We Died Before We Came Here
When God called Emily and Stephen Foreman to minister to a nation where Christianity was illegal, they knew they were called to a life of sacrifice and hope.
Early one morning, just down the street from the local mosque, gunshots shattered the silence. A young American missionary lay dead—Stephen Foreman was murdered by al-Qaeda extremists.
When God called Emily and Stephen Foreman to bring the hope of the gospel to a Muslim nation where Christianity was illegal, they knew they were being called to a life of sacrifice. “We died before we came here” was their common refrain.
Emily was left with four children and an undying calling to reach the Muslim world—even after her husband’s murder. Stephen’s death was not the beginning, nor was it the end. He did not die in vain. Compelled by God’s love for Muslims and inspired by her late husband’s willing sacrifice, Emily and her family continue to work in North Africa and strive to mobilize Christians across North America to see Muslims through a lens of faith.
One of the most profound aspects of our return was the deep need our friends had to see us, and to offer their condolences. They were also hurting. Their friend had been brutally murdered, and by men from their own country. Their friend’s children were now fatherless, and his wife had been left a widow. They were battling their own emotions and heartache and longed to be there for us, and I deeply longed to be with them as well.
The next morning, I started returning phone calls. Our first stop would be to our dear friends Amir and Jameila. They ran out to greet us. Amir embraced each of us; the children he embraced for a long time. Jameila wrapped her arms around me, sobbing. We both nearly fell to the ground.
During this visit, Amir recounted his experience in the rain the night Stephen was killed. “My brother has gone to be with our Lord, but we must carry on his legacy,” he said fervently.
He paused, then looked at me with a calmness and boldness I had never seen before. “As you know,” he continued, “I have always dealt with fear not only for my own life, but the lives of my wife and children, but I tell you, that fear is gone. Did you know that Stephen had come to see me only days before his death and sat right here in this room? He was very sick with fever, but he had an unusual sense of joy in his voice when he told me”—Amir’s voice cracked—“‘Amir, I don’t know the number of my days. I could die tomorrow. Whether I die by illness or at the hands of extremists, life is too short. We must obey God while we still have breath in our bodies—before we no longer have a chance.’”
In visit after visit, with Muslims and believers alike, many tears were shed as they shared stories of things Stephen had said or done. Over and over, I was amazed at the amount of emotion being expressed by my Muslim friends.
Many locals whom I didn’t know found my phone number to call to offer their condolences. “Your husband was a great man of God,” they would say. “I have never met a Muslim who was as great a man as him.” A wealthy businessman told me. “Our country has lost a great man.”
One government official came to pay me a visit. After I served him a cup of tea, he looked at me with anger in his eyes and said, “How can your family forgive those men who killed your husband? They are not Muslims. They are dogs who deserve to die.” I was touched by his emotion for our family—and I had the opportunity to explain that we follow Jesus, and Jesus teaches us to love our enemies and bless those who persecute us. He was speechless.
So many people couldn’t understand this. “But how can you forgive them?” “Why would you forgive them?” “How can you even return to this country that took your husband’s life?” Forgiveness seemed to be a very foreign concept to them. They were genuinely astonished and confused. Stephen’s death had a profound impact on these people—and our family’s display of forgiveness is still talked about to this day.
We were surprised to discover that there was a rumor circulating that Stephen had recited the Muslim testimony of faith to become a Muslim just before he was shot. My first reaction was disdain, but then I realized that this was how many of Stephen’s dearest Muslim friends were coping with his death. They wanted to think that Stephen had accepted what they believed to be the truth before he died. They could not bear the thought of Stephen going to hell. I was deeply touched. And on many occasions I took the opportunity to set the story straight and explain that to follow Jesus Christ—the only way to God—meant that Stephen never had a doubt that to be absent from the body was to be present with the Lord (2 Cor. 5:8).
Preparing to leave after our two-week visit was surreal. It didn’t feel right that we were only visiting—it still felt like our home. As the tears fell, I felt the Lord speak to my heart once again: “The work is not done. I will continue to use you to water the seed.” Pain and peace were in harmony. I will never understand how suffering and joy can coexist so beautifully.
I’ve often been asked. “How is it that it was your family who suffered most in this tragedy, yet you continue to come back?”
