Where Shadows Hide the Sun, The Last Years

By D. G. H. Delgado

"Amen, Lord. So be it!"
Dave waited on God and heard him speak. And now he wishes he hadn't. The team is finally unified, ready to declare Jesus. But will they get the chance?

When the riots begin, and Jed calls for a lockdown . . . When the mosques shout in anger, and an embassy burns . . . When his daughter's dreams reveal the spiritual battle . . . Dave must cling to what he knows and pray: pray for his students; for his friend who's in prison; for his daughter who's going blind; for the demonic to leave his home.

Pray. Pray. Pray. And lie to his teammates. Dave can't go back. There's no un-seeing Jesus.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Resource Publications
• Release date: Jan 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9781666783315

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 Last Years

D. G. H. Delgado

Where Shadows Hide the Sun

The Last Years

Copyright © 2024 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: 978-1-6667-8329-2

hardcover isbn: 978-1-6667-8330-8

ebook isbn: 978-1-6667-8331-5

version number 01/22/24

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.

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 3

According to the Rules of War

I Have the Keys

Ground Troops and Vehicles

The Drums of the King

Imparting Vision

Set In Motion

First Invasion

Take Courage

Repositioning

Tears for Harvest

Enemy Presence

The Power of the Mosque

The Power of Praise

Pulled Taut

To Witness Nightmares Coming True

Taken

A Body Comes Home

Ms. Istilah

Denied Existence

Desert Daughter

Targets

To Shift the Sand

Tea, with Sugar and Fate

In Darkness and Cells

To Not Be Blind

The Gift and The Giver

Born

Kissing Eyes Open

Once You Set Your Face Like Flint

The Threat and the Fight

A Table Before Me

From Tension to Rage

Demands Made

Wounded and Beautiful

The Coming Dawn

The Bait

To Belong to God and Pull the Trigger

Petition Granted

The Chosen Day

Act 4

’Til All the Battle Blows Are Dealt

Christmas Cannons

The Quiet

Our Joy

Bishop Takes Knight

Roses and Curtain Calls

Santiago

The Eleventh Hour

The Falcon

To Sacrifice What You Have Loved

The Lord of the Harvest

All the Broken People

Disorientation

The Snake and Our Children

Lament

Act 5

Now Lay Down, O Wounded One

Flooding

Screaming

Abandoned

Next

All I See

Beneath Dry Stones

Torn Away

Cadia

Without

Carols

Epilogue

Author’s Note

A Dream Interpreted

Discussion Questions

Bibliography

For Cadia,

Mac,

Pony,

Princess,

and Cranberry

And for all who caught 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 3

Day 310, US I-90

You can’t tell congregations, I’ve seen Jesus! Not with your context. Hey, folks! You sent me to Zalaam, and I got messed up in the head. But it’s cool. I saw Jesus in a counseling session, so now I’m ready for round two!

Because I’m not ready. I know.

You can think again.

Most of the time.

And you can call up faint pictures of Jesus in your head now.

Which is indescribable.

But you’re still not your old self.

Nope. And with each day that drags by on the highway, I doubt more that I ever will be.

Illinois

Pulling up to Jay and Robin’s house feels hauntingly familiar. Last time, we were homeless, waiting on visas. This time, we are homeless, searching for funds. Even though Jay and Robin are great friends, and we should feel no embarrassment, we still feel like failures. Like we can’t get this right. I read it in the muscle movements of my hands as I unload the trunk. I read it in Cadia’s false energy, in her footsteps, in how she slings Cranberry onto her hip. My chest pounds it while Jay and I drive off to buy the ice cream he forgot.

Jay reads it too. In his calm, Alabama-boy twang, he talks straight at it as though it’s something drifting in front of the car, waiting to get run over. He talks about the goodness of God and the generous nature of the church while vocalizing disillusioned wandering in his own life. As I follow Jay into the store, I see us years ago when our greatest concern was that there were too many good flavors of ice cream to choose from. I can see us, but I can’t feel that lighthearted.

The following day, Jay and I bike through a conservation park. The path weaves over roots, under trees, and in and out of shade until it turns to wooden bridges built over water and reeds. Jay stops at a bench where we’re supposed to be able to see rare birds. We sit and wait.

I’ve been thinking a lot about fasting, Jay says. About taking the sense of urgency I feel for God’s presence—for my ultimate reliance upon Him—and applying that emotional position to situations when I’m not fasting.

I blink. Say that again.

Jay leans back on the bench. I’m not fasting . . .

Got it.

