At a Wednesday evening meeting at church last year, I decided to give a testimony about a most extraordinary story. A few months earlier, my son, David, had told me about a young freelance journalist who worked for him and had been captured by the Libyan military. My son had called me to ask for prayerful support as he, in turn, sought release for his journalist. During the six weeks of the journalist’s captivity, I prayed for her release. In a most remarkable set of circumstances, she was moved to a private villa in Tripoli and, thereafter, released to the custody of the Hungarian government and finally transported to freedom in Tunisia.
In the midst of my testimony, I came face to face with a significant challenge of my own. My mind went entirely blank. I could no longer find words to express my thoughts. I recognized my friends in church but could remember nothing about my relationship with them.
After the meeting, the driver who had brought me to church came to pick me up and take me home. I sat quietly in the back seat, so he was unaware of my difficulty. That evening, my son called to ask after my day. I could talk with him, but not intelligently. Concerned, David told me he would check in with me the following day.