The alarm jarred me awake. I glanced around the dark room. Where was I? Yesterday felt like a blur. Chicago to Istanbul. Istanbul to Tel Aviv. What would Greg and I encounter here? What lessons did God have for us in this land of the Bible?

I stepped onto our hotel balcony as the sky flushed a rosy hue. The city of Tiberias was waking up. Just to my east lay the Sea of Galilee, scarcely a ripple on its surface.

We ate breakfast as the sun rose over the Judean hills, then went outside. An olive-skinned man stood by the door of our bus. Middle-aged, perhaps 50, with salt-and-pepper hair. A cigarette hung between his fingers. He smiled at Greg and me as we boarded.

The ride began with prayer and a brief introduction of our guide and bus driver. I felt instantly comfortable with our guide. He was incredibly knowledgeable as well as interesting, and possessed a great sense of humor. He was Jewish, and I was already friends with several Jewish people.

Our bus driver, however, was different. Ahmed was obviously an Arab, and I had never met an Arab before. Oh, I’d seen them in the store or at the airport, but they always seemed a bit mysterious, with different customs and culture, and definitely a different religion. What did I have in common with them? Probably nothing.

Days passed. We took a boat ride on the Sea of Galilee, walked the streets of Capernaum, and saw the amphitheater where Paul made his defense before King Agrippa. By this time I had learned how to pronounce Ahmed’s name, but I knew little more about him. Ours was a cordial relationship.

One day we stopped at a Christian shop to purchase souvenirs. Just as I reached for my wallet, Ahmed appeared. He gave a hand-painted cooking-spoon rest to the salesclerk and spoke in Hebrew. The clerk wrapped it in a paper bag and handed it to me. Confused, I looked at Ahmed. “It’s a gift for you,” he smiled.

I opened my mouth to thank him, but he had already disappeared.

I was touched. Why had he given me this gift? The next morning I spotted Ahmed at our hotel, eating with the other bus drivers. “Ahmed,” I approached him hesitantly. “Would you mind autographing my spoon rest for me?”

He took the marker from me and extinguished his cigarette. “Do you want it in English or Arabic?”

“Oh, Arabic, definitely.”

That day something changed in our relationship. No longer was Ahmed simply the bus driver. Neither was he someone with a different heritage or a strange religion. He was becoming our friend. We spent time talking with him and saw pictures of his six kids. He told us about his early marriage to his wife, and about the death of his mom from lung cancer. Twice he brought us medjool dates from his own backyard in Jericho.

We began to feel an affinity with him. Gone was my fear of his nationality and religion. Each day Greg and I were amazed by the depth of Ahmed’s kindness, compassion, and unconditional love.

The last night arrived. Greg and I stopped to say goodbye to Ahmed. I reached out to hug him. “Goodbye,” I whispered. “We’re going to miss you.”

He squeezed me tightly. “Me, too. I hope I can see you both again.”

I nodded as the tears spilled over.

Why had God sent me halfway around the world? Was it to see the places Jesus walked? Perhaps. Was it to become friends with others who joined us there? Maybe.Was it to break down my own prejudice and give me a picture of Himself as revealed in the life of a middle-aged Arabic man? Absolutely.

The dichotomy was that Ahmed, a man who had never called on the name of Jesus, had shown me what He was like.