This is a testimonial journey from hopelessness to abundant life, peace and spiritual freedom Father God, in the name of Jesus, I give thanks to the Holy Spirit for guiding my thoughts. Thank you for transposing these thoughts to words and allowing me to share what You have placed in my spirit. I pray You give wisdom and understanding to all who read these words, that they also will be delivered from the bondage of stagnated wrong hearts and spirits. Now my children open your hearts and hear my words. Touch my tears, feel my words, walk in my footsteps as we travel through sixty years of a man’s life. Please hold my hand as together we witness the cruelty of the weapons of this world, used by the enemy, to deter and disconnect us from the Blessings, Our Father, has prepared for us. This testimony is being written one year after I opened my heart and allowed the Lord Jesus to enter (1983). It was rewritten in 1991 to include more testimony. My testimony began at birth. It was more of an event than a birth, since I was the first born to our family in over forty years. The Arabic traditions of heritage and custom are always based upon and passed from generation to generation by the son-via the father’s name.
My birth and subsequent celebration was as spectacular as my family could imagine. The splendid celebration took time to plan. There were details to be covered, food to be prepared, and relatives to be contacted. Friends and relatives alike gathered at the center and at our home for this special event, only to have it dreadfully and eternally changed by the evil hand of an intruder, who was, undoubtedly jealous over the son. During the gathering someone tried to take my life by inserting a needle into my body. The needle traveled through my bloodstream to my heart, threatening my life. My constant crying suddenly interrupted the festivities. While I was a baby, only a few months old, dressed in a snow white christening gown, smiling and lying in a crib, some friend or relative, moved by jealously and envy, tried to kill me. I screamed. I bled. The spot of blood was wiped from the side of my neck with the hem of my christening gown. Part of the needle had been pushed into my left jugular vein and was now enroute to my tiny heart. How could anyone attempt to kill such an innocent baby? Can anyone possibly imagine any human being committing such an act? Why did they try to kill me? This very cruel event redirected my whole life, for from this unhealthy beginning, I was now placed on a life long journey of dependence, restrictions, and subsequent doom. Or was I? I was rushed to the hospital where x-rays showed a needle had entered my body and surgery was eminent.
The operation left me scarred near my left shoulder blade. The needle could not be reached and additional surgery was scheduled at another hospital. A private train car transported me to a Philadelphia hospital, which would become my new home.
Again I underwent more surgeries, and again more failures. The bloodstream had now carried the needle to the myocardium muscle of my heart. Its position would now, and seemingly forever, interfere with the electrical beating of my heart and blood circulation. I now, literally, had a physical ‘needle in my heart’. It would be many years before I grew to know the Heavenly Father, who had a purpose for all these events, and years before I would get to the place where I could thank God for allowing this redirection of my early youth. Romans 8:28-“And we know that all things work together for good to those who love God and are called according to His purpose.” The Anticipated Result-Death Sixty years ago, in 193 8, open-heart surgery was not a very common practice and an attempt was made to remove the needle by an operation through my back. My tiny back was cut open from top to bottom.
My ribs were removed so the surgeon’s hand could probe for the needle. This attempt to remove the needle caused my heart to stop beating. My lung collapsed, and only the hand of God, directing the hands of an alert surgeon, brought me back from the grip of death. After these operations, although still alive, my body was now fragile and delicate. I had an irregular heartbeat, due to the interference of the needle, resulting in poor blood circulation. Medical science had now given up on me. Only the faith of my God fearing parents kept me alive. I was carried face down from the operating room to my crib. The gentle hands of a nurse carried me from my crib to my mother’s chest. These operations left damages that remain to this day. Damage, rather than repair, became the final outcome. The needle remained secluded from their skilled hands, but the scars grew as I grew. Everyone began to question whether or not this baby would live and for how long. Only God knew. All the knowledge of medical science could not remove this needle-an instrument of death. The person who committed this horrible act of inhumanity could only have been an instrument of Satan. Only God’s love could keep this baby alive to be used later as His instrument. The medical team had failed to remove the needle and the cards of death were all stacked against me.
Because of my earthly parents’ loving prayers and a new covenant with God, my tiny body survived. The marble Christening bowl, given as a thank you gift to that church, my scars, as evidence of many unsuccessful operations, and the needle in my heart remain as reminders of man’s inabilities and failures. Shortness of breath, fear of people and the unknown, kept me handicapped and unaware I was as good and useful as anyone else. I could not participate in the usual childhood activities for fear of being hurt and I became emotionally handicapped as well.
Growing up with the physical defects of improper and insufficient circulation was no fun. Those memories scarred not only my body but my mind as well. The inhumanity of children to their classmates cannot be adequately described. I remember when in the third grade I lost my grip as I was running on a merry-go round. I fell to the gravel playground and scratched my knee. The sight of that tiny spot of blood immediately caused me to faint. It isn’t fun being laughed at unless you want to be. I remember crying in the arms of Miss Smith, my third grade teacher. Sarcastic remarks by playmates added insult to the known injuries and questions to the unknown injuries.
No one contributed to my awareness that God loved me as I was and that He could give me the courage to endure the hardships. No one was there to pray and console me as a child as I grew into manhood, desiring to be accepted and wanting to be ‘like and or better’ than others. For 44 years I remember my tears, my fears and my inabilities to accomplish many common and ordinary tasks. I could not do this and I should not do that. It wasn’t fun not to be allowed to have a bicycle or even allowed to ride someone else’s. There were so many questions I couldn’t understand.
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You Are The Tabernacle of God