and starts talking to God. Jesus, I’m dying here. Get me out of this, and I’ll do anything—I’ll even preach!

Instantly, the steak is hooked up past my throat to the front of my mouth, and I have enough air in my lungs to spit it out.

I’m riding shotgun on the way to a town-league basketball game, and, like usual, Mom is using the rearview mirror to put on lipstick. But being the Sherlock that I am, I can tell the whole act isn’t the same. For weeks, she’s been telling me without telling me. At the stop sign to leave the neighborhood, I offer, Do you want to pray for Grandpa? I don’t have to go to my game. We can go home. You can call Grandma . . .

Mom shifts into park. Maybe we can pray.

She starts a prayer, but it’s mostly her tears. I stare at the clock on the dashboard and wish it made a ticking sound. It doesn’t even blink. Once Mom is all cried out, she starts driving up what my brother and I call ‘the big hill.’ The engine revs to get over the top, and I check the clock again. 5:42. I feel inside, He’s gone.

My team is winning at halftime, but I couldn’t care less.

I let everyone else drink from the fountain and then splash water on my face even though I’ve hardly played. I can’t cry here.

I walk back onto the court and feel his absence.

I’ll never see him again. Not on earth.

A stray basketball rolls against my foot.

I grind my teeth and wail the ball out of bounds.

When we get home, I don’t want to walk up the stairs. It’s on Dad’s face.

Ellen, he says to Mom, your mother called . . .

Mom grips my hand and sits down right there, halfway up the stairs. I have to wait for Dad to come take her hand from mine. He joins her on the steps, and together, they cry.

I lean in the kitchen doorframe and stare at the clock above the phone. Mom makes it to her chair at the table, and I still haven’t moved. Fear in her eyes, she dials. Mom . . . ? Oh, God, no. Not my Daddy, God! She doubles over. Minutes pass. When she sits up to wipe her tears, she sees me facing the clock. When, Mom? What time? She nods. We had just prayed. God loves you, Mom.

I escape to my room and bury my face in my pillow. Why did You tell me?

I’m the youngest teen on a mission trip to Berlin, Germany. Besides the lead missionary and my two youth pastors, I’m also the only guy. In an effort to discourage any romantic inclinations, the missionary asks all the girls to call me Brother. Yeah, that’s not gonna work.

Located on the East side of Berlin is a fledgling church. Our team has come to help draw a crowd and share Jesus. We’ve rehearsed songs, skits, and testimonies; now it’s time to perform. We get up in the morning, spend hours in prayer, then cram our puppet stage, cables, microphones, guitar, keyboard, portable speakers, and ourselves into a van. Uncomfortably close for Jesus, we head out to the commercial plaza nearest the church.

As we set up, I feel the sun shining on my mime face paint and know for a fact that within an hour, the cobblestone underfoot will be baking my feet inside my shoes. The width of the plaza leaves no hope for shade, and the most would-be refreshing area—a fountain—is occupied by drunk punk rockers. Booze mixed with combat boots, body piercings, death-metal T-shirts, spiked bracelets, and chains—the whole show.

We begin going through our routines and soon recognize we’re at war. The punks’ leader—a shaved-head, twenty-year-old girl—is dead-set against anyone hearing a word of what we say. She screams like a demoniac anytime we get on the mic, chases away children and adults, and rages at the name of Jesus. Rather than leave her post to go find a restroom, she urinates herself by the fountain.

For days, nothing changes. It’s a fight, and we’re losing. And then, one morning at devotions, Pastor Tim says he feels prompted to pray for anyone seeking the baptism of the Holy Spirit. A girl named Shannon steps forward. Everyone lays hands on her and prays, but nothing happens. I get it in my head to sing, and the team joins in.

Whoosh! A wave descends from above, knocking us all to the floor. Shannon starts speaking in tongues, and all the teenagers are filled with hysterical joy. Our leaders rejoice in God’s tangible presence while all the teammates ache with laughter. Somehow, I manage to get to my feet and stagger away, feeling drawn to the window overlooking the courtyard. Outside on the ground, I see—but not with my eyes—angels! On horses and in formation. I watch a whole company ride out the gate and turn in the direction our team takes to go to the plaza. Once the angels are gone, it clicks. Besides being able to see . . . I could hear!

