What Jane Whispered

An unexpected encounter that has left us shaken, plus learning from our mistakes and letting things go

We thought we were just going out for a relaxing dinner after a long day. We didn't know we were about to meet Jane. We didn't know—nor did she—that she was about to share with us the terrible secret she has borne alone, and the shame that has accompanied it. We didn't know.

To protect her, I will not use either of the names she uses—not the name her mother gave her at birth, nor the English name she has adopted to be more approachable to her clientele in the tourism industry. We did not exchange names—not until our last moments together, but for the ease of storytelling, I will simply refer to her here as Jane, one woman among the 33 million people scattered among the many states of Malaysia.

At first it was all business. We were hungry visitors to her city. She runs a restaurant with a lovely patio set among the trees and vines, protected from the sun and rain with a wide canopy, and cooled with a few well-placed fans to keep the sticky air from settling.

Jane’s appearance hinted at Malay plus something else—perhaps European, perhaps Indian. She wore a cheerful floral hijab to match her bright smile. Her English was nearly flawless, crisp and precise, with an unmistakable British lilt. I wondered if she had attended university in the UK, or perhaps worked overseas for a while. Maybe she was raised in a bilingual home.

She answered our questions about the menu, offered suggestions, and took our order, then retreated to the kitchen. As soon as she’d gone, Andy commented that she was like a light on that dimly lit patio in the gathering twilight. Indeed, her demeanor was radiant, a rare combination of confidence, poise, and a warmth that seemed to bubble up from the inside and spill over onto everything around her. Jane had a glow about her that drew us in and made us want to know more.

By the time we finished eating, the patio was nearly empty. Only one other table remained, and they, too, were finished, just lingering to enjoy the ambiance as the evening air cooled to something more comfortable.

We chatted with Jane when she stopped by our table to check on us. I wanted to know where she had acquired her excellent English and how she came to own a restaurant. She mentioned her previous career in the jet-setting international business community. She wanted to know where we were from, and where we were headed next. Both of our responses to the others’ questions hinted at complicated stories.

As the other diners left, Andy invited her to pull up a chair and join us for a moment. At first she demurred, but we convinced her that we genuinely enjoy getting to know people, and she in particular had caught our attention. When Andy mentioned his earlier comment to me, that she had a light emanating from within her, I saw something catch in her face, in her breathing. A tiny crack formed in her flawless exterior and the smallest hint of vulnerability leaked through. She reached for a chair from an empty table nearby and slid it over to ours, then lowered herself into it.

Apparently, when she noticed us pausing to say a word of grace over our meal before eating, she had felt a pang of hunger . . . and an all too familiar flicker of remorse.

We swapped stories for what seemed like an hour, but was likely only 10-15 minutes. It went deep, fast, with her weaving artfully around sensitive subjects, hinting at truths she would not, or could not utter aloud. Her eyes, however, made it obvious she was sharing her own story, from deep within a hidden place in her heart, even though she couldn't say the words directly.

As we listened and offered little bits of support, we watched as her face clouded over and her tears gathered, every bit as heavy and humid as the Malaysian rainy season sky just before an afternoon downpour. Beneath her gregarious professionalism, Jane is a woman in turmoil, conflicted and alone.

Eventually, the clouds broke and the tears streamed freely down her face. He voice did not waver, though, and neither did her blazing eye contact. She let the tears fall where they may and continued talking without even bothering to waste time wiping them away. It seemed she was desperate to tell her story to someone who was safe, and in the few minutes we had known each other, she had determined we were just that.

Safe.

Jane was raised an Anglican with a deep personal faith. She has a solid grasp of the Bible. After her jet setting years, she decided to settle back in her homeland, Malaysia. She did not elaborate on the circumstances, but decided to marry a Muslim man. The wedding required her to deny her own deeply-held Christian beliefs. She did it. She said the words required of her, and breathed a simultaneous plea for forgiveness—a prayer she has uttered a thousand times since.

“I know I have a loving Father.” Jane leaned in and pulled us further into her confidence, her eyes darting from side to side to be certain no one else could hear. “I pray that He has a special mercy for me, that He can forgive this betrayal. I didn't know what else I could do.” She blinked and a fresh shower of tears rolled down her cheeks. “I know the Bible says, ‘If you deny me before men . . .’” She shook her head and looked down briefly. “I pray He will understand and forgive.”

