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Mustafa (not his real name) remembers wondering about the meaning of the cross. It troubled the Muslim boy's 6-year-old mind, especially since he'd never heard anyone ever speak of the rough-hewn symbol that dominated his dreams.

More serious than the other children who jostled about in the school bus on their way home from the madrasah (Islamic school), Mustafa practiced reciting the morning's lesson. The Al-Fatihah is the opening book of the Qur'an and a prayer that devout Muslims recite 17 times a day.

Mustafa wanted to please the parents he loved, so rather than play, he prayed:

Praise be to Allah, Lord of the worlds,
The Beneficent, the Merciful,
Owner of the Day of Judgment,
Thee alone we worship; Thee alone we ask for help.
Guide us to the Straight Path
To the path of those whom Thou hast favored;
Not the path of those who earn Thine anger nor of those who go astray.

The Straight Path. Where was it? Mustafa wondered. And what did his dreams about a cross have to do with discovering that path? His mind struggled with such large thoughts, and it wasn't until the bus swerved violently that he looked up to see his town of Halabja, in northern Iraq, engulfed in flames.

	He wept at the realization that even if he were to discover the Straight Path of Allah, he would never be able to walk it.

Slack-jawed, Mustafa watched as missile after missile struck the town, flattening homes and enveloping the area in an eerie greenish haze. Unable to grasp what was happening, Mustafa remembers watching one missile, as if in slow motion, arc toward his school bus. Where is the Straight Path? Why the cross? These were Mustafa's final thoughts as the missile struck the bus, hurling him into a dark, silent abyss. The year was 1978.

Mustafa opened his eyes but was afraid to speak. Rotating his head to the right, he could see that he was in a hospital, but the other patients did not look Iraqi.

He gasped when a hand touched his head from the left. A nurse smiled at him and said something unintelligible. Mustafa thought she was beautiful. Her large almond-shaped eyes reminded him of his mother's.

"Where am I?" he asked, trying not to cry at the thought of his mother and the rest of his family.

"Iran," she said in Arabic with a Persian accent. "Iranian soldiers saw your school bus on fire and pulled you from the wreckage. Allah is with you. You are the only one to survive Saddam's bombing. I'm sorry but 5,000 Kurdish people were killed."

"My mother and father?" Mustafa asked.

"You've been in a coma for three months and no one has come for you. I'm sorry." Large tears spilled from Mustafa's eyes. The nurse took hold of his hand and leaned closer. "There is something else you must face, child. Your legs were badly broken in the wreck. The doctor could not save them. I'm sorry."

Mustafa doesn't recall his reaction to discovering his legs had been amputated below the knees. He does, however, remember being afraid to look at his shortened limbs. When he finally did, the shock was so severe that the nurse gave him a shot to make him sleep.

Drifting downward through a medicated mist, he wept at the realization that even if he were to discover the Straight Path of Allah, he would never be able to walk it.

Thirsting for answers
Mustafa spent the next five years in an orphanage in Iran. Bedridden and alone, he accepted the fact that he would never again experience joy, only an animal instinct to survive-an instinct that carried with it no desire to rise up and walk.

"What do you know of the salib (the cross)?" Mustafa asked an Imam who often visited the children to teach them the tenets of Islam.

"The Al-Qur'an does not speak of any special cross," answered the Imam, stroking his beard. "I only know of it as the inverted sword of the Christian Crusades. I think it is best not to think of such things."

Mustafa was not satisfied with the answer, and the all-consuming question began to replace his instinctual survival with a spiritual thirst for enlightenment.

	Was this Jesus and His cross the way to the Straight Path Mustafa had asked about so often?

The month Mustafa turned 12, the International Red Cross arranged for him to be moved to Istanbul, Turkey, where he was fitted with artificial legs. For five years, he struggled with the heavy, painful appendages, never able to walk with them. Despite all his efforts and physical therapy, Mustafa could not move about without the aid of crutches.

Moved next to Syria because his stay in Istanbul had expired, Mustafa found himself living in a tenement building, sponsored by a Kurdish charitable organization. The stigma of being handicapped plagued him and prevented the young boy from being fully accepted into his new environment. Though he was thrilled to be living among his own people once again, Mustafa experienced continual frustration in questioning the Kurdish leaders about the significance of the cross.

No one could answer his question.

'Rise up and walk'
Eventually Mustafa was asked to leave the Kurdish community in Syria. Some friends gave him $400 and sent him to Jordan.

Once again, Mustafa found himself among a foreign culture, ostracized by his inability to either walk or talk in an acceptable manner. He sought out the Kurdish refugee community in Amman and found someone unexpected-an American named Tim.

It was neither Tim's amazing love for Kurdish people, nor his ability to speak so fluently in the Kurdish tongue that captivated Mustafa, but the topic that dominated Tim's speech nearly every time he spoke. Tim talked about the cross. And not just any cross but one on which the living Son of God gave His life in order that all people might know true joy.

True joy? Was it possible? Was this Jesus and His cross the way to the Straight Path Mustafa had asked about so often?

Mustafa dragged his cumbersome artificial legs to wherever Tim agreed to meet with him and listened eagerly to the precious words from the Injil (the Gospels). As if drawing all of life together in a single thread of meaning, Mustafa began to realize that God Himself had placed the desire to understand the meaning of the cross in his heart. It had given his life purpose and kept him pressing on even when circumstances made death seem preferable.

Sitting in my office in Baghdad, Mustafa cannot contain himself as he attempts to explain the emotions that swept over him when he walked into a church in Jordan and saw for the first time, the cross of Christ.

"I don't remember what the pastor spoke about in the sermon. I could not take my eyes off the cross. It was just as I had pictured it in my dreams. It was this cross, and the Person who died there, that had given this parentless, legless, 6-year-old the will to live. Jesus had loved me from the very beginning-before I knew Him."

Mustafa gave his life to Christ that morning.

"My heart was instantly filled with unspeakable joy. A kind of spiritual strength surged through my body, and I knew that I no longer needed crutches to walk."

While the pastor continued to speak, Mustafa quietly laid aside his crutches and rose to his feet. Crying softly, he turned and walked out into the bright Jordanian sunshine and into a life of ministry among the Kurds.

Now 32, Mustafa has since returned to the village of his birth. He moves about freely on new legs manufactured in Japan. Unless he mentions that they are prosthetics, it is unnoticeable.

"My message to the Kurdish Muslim people is simple," says Mustafa, eyes beaming. "If you want to walk the Straight Path to real blessing and joy, then you need to come to the Cross and meet the One who says to each of us: 'Rise up, take up your mat, and walk.'"

Jamie Winship is a missionary and freelance writer based in Baghdad, Iraq.

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