" . . . but I can still take myself back to that place of humility and weakness that I’ve experienced while fasting, and, from that place, I ask God for help."

My sight drifts off to the reedy grass, waiting for a hidden bird to be revealed. So, fasting permanently changes how you relate to God?

Ohio

Last campfire, pal.

Unless we make one tomorrow. Mac strikes a match. A little graham crackers and marshmallows for breakfast? Come on, Dad. Tell me that doesn’t sound better than those granola bars Mom keeps making us eat.

After roasting hotdogs, Mac and I tend the fire while Cadia watches the girls run around. We all smell of bug spray. And we’re all tired of our car.

Wouldn’t this trip be so much better with a dog? Ponytail shouts. Huh, Mom? Can we get a dog next time?

Yeah! Princess pounds her feet across the grass to me and thumps her fists on her hips. We need a dog!

Sure we don’t, I answer.

"A dog would make this better," Cadia says, then puts a hand to her mouth.

I’m stunned. I can’t believe you just said that out loud.

I know, she laughs. But it’s true.

And again! I stand. What are you doing?

The girls begin chanting, We want a dog! We want a dog! We want a dog!

I head inside our mini cabin.

Quiet, guys! Quiet, Cadia tries.

I lie down on the mattress and wish for sleep.

An hour later, Cadia sneaks in and puts everyone to bed.

I stare at the ceiling. Zero desire to talk.

Cadia cuddles up to me. I’m sorry.

You just made me the bad guy. Again.

I’m sorry.

"You think I don’t want the kids to have a dog because I’m some kind of ‘Fun Scrooge’? You think I don’t want them to have friends? Or a school? Or bedrooms? This gig is hard enough without us turning on each other, giving false hopes only to come crashing back into reality checks. We chose this. We imposed this on ourselves, and now we’ve imposed it on them."

They wanted to go, Cadia says softly. Remember? You prayed, and then they wanted to go.

Do they still?

God’ll take care of it.

Take care of what? God’s going to get them a dog? I sit up and put my sandals back on. I know I need sleep, and I know I won’t sleep. I reach for my jacket and hat hanging on the back of the door.

Dave . . . God will take care of their hearts.

Connecticut

The afternoon sun shines lazily down on our beach picnic. Amy and Aaron don’t care why we’re back this summer, just that we’re back. Aaron runs in and out of the frigid water, splashing with Mac and Pony while Amy and Cadia try to keep from shivering in their bathing suits. I follow Princess to the docks, carrying Cranberry on my back as we quest for shells.

Bro, you are changed, Aaron says once he, Mac, and I have broken away from the pack. I don’t want to say it, but . . . did Dave not fit in your carry-on? No space in the overhead compartment? Aaron cups his hands to his mouth and makes a static popping noise. ‘I’m sorry, Sir? Yes, you with the ugly hat. We’re going to have to ask you to check your bag at the gate.’

Dude, did you just rag on my one-and-only hat? I take my cap off and brush away some sand.

Mac laughs. It’s pretty bad, Dad.

Aaron tries to give me parenting advice. You need to train up your boy in the way he should go. You need a proper Boston hat.

I smirk. The Sox?

You know not of what you speak! Aaron cocks a fist. I will lay you out flat in the sand—son watching and all.

Buy me one, I laugh. I’ll wear it.

Aaron grabs my shoulder and peers into my eyes. There he is . . .

I swallow. I can’t remember the last time I laughed.

Oh, man, Aaron blinks, what’ve they done to you?

Are you guys gonna hug? Mac kicks sand at us. ‘Cause that’d be weird. Anyway, Aaron, shouldn’t you be marrying Amy soon? It’s not like I’m getting any younger here.

Aaron shoulder checks to get a bearing on Mac.

Mac sees the attack coming and sprints for the grass, laughing as he taunts, Will I have to shave on your wedding day?

Virginia

Our kids run through the woods, screaming with their cousins. Up and down the driveway, the stairs, through the living room and the kitchen, they go. Run, scream, run. I buy a set of ear-protecting headphones so I can sit and write my message for Pastor Tim’s church.

Cadia flops down next to me on the couch. Why don’t you go to a coffee shop?

Because I hate being in our car.

You’ve been writing for days. What do we have to say besides, ‘We need money’?

Headphones off, I submit to the conversation. Tim said, ‘Tell us what God’s been speaking to you,’ and he gave me the whole service. I frown in concentration. I think God’s speaking.

Well, Cadia smiles, "I think God’s saying it’s not just coincidence that Brian and Marilee moved from one side of the country to the other and that we’re supposed to store our car here at their new house." Cadia raises her eyebrows in happiness. Can I argue against her?