The team’s heavenly laughter changes to worship, then reverent awe. In that quiet space, I describe to the team what I’ve witnessed.

And they believe me.

When we arrive at the plaza, the punks are gone.

And they don’t come back.

And the people hear about Jesus.

To Bargain with the God of Dirt

Soul

Tuesday, August 3rd, Home Church

They’re killing their own people over there. You know this, right? Josh inches his chair closer and intently watches my face.

I have to look away, even if doing so makes me dizzy.

The sanctuary’s loft is cluttered with outdated sound equipment: an analog channel board, unsalvageable cables, a cassette duplicator, and tapes—all remnants of an era that was dying out in my youth. Beyond the banister and farther below us than I’d hoped it would feel, the carpeted floor slopes down and away under the pews, finishing its descent where a prayer railing used to be. There, by the altar, dust specks dance in the colored sunlight streaming from the stained-glass windows.

Dave, you okay?

I honestly shake my head. "The devil is hammering me with the fear that this is a death march. I get killed, my wife gets brutally raped and murdered, my son either gets forced to become a jihadist or is turned loose to starve in the desert, and . . . my three daughters’ hearts get demolished in a life of sexual slavery."

Josh slumps. You have considered the worst.

I’ve heard it, I counsel myself, but I haven’t embraced it. It’s fear, Josh. It’s meant to paralyze, not protect.

How do you fight back?

I say out loud, ‘I trust God.’ It is strong inside me—we have to go. Even if all that happens, I have to trust God with the salvation of my children. I’ve given them to Him. He has to be the one to keep them.

Really? Josh frowns his concern. That’s where you’re at with God?

It’s what I’m learning.

Josh takes a turn staring off into space. During his silence, I decide to gift him my keyboard when we leave. He loves worship. He’s young and eager to serve. God’ll use him one day.

This could be your last summer with your kids, Josh says. Like, ever.

. . . I hadn’t thought of that.

Are you still going preaching tomorrow?

The silence between us answers: If my family goes where I can’t preach, and the worst happens, this trip with Paul and Josh’s brother Aaron is my last chance.

Josh sighs. Your body’s here, but you’ve already left. He grips my hand firmly. Thank you for telling me your heart, brother. I will miss you, but now I know how to pray.

I drill his eyes with mine. And that, my friend, is exactly why I told you.

Friday, August 6th, Washington Square

Aaron’s do-rag is rimmed with sweat as he stands on our milk crate and calls over the heads of those walking past us in Washington Square. Jesus came to make people who were dead . . . alive! No matter what you’ve done in your life, Jesus Christ paid the price for it—voluntarily and out of love. He spilled His blood on the cross and said, ‘I love them, I love them.’ An uncharacteristic loss of control appears on Aaron’s I’ll-shave-when-I-feel-like-it face. He’s about to crack. All Jesus asks is that you turn to Him. Come to Him today! Come broken, come as you are.

I turn off my camera, and Aaron cries.

Despite today’s heat, the park is full: grandfather-type figures play chess at tables under knobby trees; young couples picnic on flower-sprinkled grass; and by the fountain, jazz musicians play, teens lounge, and tourists take pictures of the monumental arch. There’s no lack of people. The downside? Our permit is for the one section of the park nobody lingers in.

I don’t like that feeling, Aaron shudders as he steps down. It’s . . .

‘Not logical’? I quote him.

Aaron frowns, then points his finger at me. I’d punch you, but yes, that’s it. People are going to hell, but I’m not. Why should I care? Why do I feel this . . . He waves his hand in front of his chest.

Compassion?

You’re on a roll; you know that? Aaron wipes his brow with the front of his shirt. "I mean, I know Christ’s love compels us, but how do I feel His love?"

I open my mouth to answer.

Nope! Don’t talk. ‘He lives in me.’ I get it. I just don’t expect to feel what He feels.

Paul lumbers up, his curly hair pulled back in a ponytail, his body a sponge of sweat. Can God turn down the sun? It is brutal out here. I’m off to find electrolytes for Pastor Al. Left him in the shade. You want something?

Guidance, I say.

Aaron flashes a peace sign, saying, I’m done here, bro. He heads off to mingle among the fountain watchers.

Paul chuckles to himself. I swear that boy’s addicted to smoking atheists. He gestures at the crate before leaving on his cold-beverage quest. You preach yet?

