Another post is up on my Dad's site.  An excerpt from the book coming Fall 2008 is below.  He's currently traveling through the country speaking at various churches so it's been a bit light lately on the posting side of the blog...however, when he does post excerpts...I find myself even more intrigued and surprised by the life my father lived.  He's a totally different man thanks to Jesus Christ himself.  Here's the latest excerpt:

At the Wheel Again

One day Arafat came to visit our base. We sat in a circle all together, talking about various things. I noticed that he seemed to keep staring at me.

After the meeting broke up, he pulled me aside. Looking intently into my face, he said, “What’s your name?”

“Butcher, sir,” I replied.

“No, what’s your real name?” he persisted.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I answered. “Our movement’s rules say we are not to give away our real names. So I must not tell it to anyone.”

“Yes, I know,” he said with a smile. “I made that rule! But I can break it if I want. So what is your name?”

“Excuse me, sir, but I have to keep the rule. I must go by the name Butcher, and that is all.”

He let the matter drop at that point, even though he kept eyeing me. I wondered if he was remembering me from his visits to my parents’ home back in Qatar. I fervently hoped not, because I didn’t want any connections to be made.

Not long afterward, I received a secret assignment that had nothing to do with sniping. I was told instead that on this day, I would be Arafat’s chauffeur! I have no idea how this came about, but I was glad to take the job, because it would put me closer to my hero.

His black Land Rover had bulletproof windows that were darkened, so no one on the street could see who I was driving around. I was told the destination only after he got into the car; he was always very tight-lipped about where he was going next. The biggest rule, however, was this: No stopping for anything or anybody. Full throttle ahead in all situations, no matter how crowded the avenue or narrow the alley. I was to lean on the horn and keep moving, even if I had to jump the car onto the sidewalk.

Soon we were on our way.  Tearing through the streets of Amman, I would sometimes look in my rear view mirror only to see pedestrians shaking their fists at me and cursing. Arafat, on the other hand, always seemed to be pleased when I chauffeured him. “Good job!” he would say. “The only thing is, your driving is going to give me a heart attack!” After another trip, he added, “When I die someday, it won’t be because of bullets, but because you’ve scared me to death on the road.”

I took that as a compliment.

This excerpt is from the forthcoming book "Once An Arafat Man" arriving on shelves Fall 2008 published by Tyndale House. Visit the blog at www.OnceAnArafatMan.com

At the Wheel Again

One day Arafat came to visit our base. We sat in a circle all together, talking about various things. I noticed that he seemed to keep staring at me.

After the meeting broke up, he pulled me aside. Looking intently into my face, he said, “What’s your name?”

“Butcher, sir,” I replied.

“No, what’s your real name?” he persisted.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I answered. “Our movement’s rules say we are not to give away our real names. So I must not tell it to anyone.”

“Yes, I know,” he said with a smile. “I made that rule! But I can break it if I want. So what is your name?”

“Excuse me, sir, but I have to keep the rule. I must go by the name Butcher, and that is all.”

He let the matter drop at that point, even though he kept eyeing me. I wondered if he was remembering me from his visits to my parents’ home back in Qatar. I fervently hoped not, because I didn’t want any connections to be made.

Not long afterward, I received a secret assignment that had nothing to do with sniping. I was told instead that on this day, I would be Arafat’s chauffeur! I have no idea how this came about, but I was glad to take the job, because it would put me closer to my hero.

His black Land Rover had bulletproof windows that were darkened, so no one on the street could see who I was driving around. I was told the destination only after he got into the car; he was always very tight-lipped about where he was going next. The biggest rule, however, was this: No stopping for anything or anybody. Full throttle ahead in all situations, no matter how crowded the avenue or narrow the alley. I was to lean on the horn and keep moving, even if I had to jump the car onto the sidewalk.

Soon we were on our way.  Tearing through the streets of Amman, I would sometimes look in my rear view mirror only to see pedestrians shaking their fists at me and cursing. Arafat, on the other hand, always seemed to be pleased when I chauffeured him. “Good job!” he would say. “The only thing is, your driving is going to give me a heart attack!” After another trip, he added, “When I die someday, it won’t be because of bullets, but because you’ve scared me to death on the road.”

I took that as a compliment.

This excerpt is from the forthcoming book "Once An Arafat Man" arriving on shelves Fall 2008 published by Tyndale House. Visit the blog at www.OnceAnArafatMan.com