This article was written in Fall 2025 for the 2025 Annual Report.
When our friends in the United States hear the phrase “the Middle East,” they often picture endless deserts at war, crowds of protesters, soldiers at checkpoints, terrorism, and constant danger. It can sound like another planet, inhabited by people somehow different from us, as if their souls were immune to pain, joy, or hope.
As believers, we’re called to seek the truth — even when it unsettles our own narratives. The truth sets us free, even from our fears and myths.
But here in our host country, our mornings begin with the call to prayer echoing over the hills with neighborhoods washed in sunlight as children walk to school, laughing together. It’s not so different from a morning in any American town.
Many of our assumptions have been shaped by sensational headlines and by tragic events that have stained the reputation of Arab peoples. Yet as believers, we’re called to seek the truth — even when it unsettles our own narratives. The truth sets us free, even from our fears and myths. And today, more than ever, both the world and the Church need that freedom to see others with clear eyes and open hearts.
Reality and Perception
Three months after our arrival in the Middle East in 2023, the events of October 7 unfolded, and the war in Gaza erupted. Those were days of deep uncertainty for us as foreigners living in a country near the conflict. We had never lived so close to the echoes of a real war. The air itself felt heavy, and every conversation carried an unspoken tension while peaceful protests filled our streets. Images of soldiers and paramilitaries, rockets streaking across the sky, and buildings reduced to rubble appeared nonstop on TVs in cafés, markets, and supermarkets – a tireless witness to the horror.
We comforted friends and neighbors who mourned loved ones. I vividly remember when our friend lost several cousins and uncles in a single rocket strike. Her cry filled the hallway of the language center where we studied, a sound of disbelief and sorrow that is hard to forget. My wife held her close, both in tears, with nothing to offer except shared grief and prayer.
That day the roles were reversed: we were the ones who received hope, wrapped in our neighbor’s warmth and generosity.
One morning, amid those tense days, our neighbor knocked on the door to ask how we were doing. Seeing the worry on my face, he insisted – kindly but firmly – that I join him for a walk through his family’s fields in a nearby village. Along the way he encouraged me, comforted me, and spoke hope into my heart. That day the roles were reversed: we, who had come to bring faith and encouragement, were the ones who received hope, wrapped in our neighbor’s warmth and generosity.
Even in the shadow of war, life didn’t stop. Markets buzzed with voices and aromas, street vendors sold falafel and boiled corn, and children played soccer on dusty streets. That quiet determination to live became, for us, a lesson in hope.
From afar, many imagine this region consumed by hatred and violence. Yet what we’ve discovered is a people profoundly hospitable, sensitive to others’ pain, and full of a warmth that dissolves prejudice. The real danger isn’t living among them. It’s allowing distance and ignorance to rob us of the chance to know them – and to rob them of the chance of hearing the good news.
Fear and Calling
There were moments when we honestly considered returning to the States. The constant news, uncertainty, emotional fatigue, and distance from family weighed heavier than we wanted to admit. Some nights, after putting the kids to bed, we lay in silence staring at the ceiling, wondering if we had made the right choice.
Friends in America, moved by love and concern, called to ask why we hadn’t returned yet. Their voices echoed our own inner question: Is it really worth staying? They wanted to make sure we were safe. And truthfully, we wanted that reassurance too. But in time we realized that safety doesn’t always align with purpose.
Amid our doubts and homesickness, something deeper began to take root: the conviction that God hadn’t brought us here by accident. Each time we saw a local friend smile with gratitude, each time a simple conversation turned into a moment of encouragement or faith, we were reminded that the Lord’s calling isn’t measured by comfort but by faithfulness.
Something deeper began to take root: the conviction that God hadn’t brought us here by accident.
We learned that faith doesn’t mean the absence of fear; it means moving forward even while your heart trembles. And we came to understand that home isn’t only where you were born, but where God asks you to stay, love, and serve.
Staying wasn’t a heroic act; it was a quiet decision – to remain where we sensed his peace, even when that peace shared space with tears and longing.
Peace and Presence
The Middle East is not just a backdrop for conflict – it’s a fertile ground where hope takes root. After all we’ve lived through in the last two years, we remain convinced that God is still at work in this land. We see it in small acts of kindness, in honest conversations, and in the quiet faith that grows even amid sorrow.
Staying here hasn’t been easy, but it has been good. In this land of contrasts we’ve learned that real peace doesn’t depend on circumstances, but on the faithful presence of the one who never leaves us.
This global worker serves in the Middle East and remains anonymous to protect ministry relationships and safety.