I’ve been flipping through my bag of witnessing material, looking for my script on the life of Jesus. But I want to speak, not shout. I need a mic. Within minutes, Shawn the Baptist, one of our street team leaders, arrives with a fully charged amplifier. He sets up next to our crate and tests his mic and cable, but then—since there’s no potential audience in sight—ditches his gear to do one-on-ones elsewhere. I pick up the mic. Good afternoon, I say to no one.

As soon as I start, I’m fighting thoughts like fiery darts from the devil:

-Who are you talking to?-

-No one’s listening.-

Hey, Dave, Pastor Al encourages me from a nearby bench.

I tighten my grip on the mic’s housing and dig in. Let’s contrast a normal life with the life of Jesus. I start a monologue consisting of fifteen prophecies and fulfillments about the Messiah: Jeremiah’s prophecy about King Herod’s attempt to murder Jesus as a baby;¹ Isaiah’s prophecy about Jesus healing the blind, the deaf, and the lame;² the writers of the Psalms foreseeing Jesus being betrayed by a friend,³ accused by false witnesses,⁴ pierced in His hands and feet⁵—

-Aren’t you tired? Go rest.-

-You’ve done enough.-

The thoughts distract me, but I won’t let up. I didn’t write all this to quit halfway! I’m gonna finish!

-La, la, la. Nobody’s here.-

-Didn’t you come to preach? Reading to no one is pointless.-

Oh yeah? Take this! "The claim that Jesus was just a man is impossible! An ordinary man has no control over his lineage,⁶ the town of his birth,⁷ or the name his parents give him.⁸ A mere child cannot convince an occupying foreign ruler to murder his playmates.⁹ A condemned man cannot persuade his executors to divide his clothes a certain way¹⁰ nor dictate to his enemies which words to use in taunting him while he dies.¹¹ Ordinary men cannot light stars at their birth¹² nor darken the land at their death.¹³ If Jesus were just a man, He could not have fulfilled over three hundred ancient prophecies—nor could He have risen from the dead!¹⁴ The answer, then, is that Jesus was not just an ordinary man!"

Amen! shouts Pastor Al.

"Peter wrote that ‘no prophecy was ever made by an act of human will, but men moved by the Holy Spirit spoke from God.’¹⁵ King David, under the anointing of God’s Holy Spirit, prophesied the resurrection of Jesus, the Christ."

-No!-

-Stop! Don’t!-

He wrote, ‘You will not leave my soul in Sheol, nor will You allow Your Holy One to see corruption.’¹⁶ Face up, I feel the weight of my words. "God didn’t leave Jesus in the grave, and He doesn’t want to leave us there either!"

Puh-reach it! calls Paul.

"Come to Jesus now! Do not wait! Today is the day of salvation!¹⁷" I switch off the mic and step down, still fighting the thoughts that aren’t my own, relieved to have spoken but embarrassed to have taken so long on the crate without engaging anyone but teammates.

Paul hands me a Gatorade. I take a sip and hand it back. That’s it? he’s amazed. "You are a camel. Off to the desert with you already. Paul must sense my sadness at his comment. He puts his linebacker hand on my shoulder. I’ll miss you too, Dave."

We nod at each other in silence.

Then Paul steps up to the crate, cracks open his Bible and begins to read Psalm 23. The Lord is my shepherd . . .

He leads me beside still waters, I tell myself. He restores my soul.¹⁸

Dave . . . Pastor Al’s preacher-man voice is suddenly trying to whisper at my shoulder. See that girl about to take a Bible from Stephanie? He thumbs a bench in the shade where our ministry team’s youthful leader sits beside a girl who can’t be over twenty. She’s been contemplating suicide. She literally just walked out the hospital doors saying, ‘God, if You’re real, if You’re Jesus, lead me to You.’ She entered the park at the farthest corner, heard a voice talking about the life of Jesus, and followed that voice here. Pastor Al pokes my chest. Bet you thought you were preaching to nobody, didn’t you?

My throat goes tight so fast it must show on my face. I can’t swallow, can’t breathe. God, You just saved a life—a soul—through me? And the next thought hits me: I gotta quit this?

Pastor Al’s grey eyes read my mind. The Lord knows every one of your steps, Dave. Not one thing is wasted. We’re praying for you and Cadia. God is making you ready even now.

