Christian Mother And Muslim Daughter Divided, Then United, By Religion

This is without a doubt one of the most bizarre stories I’ve ever come across in my lifetime.

Christianity is a huge part of Patricia

Raybon ‘s life and she tried to pass that faith onto her children. When her daughter, Alana, announced she was converting to Islam in 2000, it shocked Patricia. For years, the two couldn’t talk about religion without fighting. Then Patricia, who lives in Aurora, Colo., suggested they both write about it. Their exchanges are now a book called “ Undivided: A Muslim Daughter, Her Christian Mother, Their Path to Peace .”

Mother and daughter spoke with Colorado Matters host Ryan Warner. Click the audio above to listen to the full interview.

* This interview aired originally on July 28, 2015.

Read an excerpt:

Can We Talk?

Patricia

The elephant is in the room, and it’s big. So it’ not moving. Not one turn. Not one inch. Still, daughter and I talk around it, pretending our teton problem isn’t there — insisting it will stay q and be okay if we just ignore the obvious and keep on moving. So we’re politely jawing abou my kitchen cabinets and drawers, nicely talking about my fight to finally clean them out and m some order and find some peace.

“You’re decluttering?” Alana says. “Why now? Your kitchen is fine.”

But it’s not fine. Not really. And neither are we. Not like we used to be. Or maybe never were.

Yet how can I even think such a thing? After al know God. I know all my God can do. That’s h I boast anyway. Most days I boast, that is.

But it’s the day before Mother’s Day. Alana has called me on the phone to say hi, tell me she loves me, wish me the best. I’m hanging on to every word, as I always do when my daughters call, ecstatic to hear their living and lovely voic Yet with Alana, there’s always this wish: that things were different — back to the way they o were or the way I wish they’d always been, so long ago now I can’t seem to remember.

Like they were? Yes. I wish she was still a Christian. No, that’s not the whole of it. I wish this day before Mother’s Day something more. wish she wasn’t a Muslim. So now I’ve said it. my heart. And right here on a page. Oh so qui But oh so brave. I’ve said it. Like a prayer. O m

God. Not boastful. Just a desperate plea. How my younger baby leave the faith of Christ and stop believing?

On this almost Mother’s Day, this mother want know: How did we come to this moment in tim and, by faith, become divided?

Why, indeed, are we on the phone blah-blahing about my kitchen decluttering project — my countless trips to my neighborhood Bed Bath Beyond and the Container Store in the fancy neighborhood across town and the Goodwill st down the street and wherever else I can go to chase down plastic shelf organizers and divide — when the biggest part of our lives, what we believe about God and how we practice that belief, is such a split and holy wreck?

A Christian and a Muslim? In the same family? How, O blessed God, did such a thing happen? Too many times I tried to find an answer. God knows I tried. In prayers. In books. In dreams. I the quiet of silent nights and the roar of jam-packed days. Like mothers of daughters everywhere, I’ve stood in the silence of a locke room, stared at myself in a mirror, and asked G why? And how? How in the robust name of Je did this happen

And like those other mothers everywhere, I wa angry when I asked. Mad at life. At my daught At myself. Maybe angrier at God for not steppi into the messiness of this business we call life and calling a divine stop. But God doesn’t work that way.

And look how I say that. As if I do know God. if I understand God. As if I accept with calm h God moves — and how God doesn’t move — a how he lets us wrestle and struggle and grasp and stew and wail and wonder. Then he lets us choose, despite knowing beforehand how we’r going to choose — even when he knows we’ll choose wrong.

So the psalmist nailed it right? Saying it this w That God knows “when I sit down or stand up. You know my thoughts even when I’m far awa

(Ps. 139:2 nlt)?

So God knew?

He knew. Before this embattled earth was form he knew Alana and I would be rumbling over these three defiant words spouted from her beautiful confident mouth: “I’m a Muslim.”

My heart didn’t stop exactly. It sank straight to floor.

But not from the announcement. It sank from t struggle that had brought us to this moment. First, those teen years—with their relentless arguments and fussing and door slamming an confusion and yelling. Then the testing years—when, at twenty, Alana joined the Nation of Isla And I fought that. Arguing against the theology the Nation. Thundering against the messages t sounded to me like too much hate.

Then at this big, big moment—when my daugh officially renounced Christianity by choosing to leave it for “orthodox Islam,” as she called it, I stayed silent.

And neutral.

“Thanks for letting us know,” I said. She was twenty-something and a junior in college. So I gripped the phone and asked about school. He classes. Her teachers. How her car was runnin

How her car was running?

Yes, I asked her exactly that.

Then we said a few other neutral things. Have good afternoon. Thanks for calling. Talk to you later. Then I hung up the phone.

So I didn’t fight for Jesus. Not on that day. Not because I didn’t care. And not because I didn’t love every single thing about Jesus more than itself — and still love him just as much, if not now than on that day.

Yet I didn’t fight for him because, on that day, I just didn’t know how to fight.

My life had changed. My Christian daughter became a Muslim.

And my life and every single thing about life ju flat-out flew apart.

So here I sit today, ten years after my daughter made her announcement, staring at my keyboa in my belabored home office — which also is a wreck and needs decluttering and an overhaul. Still, even in this mess, I commit to speak truth about the biggest mountain in my life that has to move.

I wish my daughter wasn’t a Muslim.

Wrong to say? Probably.

But elephants don’t move if they can’t see. Th are shortsighted and deliberate. If things don’t look clear and understandable and logical, they won’t budge. Unless they get startled. Then, experts say, they go on a rampage.

And my home and hearth are messy enough already.

I long for logic and order and peace. And I long talk. To finally look together at the reality of ou life — and not end up arguing and slamming doors and yelling and walking away, especially without answers. Surely now — with almost te years stuck in rubble — we finally can talk. Ope and honest. But there’s one problem.

My Christian daughter is a Muslim.

So how do we unclutter that? Every little piece it. All the hard parts. The unexpected pieces. T curious twists and turns of struggling to live across faiths. Can’t we clear all that up?

Should we even try?

My mother’s heart tells me yes. Getting along living divided has run its course. It’s time to m higher.

Well, that’s what my saved, sanctified, filled wi the Holy Ghost, Bible-loving soul thinks I shoul say.

But how will Alana answer?

Will she go with me on this journey? Put her daughter’s hand in mine? See where this path truth and harmony takes us?

Or is she terrified, like me, to try?

Finally, I am ready to hear her answer.