No. But I’m angry about it. I’m tired of imposing on Brian and Marilee.

Maryland

As soon as I send Mac and Pony off the pew to Children’s Church, I regret it. My kids may never hear me speak in a church. Pastor Tim has already talked to his board—they’ll cut us a check—but today’s fundraising gig could be our last. Ever.

I step onto the stage, wrestling with the relentless question: What’s next?

It helps that in our effort to ‘fight distraction and live the mission,’ Cadia and I have promised God we won’t think about what comes after Zalaam until after Christmas. January to May of next year is plenty of time for God to fill us in.

‘What’s next?’ Doesn’t matter. Zalaam is now.

‘I am the seer,’ I read from First Samuel, chapter 9. ‘Go up before me to the high place, for you shall eat with me today; and tomorrow I will let you go and will tell you all that is in your heart.’¹ I pick up my dark-covered, street-preaching Bible and walk off the platform to ground level. Saul is supposed to listen, and in order to listen, Saul needs to wait.

I strike a frozen posture for a few seconds.

Then I unfreeze, step to the side, and ask myself, What’cha doing?

I go back to frozen. Oh, I’m waiting.

Unfrozen. Really?

Frozen. Uh-huh.

Long pause. How can you tell when you’re done?

The congregation nods. Good question.

"Saul waits through a meal and a night before Samuel anoints him and tells him the future. Samuel spells out for Saul what will happen later that same day and gives Saul instructions about a future battle at Gilgal."

I start to walk deliberately forward. "Now, because Saul heard, he can start walking toward what he’s been told. When the Ammonites threaten the town of Jabesh— I slap my Bible into my hand, —Jabesh isn’t Gilgal, and since he’s been told what to do at Gilgal, Saul knows he’s winning the Jabesh battle and runs that threat down!"

I start to twirl my wrist as if I’m holding a sling. David does the same with the lion, the bear, and Goliath. Once David has heard that one day he’ll be king, he starts walking toward that kingship. ‘Lion, I’m not afraid of you.’ Pow! ‘Bear, it must be your day to die, not mine.’ Slam! ‘Giant, I’m not king yet, so I’m running you down in the name of the Lord.’ Wham! Dead giant. No threat. Nothing to fear.

Having vanquished my illustrative opponents, I stop walking. Why can these guys do this?

Immediately, a man on the back pew calls out, Because they heard.

Then, a woman says, "They waited to hear."

It’s the same all through this book, I grip my Bible and raise it high. God wants us to wait. He wants us to walk. He wants us to run down anything that gets in the way of what He has told us—

. . . and I know what I have to do.

1

1

Sam

9

:

19

NKJV

According to the Rules of War

I Have the Keys

Zalaam, Day 349

The whine of the engines drops in pitch, signaling our descent, and I realize: ‘The hostile’ on the plane—the one who wants radical change—is me!

Battle’s coming, man.

No doubt. We fought to be here, fought to return, and we’re not leaving until we’ve done what we came to do!

Mac and I peer out his window, searching the sand-strewn city for landmarks we recognize: the river and airport, easy; the graveyard and the square for selling sacrificial lambs, too alike to tell the difference. Besides the occasional cluster of trees, the only colors not bleached dull by the sun are those of the mosques. Whether green and white or aqua and gold, the mosques dazzle in their prominent places, bordered on all sides by columns tipped with pointed domes aimed to scrape the heavens like finely sculpted spears.

I lean back in my seat and breathe out a prayer, aware now that Zalaam has become my soul’s home.

William takes my hand in a withered, dry grip. Mmm. David, he intones and offers to carry our bags up our stairs, but I can see he’s distracted, his eyes happily examining us all. William pats Mac’s head, then swings his hand to his own chest to show that Mac has grown taller. His eyes bulge as Ponytail and Princess walk through the gate. He pantomimes that they look even more like Cadia. Mmm, Miss. Cadia passes through with Cranberry slung over her shoulder, asleep. William strokes the back of Cranberry’s hand with his finger. Tamam, he smiles.

Our family climbs the outer stairs, and Pony asks, What was that all about? ‘Miss’? I’m not a ‘Miss.’

Yes, you are, answers Mac.

I’m not old, like Mom.

Watch it, Cadia grumps. Dave, tell me you have the keys.

I have the keys.

Then open the door already.

I will. I’m enjoying the moment, realizing how much William likes our family.

That’s great, Dad. Mom likes shade, and I like AC. Can we go in now?

