Fevziye’s House

“Alo!” I called at the iron door in a crumbling cement wall. The narrow street turned up the hill between ancient two-story apartments in the old part of the village.

More than a year had passed since we came to the Middle East as church-planters. When we bought the house on the other side of this village, we became friends with Esma, the real estate agent’s young secretary. She had introduced me to her mother, Fevziye, and her four siblings who lived in this old building above the mosque.

“Alo!” a voice squeaked above me, and I saw an impish face peeking down between the potted flowers on the wall above me. Three-year-old Elif tromped down the steep stairs and opened the creaky gate.

“Hosh geldiniz! Welcome!” Fevziye and Esma called from the top of the steps. I carried my baby in my arms and pushed my 3-year-old ahead of me. At the door they kissed us on each cheek and gave us house slippers before ushering us through a narrow hallway into the family room, where we sat on the floor.

We had been treated with the highest level of hospitality in the tidiest of homes, but I found myself more comfortable in this threadbare living room with children bouncing around and Fevziye chattering happily.

Fevziye put a bowl of mandarins in front of us and stoked the potbellied stove in the corner. A large motherly woman in her late 40s, Fevziye had a round face and sparkling eyes that crinkled at the corners as she talked and laughed. She wore a floral scarf wrapped tightly around her hair in the village fashion, and the colorful pants all the women wore. She sat on the floor and opened the small oven door in her stove.

“I made bread!” she said excitedly, pulling out a round flat white loaf that looked like a huge English muffin. “Do you want some?” I watched her tear it into pieces and put some back in the oven to toast.

Most neighborly visits start with black tea and sweets, but Fevziye knew by now we preferred fruit juice. While we had been treated with the highest level of hospitality in the tidiest of homes, I found myself more comfortable in this threadbare living room with children bouncing around and Fevziye chattering happily. I knew my friend genuinely enjoyed us coming.

Pelin, the oldest daughter, came into the room, and we stood for more hugs and kisses. Her baby, just a few months younger than mine, slept on the couch nearby. Pelin was pregnant when we met, and was recently separated from her husband. I took her to the hospital and sat through the night as she gave birth to a tiny white doll with a rosebud mouth. This proved to be a lull in Pelin’s life between parties and boyfriends and a long search for love.

I enjoyed many visits with this family during the next six years. Pelin would leave her baby and return to her lifestyle before settling down. Esma would become more religious, covering her head and bringing her hoja (teacher) to try to talk to me about Islam. I would attend the next sister’s wedding, see her welcome a baby, and become a single mother herself. Their brother would graduate from high school and get a job. He would beat the early-morning drum for Ramadan, waking us in the wee hours for a month each year. Wild and terrible little Elif would grow up with my Little Joe. And Baby Gül would grow up as her little sister, the same age as my little Cyprus.

In time I would have a chance to share some words about Jesus, at the behest of Pelin, the most hungry-hearted of the family. But mostly I would show up with a gift, enjoy some bazlama (flatbread) or sarma (stuffed grape leaves), and pray for the Spirit to shed warmth and light through me. This was my ministry.