01_The Best Gift by Irene Hannon

really like to hear it, A.J. And we have all evening,” Jan assured her.
    A.J. looked at the faces around the table. Jan and Carl seemed genuinely interested. Blake seemed a bit stunned.
    “Well, I can give you the highlights,” she agreed.
    And for the next hour, as they finished every last bite of the main dish and put a good dent in the Middle Eastern honey-based puff-pastry dessert that followed, she regaled them with tales of her time in Afghanistan as they plied her with questions.
    A.J. told them of her work in two small villages and at a clinic. Of the kindness of the people, despite their abject poverty. Of hardships almost beyond comprehension. Of the lack of warmth and shelter and food. Of malnutrition and starvation. She described one young child, eighteen months old, who was just twenty-seven inches long and weighed only eleven pounds when she was brought to the clinic.
    “She was starving to death,” A.J. said, her voice slightly unsteady. “She was the youngest of six children. Their parents had both died, and their grandmother took care of them. They lived with dozens of other families in the skeleton of a bombed-out building. The grandmother did her best, but she had to rely on begging to put food on the table, and she wasn’t always successful.
    “If she had waited two more days to bring Zohra to the clinic, the little girl would have died. But even though her grandmother got her there in time, we were understaffed and had very limited resources. So in order for Zohra to have any chance at all, her grandmother needed to stay and give her routine care, like bathing and feeding. But there were five other children to take care of, too.
    “We put a call in to Good Samaritan, and they were able to provide enough funding to cover Zohra’s hospital stay and pay someone to stay with the other children while Zohra’s grandmother cared for her at the clinic. That story had a happy ending…but so many others didn’t.”
    A.J. grew silent, and Blake saw her struggling to control the tears that suddenly welled in her eyes. For some strange reason, he wanted to reach for her hand. Comfort her. Enfold those delicate fingers protectively in his. Which made no sense. They were co-workers. Nothing more. So he stifled the impulse and kept his hands in his lap.
    His mother was less restrained. She reached over and laid her hand on A.J.’s. “That is an incredible story,” she said in a hushed voice. “How did you deal with it, day after day?”
    A.J. drew a deep breath and gave her a shaky smile. “Not every day was that emotional. It was very hard work under very primitive conditions, but the people had a great capacity for joy even in the face of tragedy and sorrow. And they were so grateful for our support. Most of the artwork you see in my apartment was given to me as thank-you gifts. It was an incredibly rewarding experience.”
    “But weren’t you ever frightened? Afghanistan isn’t the safest place,” Jan said.
    “No. I really wasn’t. I’d prayed a lot about the decision before I went, and by the time I actually got on the plane, I knew with absolute conviction that that was where God wanted me to be at that point in my life. So I just put my trust in Him.”
    “I take it Good Samaritan is a Christian organization?”
    A.J. turned to Carl. “Yes. But not blatantly so. By that I mean that we didn’t focus on converting anyone to Christianity. We answered questions, of course, if people asked. And they knew we were Christian. But our witness to our faith was more through actions than words.”
    “Which is the way it should be,” Carl affirmed. “Wasn’t it Francis of Assisi who told people to spread the Gospel, and to use words only if all else failed?”
    Blake stared at his father. “Since when have you been interested in religion?”
    Carl glanced at Jan. “We’ve been going to church for a number of years, Blake. Another thing we discovered a little later in life.”
    “That’s one