The whole world seemed to tremble early one February morning. I grabbed my wife’s hand and we checked on our kids as the earthquake continued.

When the rumbling finally stopped, we took account. No one had been injured, and the damage to our home and neighborhood was minimal.

Later that morning, I received a call from a friend who had fared much worse. Near the epicenter, his house had nearly collapsed, and his family was outside in the rain. He needed help and a place to stay.

I grabbed dry clothes for our friends and asked another Frontiers team member to caravan with me so we’d have enough seats to bring them all to our home. Several roads were closed. The open ones were congested, littered with accidents and hitchhikers.

When we finally reached the outskirts of the city, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Everywhere I looked, buildings lay in pieces. Once prominent minarets had crashed to the ground, and the community was shrouded in dust.

Eventually I located my friend at a tire shop where dozens of refugees had sought shelter. They stood around makeshift fires, shock and uncertainty written on every face.

While my friend collected his family, I gathered names and phone numbers from other survivors, always asking, “What do you need?”

Most had no answer. They were soaked, homeless, and soon they’d be hungry. They needed everything.

Over the next days, my teammates and I regularly traveled to the area. We delivered water and food and anything else we could carry to the camps that had begun popping up around the crumbled city.

In the encampment behind a flattened gas station, I met Hanif, a refugee who had little before the earthquakes and even less afterward.

“So much of my family is gone now,” he said, a slight tremor in his voice. “And I haven’t found my niece or her family yet. I’m afraid they didn’t survive.”

My heart ached for him as he explained how more than 35 members of his extended family had risked everything for safety and security in a new country. Now, over a dozen had died or were missing.

As the head of the family, Hanif keenly felt the weight of that loss. I saw it in the stoop of his shoulders and the grief in his eyes.

I couldn’t take away his sadness or provide for all his needs, but I offered the only hope I had. “God hasn’t forgotten you.”

Hanif shook his head. “I’m not sure that’s true.”

I couldn’t argue that point but determined I would demonstrate God’s love by showing up. Before I left that day, I asked if I could pray for Hanif and his family in Jesus’ name, and he quietly agreed.

A couple weeks later, I was back near the epicenter. The devastation never ceased to shock me, a whole city brought to ruin and rubble. Encampments that started with 25 tents had grown ten times as large. I visited the olive grove and the tire shop first, dropping off water filters and the food our team had collected.

Saving the gas station camp for last, I hoped to find Hanif. I was barely out of my car when I heard a raspy voice calling to me. “Friend! Come sit with me.”

Hanif stood by the open flap of his tent and waved me over. I quickly pulled a box of food from my trunk and hurried to him. Though the late winter weather was cold, Hanif’s home was warm, and he offered me a cup of tea as I sat on a rug.

“How have you been?” I asked. “I’ve prayed for you.”

He smiled and nodded his appreciation. “My niece was found. She’s alive. Unfortunately, her husband and two older children didn’t survive.”

Hanif motioned toward the tent next door, and I knew his niece was not seeing anyone but close family and female friends. It’s common in this region to mourn a loss with forty days of isolation.

“What about her younger children?” I asked cautiously, praying for the right words.

Hanif’s eyes lit up. “They’re running around with others in the camp right now. Rescue workers found them buried under a fallen house on the fourth day.”

I couldn’t keep the surprise from my voice. “They weren’t injured?”

“They weren’t even hungry!” Hanif laughed.

Leaning in a little closer, I motioned for him to continue.

“When the rescuers offered the kids food and water, they said they didn’t need any. Apparently, a man in white had visited them every day to give them something to eat and drink. Can you believe that?”

Praise erupted within my heart because I did believe it.

“And it appears they weren’t the only children to be fed. Other families have shared similar stories about the man in white.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “It’s impossible.”

 I shook my head. “It’s not. I think I know Who they mean.”

“What? Who is he?”’

I sat back then, a wide smile falling into place. “That Man must be Jesus.”

Soon after, I gave Hanif a Bible, and in the weeks that followed we had many more conversations about Christ.

As my team and I continue to care for those affected by the earthquake, we make sure to remind everyone that God has not forgotten them, even in the midst of destruction. But we aren’t the only ones sharing the Good News. The Lord is making Himself known to the brokenhearted.

To a people surrounded by rubble, Christ alone has proven He is the Solid Rock—the only One who makes the impossible possible.

Pray:

• Pray that refugees like Hanif will continue to ask questions about Jesus and come to know Christ as their Savior. 
• Thank God for inviting Frontiers workers into His work and ask Him to bless their efforts as they care for Muslims in need.
• Praise the Lord that He moves in miraculous and mysterious ways. Pray for Muslims who experience the impossible to seek the truth of who Jesus is.

**This account comes from a long-term worker. Names have been changed for security.**

Main photo on Alamy

Original article: https://frontiersusa.org/blog/rubble-rock/