Just a few miles from the Syrian border, tucked into the windswept desert of northern Jordan, is a refugee camp that time seems to have forgotten. For over a decade, families displaced by war have lived in this unforgiving landscape—rows of weathered tents with no running water, no toilets, and little reprieve from the scorching sun or bitter cold. Life here is hard. And yet, on this day, we witnessed beauty, resilience, and a glimpse of God’s kingdom.

Our team was welcomed by Sense of Commuنity, a local ministry marked by the Arabic letter ن—often used as a symbol of solidarity with persecuted Christians. They had prepared a small classroom space for our visit, and as we stepped inside, we were greeted by a chorus of children’s voices singing with joy and pride. Dressed in hand-me-downs but full of dignity, they stood tall and sang as though they were performing on a world stage.

We played games, laughed together, and made bracelets with colorful beads—each color telling a part of the redemptive Gospel story:

• Black – Sin separates us
• Red – Jesus’ blood was shed for us
• White – We are made clean
• Blue – New life through water and Spirit
• Green – Growth in our journey with God
• Yellow – The promise of eternal life

Tiny hands strung beads that now sit on their wrists as silent reminders of a story still unfolding.

After the children's program, we were invited to a family’s tent for dinner. Saying yes wasn’t optional—it was the only honorable response. The inside of the tent was modest: blankets on the ground, the smell of dust and firewood, and warmth that had nothing to do with the temperature. One by one, plates arrived—fired chicken, seasoned vegetables, fresh fruit picked from nearby farms where many refugees labor for income. It was a feast fit for a king, prepared by those who had nothing to spare.

As we ate, I turned to the man of the house and shared that this meal reminded me of another one—shared long ago between strangers.

He leaned in, curious.

I told the story of Zacchaeus, a man disliked for his greed, yet clever enough to climb a tree just to get a glimpse of Jesus. I described how Jesus called him by name, invited himself to Zacchaeus’ house, and how that meal changed everything. A man known for taking suddenly gave—four times what he had stolen and half his wealth to the poor. “Salvation has come to this house,” Jesus declared.

Then I asked our host, “How does a man go from greedy to generous over one meal with Jesus?”

He sat in silence for a moment, then shared his thoughts. I could see he was moved. I told him, “If Jesus can change a man’s heart in one meal, imagine what He could do over a lifetime.”

That’s how I want to live—with that kind of expectancy. Believing Jesus has something better. That He still calls people by name. That transformation is just a conversation away.

Today, we don’t sit across from Jesus over dinner, but He is just as close. A whisper, a prayer, an invitation away.

Before we left, I sensed something special about this man. In Luke 10 terms, he was a person of peace—open, hospitable, and spiritually curious. We’re praying that joy moves through this camp. That Jesus meets them right in their tents, their classrooms, and their fields.

And we’re thankful—deeply thankful—for partners like Sense of Commuنity who return to this place week after week, carrying light into hard places.

Because sometimes, all it takes is one story, one meal, and one open heart.