The answer is easy. “I don’t know the men who killed my husband,” I tell them, “but I know you, and I know the people of this beloved country. And I love you, and more importantly, I serve a God who loves you passionately.”
Yes, we will never get over the tragedy we faced. Stephen’s death has left a lasting void in our hearts. The loss of a loved one is like an amputation. You will heal and you will learn to function and move on, but you will always have that void. I have experienced pain, but I have experienced healing. I’ve observed this same gentle healing in my kid’s hearts. They miss their dad terribly, yet they are proud of him. They are proud to be his. Each of them has been through their own unique struggles in the healing process, but God has been faithful. We have experienced loss, but we are rich. As Jesus says in Mk. 10:29-30, “No one who has left home or brothers or sisters or mother or father or children or fields for me and the Gospel will fail to receive a hundred times as much in this present age: homes, brothers, sisters, mothers, children and fields—along with persecutions—and in the age to come eternal life.”
We have many brothers and sisters and families and children that God has given us for our inheritance in North Africa. God seems to be increasing my inheritance in the U.S. as well. He continues to deepen my love for Muslims. Living and sharing life with Muslims for so many years in North Africa made it easy for me to connect with Muslims here in America. I’ve spent much time enjoying deep friendships with Muslim immigrants and refugees that transcend cultural and religious differences. My burden for them deepens as I witness the struggles they face trying to adapt to our culture and way of life. Having once been the guest in a host country, I can empathize with my dear Muslim friends who come here to the U.S. as foreigners needing to learn a language and how to survive in a culture and way of life completely foreign to them. However, the difference between my experience as the foreigner and theirs is that when we were the foreigners in their land, they welcomed us with open arms. They understood that we were different in many ways, but most were excited to get to know us and to share their culture with us. Unfortunately, it isn’t so for the majority of Muslim immigrants who come to America. Instead of hospitality, so many find that Americans are afraid and suspicious of them.
“Why don’t you just engage in conversation with Americans, so that they know you are a peaceful and friendly person?” I asked my friend Miriam, an immigrant from Morocco. Her reply shamed me: “Americans don’t want me here. I can handle the harsh glares and rude comments, but it hurts deeply to see my children experience it. In my culture, it is the honor of the host to extend hospitality, and not to do so would bring tremendous shame on an entire family.” My heart breaks for all of Miriam’s family. They are some of the kindest, most peaceful, most compassionate people I know, and they sincerely love God.
The truth is, there are terrorists in the world who happen to be of the Muslim faith. There are extremists who are trying to change our way of life. How should we as true followers of Christ respond? Is shutting them out the answer? Sometimes the pursuit of safety can be at odds with doing what is right. Is seeing God’s kingdom elevated above our own country worth the risk? I’m proud to be an American, but my loyalty lies first in my heavenly citizenship. When we died to ourselves, we died to anything that would stand in the way of our lives bringing honor to God among the nations.
As I ponder the struggle between faith and fear, I’m drawn back to a message that Stephen gave at a gathering in the U.S. only a few days before returning to North Africa and giving his life only months later:
When James Calvert went out as a missionary to the cannibals of the Fiji Islands, the ship captain tried to turn him back, saying, “You’ll lose your life and the lives of those with you if you go among those savages.” To that Calvert replied, “We died before we came here.” That’s my question for us again tonight. Are you dead yet? Dead to yourself, dead to your own desire, dead to fear? Are we alive in Christ? My desire is that when people see your life, when they see my life, they will see Christ, and Christ alone. Let us live our lives as if they weren’t our own lives. To truly be strangers in this world. To be aliens in the world. Our citizenship is in heaven.
Stephen lived those words, and died in those words—and lives in those words again. Although the loss of Stephen is one that will never leave us and has changed us completely, we hold on to the promise that God is glorified and that lives are being eternally changed because Stephen died before he stepped off that plane in the desert. And we have to continually answer the question that Stephen wrote shortly before his death: Do we have something worth dying for, living for, moving for?
To live without purpose is worse than dying.
~ By Emily Foreman. Excerpted from We Died Before We Came Here: A True Story of Sacrifice and Hope by Emily Foreman. NavPress (navpress.com). Used with permission.
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