I insert the key and turn it three times to the left. Click. Clang. The door slides open, sweeping away a half circle of fine, dusty sand.

Home.

And I have the keys . . .

We step inside and remove our sandals. The sand on the floor feels gritty on our soles.

Look, Princess! cries Pony. We can leave our footprints in the sand—like a trail! Follow me!

Cadia and I spend what remains of the day carefully taking our linen wrappings off the cluster of furniture in the main room and then sweeping and mopping the floor until the sand is gone and the tiles are white. After a hasty pizza run and a luggage search for the kids’ pajamas, I flop backward onto our mattress, one foot still resting on the floor. I love this bed.

Cadia thinks I’m crazy. This is the most uncomfortable bed I’ve slept on in my entire life.

I raise a fist to the air in mock victory. It’s the absolute worst! But I know where it is, and I know where it will be.

So you only feel this way because we’ve stopped traveling? What happens when that starts up again?

Shh, I hold a finger to my mouth and shut my eyes. Don’t ruin it. We promised God and each other: Zalaam is now. I pull my foot up and reach for my pillow. The ceiling fan softly sings its clicking song above us. My chest begins to rise and fall evenly.

Splick, splick, splick, splushh—

I lift my head off the pillow.

Blat, blat, blat, blamma, blamma—

And I’m standing, rubbing my eyebrows. That’s like a hundred pairs of drumsticks.

Blang, blang, blang, blang, blang—

They’re getting louder.

I step through the bedroom door we left open in the hope of getting a breeze and walk to the threshold of our hall. In the hazy morning light, a stream of water trickles down through our ceiling onto the living room carpet and tiles.

Ha! I never expected to see a desert rainstorm.

I hold my hands out. In three seconds, my palms are full. I head to the kitchen to grab pots. As I pass through the whatchamacallit room, I find a steady flow of water smacking against the glass top of the bureau, spattering up on the mirror.

The ceiling’s cracked.

In the kitchen, I throw open the door to the cupboard. Wait . . . ‘the ceiling’s cracked’? You mean, ‘the roof leaks.’

I step back into the whatchamacallit room and gaze up at a ceiling tile leaking above the exact spot where we had displayed the sand statues. I examine the bureau’s glass cover, running my hand through the water. I don’t feel a trace of sand.

Washed clean . . .

Drip, drip, on the back of my hand.

‘The ceiling’s cracked’ . . . That’s what I heard. Wait—I’m hearing in this room?! No more ‘brass ceiling’? Thank You, God! That’s—Fantastic!

I place cooking pots and trash cans around the house to catch water drips, then grab my camera and rouse Cadia and the kids from their jet-lagged sleep, promising, This is so worth it!

We swing open the door to the balcony.

Rain! Princess runs out into the downpour, slips in a deep puddle, and lands on her side.

Oops! calls Cadia. Are you okay? Be careful.

Ponytail is already out on the balcony, helping Princess up. Pony and Princess throw their hands in the air. It’s a thunderstorm in the desert!

Mac steps out, slushing his feet through water as high as his ankle. He turns to face us, soaked within seconds, eyes alive as he yells, It’s pouring!

I film short clips of water flowing like fountain spouts off our roof, plummeting onto the balcony, rippling away dirt and sand. I catch the greens and yellows of my favorite tree swaying outside our wall. The palm trees that flank our gate are bent over in the wind, their branches hanging so low I think of women with wet hair.

At my knees, Cranberry squats over the lip of the doorframe to scoop rain in her tiny hands and then rub her face wet. She looks skyward and waves her dripping fingers. Rainy, rainy.

Cadia wraps an arm around my waist. We weren’t expecting this, were we?

Nope. And I think, I wonder what the desert smells like after the rain.

And then, ‘Jesus . . . ’ The ‘fragrance after the rain’?² That’s Jesus.

Oh . . . He’s coming . . .

2 Gaither and Gaither, Something About That Name.

Ground Troops and Vehicles

Tuesday, Day 352

Amazed at the transformation, I roll down the van windows to breathe in the pleasant fragrance of the newly washed city. The sun sparkles brightly in the mud-sand puddles. Every leaf, every shrub or sprig, drips its true color. I start my routine pass, circling the one roundabout with a garden at its center, but instead of exiting, I keep the wheel turned and pass around again to gaze at all the green. I drink in the shine on the buildings, the bright bricks in the sidewalks, the gleam of a single traffic light on a still-empty street.

