The Persian Driver

It was dark and rainy outside, so my daughter invited the driver in. She had used a service that picks up your car, takes for a check-up and oil change at the dealer then drops it off at your home when the service is complete. Normally this happens without a hitch, but somehow at the end of the day, the driver brought back her car, but he was not going to be picked up any time soon.

“How are you going to get home?” she asked him.

“I’m going to be picked up and taken back to the dealer where my car is. But the other driver is delayed.”  

“While you’re waiting, why don’t you come in?” she asked. He was hesitant, but it was miserable outside and so the next thing I knew, he was seated at my kitchen table. 

I must confess that initially I was a little bit irritated. I was tired. I was unloading the dishwasher so I could put in the next load and longing for bed even though it was not yet 7 pm. My daughter chatted happily with the man, whose English was not polished but he understood us—at least some of the time.  

My daughter chatted happily with the man, whose English was not polished but he understood us—at least some of the time.  

 “Where are you from?” my extroverted daughter asked.

“Persia.”

“How did you get to the U.S.?”

“The lottery. We had heard of other immigrants who won the lottery to get a green card in the U.S.”

“Are you here alone, or did your family come with you?”

“Just my wife and two daughters.”

Then I jumped into the conversation. “Are you Muslim?”

“No.”

“Christian?” I had heard that many people in Iran were converting to Christianity.

“I follow Jesus Christ,” he said. Then he gave us the address of his church and when my daughter looked it up, she showed me the screen of her phone. It was the Church of Latter-Day Saints. Mormon.

He show us a picture of his church family, thirty or so smiling people. Mostly adults. All of them Persian. Including the pastor.

He then called his wife and children, and we met them on the phone. I wondered, Should I share the gospel? I was waiting on the Holy Spirit to lead me. Then the man said something that stopped me in my tracks.

“My wife has cancer.”   

“What kind?” my daughter, the doctor, wanted to know.

His English was not strong. He struggled to find the words, then said he did not know how to say it. But he remembered an acronym: CMI.

“Ah! chronic myeloid leukemia,” my daughter said. She asked how his wife was being treated and he showed her a photograph of a bottle of pills.   

“Ah, immunotherapy.”

“Would you like me to pray for your wife?” I asked. I’ve given up on trying to empty the dishwasher and was fully engaged.

“Yes. Yes,” he said eagerly.

“Can I stand here?” meaning behind him. “And put my hand on your shoulder?” I asked demonstrating my intentions.

“Yes!”

My daughter joined me on the other side of him, and she began to pray, and then I prayed. As I prayed, he dropped his face into the palm of his hands and his whole body began to shake.

I kept praying. I could feel the Holy Spirit and I was fairly certain he could, too. I prayed that the Lord would heal his wife and that they would know the love of Christ.  

I asked him if he knew that Jesus loved him, but he was crying too hard to respond.

As soon as we finished praying, he looked at me and said, “I could feel that!”

“I could too!” I said. “That was the Holy Spirit!”

“Can I come back with my wife and daughters? I want you to pray for them too.”

“Yes, of course. That would be wonderful,” I said. Then I considered. He lived in Maryland. “Perhaps it would be better for you to come to my church. It’s in Washington, DC, a lot closer to where you live.”

“Yes, yes.” he said. “I can. We can come to your church. Where does it meet? And when? Write down the address.”

I took the HCI card I had previously given him and wrote down the address of the church.

He did not come, at least not this week, but I continue to pray.

Pray with me that they would come and that he and his family would discover the grace of God that passes all understanding.