But I can’t go to Zalaam and not speak.

Don’t sweat that. Let the Holy Spirit tell you what to do. When did you write that bit you just read?

I think back. February or March.

Six months ago for today? Pastor Al gives me a shoulder hug. You keep listening, Dave. Keep listening.

1 Jer

31

:

15

; Matt

2

:

16

–

18

2 Isa

35

:

5

–

6

; Matt

9

:

35

3 Ps

41

:

9

; John

13

:

21

–

26

; Matt

26

:

50

4 Ps

35

:

11

; Matt

26

:

59

–

60

5 Ps

22

:

16

; Zech

12

:

10

; John

20

:

25

6 Gen

49

:

20

; Luke

3

:

23

–

33

7 Mic

5

:

2

; Matt

2

:

1

–

11

8 Isa

7

:

14

; Matt

1

:

18

-

23

9 Jer

31

:

15

; Matt

2

:

16

-

8

10 Ps

22

:

18

; John

19

:

23

–

24

11 Ps

22

:

7

–

8

; Matt

27

:

39

–

43

12 Matt

2

:

2

13 Amos

8

:

9

; Matt

27

:

45

14 Matt

28

; Mark

16

; Luke

24

; John

20

15

2

Pet

1

:

20

–

21

NASB

16 Acts

2

:

22

–

27

ASV, NKJV

17

2

Cor

6

:

2

; Ps

95

:

7

; Heb

3

:

7

–

15

18 Ps

23

NKJV

Victories

Saturday, August 7th, Union Square

Dusk has settled on Union Square, and so has the local Satanist. He’s rubbing his hands together in glee, Christians in my park, gonna have me some fun, all over his wild-boy face.

All afternoon, the onlookers in this street-performers paradise have respected our chalk-circle stage. No more. That line has been crossed. Kris is on the crate, microphone in hand, and I’m stuck standing guard. I hold our amp behind my back as a man in a black muscle shirt—whose physique says he lives to bench press and whose anger says he uses protein powder as a mixer—bumps my chest and tries to reach around me. Turn that speaker off!

My friend paid for a permit to speak, I calmly inform him. We have a second microphone. If you wait until he’s finished, he’ll answer questions.

I don’t want to talk to him. He turns on Kris and would be in his face if not for the crate. Shut up! Shut! Up! I’m not listening! No one is listening!

Here they come . . .

In minutes, we are mobbed. Pressed in tight, Kris keeps preaching Jesus Christ crucified, but I can’t pray along with his lines anymore. My eyes scope through the crowd for the Satanist as if I could take him out like a sniper. My ears pound from the amp behind me and the people shouting in my face.

I’m going to hit you if you don’t turn that off! BenchPress threatens me. I will hurt you.

You hate us! yells a guy on my left. He’s young, early twenties. He clenches his fists toward the ground as he uses his whole body to scream, You hate us all!

BenchPress cocks his head. I’m talking ambulance hurt. Your blood. On the pavement. Now give me that speaker!

The kid jumps and curses to get Kris’ attention. Hater!

BenchPress shoves my shoulder.

I remind myself he’s not the enemy. I tighten my grip on the amp and turn away, expecting to get sucker-punched any second. I can feel the adrenaline dump hit my nervous system, but it’s weak compared to the jolts I’ve gotten before a face-off with spirits.

(February, seven months prior)

I sit up, blinking in the dark, fully aware that the revealing dream I’ve just had was from God. The warmth of Cadia’s pregnant body pulls at me, calling me back to bed. But I know I won’t sleep again tonight.

I creep down the stairs to our first floor. Starlight glows through the windows, aided by the frozen blanket of snow on our lawn. I pause by the front door. It’s cold to the touch. I have to open you?

First things first, I remind myself and turn around to trail my hand along the wall as I head for the kitchen. I arrive at the door to the basement, open it, and blink into the blackness.

You know where you’re going. Path’s clear. I leave the light off and raise my hands in front of me as I step forward. Instantly, I feel a presence. Currents race through my arms, tingling stronger the more I descend. At the bottom of the stairs, I turn right and head across the room, keeping my pace until I’m as close as I was in my dream. In that last step, the prickling sensation in my hands races to my spine and doubles