Jane knows she can never let on to her husband or her community that she is a Christian. She can never seek the fellowship of other Christians, the support of a local body of believers. To do so would be a risk she is not willing to take—not at this point, at least. One look at her eyes and we believed her. For now, she feels she must bear her secret alone. And it is silently crushing her like the depths of the sea.

When I told Jane that her story had truly bolstered our own faith, her eyes widened and began to sparkle again. A small smile—not the professional one that had originally greeted us, but a genuine glimmer of hope and peace—returned to her face, which had been contorted with fear and guilt and desperation.

“Truly?” Her eyes searched mine for confirmation. “My story has helped YOU?”

“Tonight,” I offered, “right here with us, you have a moment of fellowship with fellow believers. We have encouraged each other in our faith. You are my sister.”

Jane beamed, the light from within once again glowing. “Yes. We are brothers and sisters in Christ.” Then her gaze grew serious and intense. “But the things I have told you tonight must not leave this table. You understand.”

We nodded. I vowed within myself to never give away any hint of her identity that could possibly endanger her (and I don't believe I have done that, even here and now in this write-up; the photo is not from where we met her).

Another group of customers arrived, a group of five young Indian women out for a bridal party dinner. Jane excused herself and scurried about to meet their needs. We lingered until she had taken their orders and set her small staff to work in the kitchen.

When she returned, we could see in her eyes she wanted to talk more, but it was no longer the time or place. We were ships passing in the night. We stood to say goodbye, each of us nodding and smiling, understanding without words that something special had just happened, something not ordained by human hands.

We were nearly to the steps when Jane came rushing toward me, arms open and smile as wide as the South China Sea. Her eyes again searched mine.

“Can I please have a hug?”

“Absolutely.”

She was in full view of the bridal party at the next table, but Jane wrapped her arms around me like we were the dearest of old friends, about to part for who knows how long. I hugged her back, glad for the little connection we had made.

Then I felt her lips push through my hair, right up against my ear. There was no sound, none that my husband could hear from right next to me, but to me the words were loud and clear. It was a desperate whisper, shouted, but with no volume.

“Pray for me! Please pray for me! Pray for me! I cannot do this alone. Please! Do not forget me.”

Then she pulled back and the desperation in her voice and face was gone without a trace. Her countenance was back to normal, as if that hug had simply been a fond farewell between friends. It was so much more than that.

I was stunned.

“What is your name?” I murmured.

She squealed like casual good friends sometimes do, and pulled me into another tight embrace. As her hands gripped my shoulders, the same desperate whisper as before returned, pressed tightly against my ear.

“My name is _______.” She repeated it twice, then gave me a similar-sounding English word to make sure I had understood. “Do not forget me. Pray for me. I am alone.”

She pulled away, again all smiles and casual playfulness for the sake of public eyes around us.

“My name is Sherry.” I smiled.

“Sherry,” she repeated. Our eyes , only inches apart from one another, danced and sparkled with intensity. At least hers did. I can only imagine mine were doing the same.

“I won't forget you.”

---

Today’s story is a sensitive one. We have the utmost respect for our Muslim friends, and we have experienced lovely and generous hospitality here in Malaysia. At the same time, there are obviously some communities, both here and other places, that are hostile toward people with other beliefs—faiths that are not practiced by the dominant culture.

For people of faith—any faith—it seems anathema to create an atmosphere where others are oppressed—even endangered—for not sharing the same beliefs, but it happens. It happens in Malaysia. It happens in the United States of America.

Pray for peace, friends.

Pray that the light that is at work within you will shine forth for the world to see, and others will find it not oppressive, but full of grace and truth. Both. In equal measures.

Pray for Jane.

Do not forget her.

---

I had planned to write today about things we have learned from our travels so far, things we have realized we needed and have purchased since we arrived in Southeast Asia, and things we have decided we don't need and are mailing back home (to my parents’ house) at great expense. I planned to relate it all, in some deep philosophical way, to how we establish our priorities in life and how we learn and grow best from our mistakes.

But travel has a way of changing things, and we must practice holding things loosely, even words. Pretend I wrote about the other things, too. You get the basic idea.

The wedding, by the way, was amazing. We have posted photos on our Instagram, @nomadic.midlife, and will soon put up a video on YouTube.

I do hope you had a very Merry Christmas, those of you who celebrate that holiday.

Until next week,

Sherry