My thoughts drift to the homeless men dressed in their filthy jalabiyas. No servant to clean them. No soap to scrub them white. No change of clothes. No place to bathe. The jalabiya: a man’s daily wear, suit, and wedding party clothes. What chance do the homeless have?

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. "God, thank You for rain. Please cleanse the homeless in this city. Gift them Your banquet robes of righteousness. Your word says You will be gracious to a people who have not called upon Your name and will call them Your people anyway so that they may respond and call You their God.³ Call these people here in Zalaam. Fulfill Your word."

I arrive at our school and shift into second gear to park gently on the sidewalk. Our head guard, Shamsideen, already at work with his broom and broad smile, waves me forward until my back tires are off the road. The engine vibrates a final shudder through the van and then goes quiet.

Shamsideen! I step out and greet him like an old friend. It is good to see you!

Good morning, Sir, he says, and then walks me to the passenger’s side of the van, where he waves a finger down at my front right tire and clicks with his mouth. No good.

I squat to get a closer look at the obviously low tire. This is a thick tire. New. Nice tread. Expensive grade . . . I thank Shamsideen. Good eyes.

We then admire the shiny car parked between my van and Jed’s tank-like truck. Shamsideen smiles his knowledge: Mr. Halim. New. He points at the pink car seat in the backseat of Halim’s car and then gestures at Cranberry’s pink car seat in our van. Good for baby?

I smile and walk towards the gate. Very good for Halim’s baby. Safe.

Shamsideen considers the two pink seats as he repeats a new English word to himself. Safe . . .

The blue metal gate clangs behind me as the sun blindingly reflects off the face of the school, the basketball court—and even the playground pebbles. Bright grays, tans, browns, and blues make the school so alive that I feel genuine excitement. I sit in one of Jed’s pleather office chairs, pumped. Give the school a bath and—Wow! Let’s do this!

Before we hit business, Jed tells me that although the money trading I did with Halim last year has helped him to buy his new car, it would be best to stop now. The gap between our currencies is growing wide. If there was a sudden crash . . .

I tell Jed that Cadia and I have been anticipating an economic implosion and commit to not asking Halim for anything other than directions around town. Like where to get your tire fixed.

Business done, I move on to Halim’s office.

Mr. Dave! Halim comes out from behind his desk. We shake hands and embrace. So good to see you. What can I do for you? You know— Halim lifts the picture frame I gave him last year off the corner of his desk, and, as I had hoped, he has put a photo of his wife and baby daughter inside it. You, my friend, are very wise. Last year, when you gave me this frame, you said to me, ‘Do not put a picture of your family on your computer screen. You will get nothing done.’ Ah, but look, he turns his monitor toward me. Sure enough, there’s his baby girl again. I did not listen, and now I stare at her all day. The phone rings, and I do not pick up.

Unless it’s your wife, I tease.

Ha! Only for her. I hope you do not need money because she is spending it all!

Tell me about your summer with your girl. Is she crawling yet?

Next, I’m onto business with Gigi—and I love it. There’s no tension, just one peaceful decision after another as we hammer out the kinks before the school year starts. Jed joins us for lunch, and we plow through the remaining issues with the schedule. Between bites, Jed compliments us. It’s nice to see all the teamwork going on right here.

Gigi and I nod at each other. This is how it should be.

Artie’s classroom feels like a spiritual safe zone. It may be built in such a way that it echoes, and we may be crammed in tightly, yet I can’t help but sense God knew our staff meetings would need an upper room. I let myself imagine our varying races filled with the Spirit, worshiping in unity. It’s such a beautiful scene: our missions team and all the Zalaam women and men on staff praising the One true God together, singing for Him . . .

At the moment, however, Gigi’s business is our three new staff members: Ms. Teresa, a young girl with raven-colored hair, will replace Ms. Panni as Sixth Grade’s lead teacher; Ms. Darah, an older, no-nonsense teacher who isn’t associated with any of the missions teams, will teach third grade; and Mr. David, a handsome college-aged boy, will fill Santiago’s shoes in the PE department. I offer Santiago’s old seat to the new David and notice the single females on staff keep looking at him without looking at him.

Gigi asks for suggestions on distinguishing between the two of us Davids.

Young Dave and Old Dave? Fay makes sure I know, You’re Old Dave.

Carrie smiles, Married Dave and Single Dave?

That distinction might not last, quips Samantha.

Gigi tables it. Next item. We are still missing Artie’s long-term substitute. Ms. Renee, a midwife by trade who has ‘felt the call,’ can teach science for Mr. Arthmael once she arrives, but no one knows when that will be. "What topic does