Hear No Evil
And these bullets landed here in this bed while Samson and Gladys were in it!”
My neighbor, a Kenyan momma named Mercy, looked at me and fingered the projectiles in her hand. She was filling me in on what had happened in the small rustic guesthouse that served as a stopping-off point for many missionaries and other travelers who came through the dusty, remote Kenyan town. There were two apartments on the floor below the guesthouse, and I rented the one beneath the room we were standing in.
Incredibly, the bullets Mercy held had not harmed the occupants of the bed. But what was even more incredible to me was that I, typically a light sleeper, had slept soundly through the night while an evil man attacked our building at point-blank range with an AK-47.
The room where we now stood was the last one the bullets had passed through. First, they had shattered the front window. Then they had bounced off the kitchen counter and raced through the walls of the bathroom and an adjacent guestroom as if those walls were made of paper.
Finally, the bullets passed through this last guestroom wall and landed in the disheveled bed now in front of me.
As we retraced our steps, Mercy pointed out where sleeping guests would have been hit if they had been present. Thankfully the other rooms had been empty.
Earlier that morning I’d noticed people gathering outside. Because this was rather unusual, I had joined them to find out what was happening. The white-haired missionary who lived in the apartment next to mine stared at me and asked me how I had fared through the night. I just looked at her, confused.
“You mean you slept through it?” she’d exclaimed.
My shocked neighbors gathered around to recount the facts from the previous night. Everyone had spent the night sleeplessly huddled in corners.
Everyone except me.
The other missionary said she’d crawled down to the end of her hall, whispering loudly through the wall and tapping on it to see if I was all right, but I never heard her even though our walls were so thin.
As they continued to talk about the night, immediately I saw a picture in my mind of large hands covering my ears—hands so large that they seemed to engulf my head from above. They were gently holding my head, shielding me from the noise.
I realized at that moment that someone—an angel or Jesus himself—had stood above me and held my ears and head throughout the attack. I could see evidence of the attack, but I had no memory of it. As a result, the loud noises that startled my neighbors did not startle me in the days that followed.
The next few days and weeks were really hard. Those investigating discovered that this attack on our building was actually the second one. They found more bullet holes around my fellow missionary’s back windows.
When this was brought to our attention, we realized that we’d all heard the gunfire on an earlier night, but because the shooter had been much farther away, no one realized it was directed at our compound.
Due to these scare tactics, those in authority over my missionary friend thought it was unsafe for her to remain, so my friend left the country.
Though there were rumors of who might have been behind the attack, the police did not discover the shooter. He remained unchecked.
The fact that no one was ever convicted of the crime bothered me. I was also frustrated by my friend’s departure. I struggled with questions like, Why me, God? Why this? What possible good can you bring out of this situation? How long do I have to bear with this uncertainty?
He answered me with His own set of questions: Do you trust me? Are you willing to learn and grow? Are you going to rebel at every hint of hardship, or are you going to let me carry you through? Are you willing to follow me whatever the cost?
I’d like to say that God’s questions immediately caused me to react better to my circumstances. In many ways they did. I served in my role whole-heartedly, but beneath the surface I harbored some anger and frustration. I wanted things to be resolved, for deeds done in darkness to be brought into the light. When days passed and that did not happen, I became resentful.
Nearly two years later, while I was enjoying a spiritual retreat, God whispered to me with a startling question from the book of Jonah that I was studying. He asked, “Why are you so angry?”
The question was so sharp, but at first I thought, Well, am I really angry? What am I angry about?
Floods of images flashed in front of me, a silent movie bringing conviction. But I wanted to argue with God; I felt my anger was righteous. All I wanted was justice.
God began revealing to me how I had let resentment and bitterness grow. It was time to let go and forgive, and let Him handle the justice. And I am happy to report that I did.
God’s patience with me is humbling. As I look back and wonder why God chose to protect me in that way that night in Kenya, I can see His sovereign hands at work.
I stayed in that community for another year. Would I have stayed if I had witnessed the attack? I don’t know. What I do know is that I did not fear or fret.
Some might say I should have feared—the danger was real. But I cannot remember dwelling on the violence of the attack or being anxious about another one. I wasn’t scared of someone coming after me. That kind of fear was completely absent.
Though I missed my friend and wished things had worked out differently, God provided many new friends—Kenyans and Koreans. Her absence also created the space for me to mature and serve in ways that I would not have if she had remained.
So what man meant for harm, God meant for good. His protection and grace during that time reassures me that wherever I go, He is sovereign over my plans. He continues to hold me gently but firmly in the palm of His hands, and because of that I rest easy.