Drawings of Hope

Today I witnessed something that I’ll carry with me for a long time—hope sketched in crayon, colored with courage, and framed by the resilient smiles of children who have lost more than most of us can imagine.

Jordan is home to more than a million registered refugees, though estimates of those truly displaced here are much higher. Syrians make up the majority, but today, our team spent time with another deeply wounded group: Iraqi refugees—specifically those who fled from Mosul.

Mosul was once a vibrant, diverse city in northern Iraq. But everything changed with the rise of ISIS. Christians and other minorities were driven out or killed. Families fled overnight, leaving behind homes, businesses, and generations of history. Many of those who survived persecution and violence landed here in Jordan—safe from the war, but not fully embraced by the systems that surround them.

Because they are not recognized as permanent residents, Iraqi children cannot legally enroll in public schools. That’s where Marka Church stepped in.

Years ago, they opened a school specifically for Iraqi refugee children. A place where young hearts and minds could heal. A place where learning could continue in safety. Their mission is clear: to blend mercy and truth in every act.

Today, our team had the privilege of volunteering in the classrooms. Some of us assisted teachers; others led lessons entirely. We weren’t just helping—we were learning. We saw joy on the faces of children who had every reason to despair. Their laughter, their questions, their enthusiasm—it all felt like a quiet rebellion against the darkness they had once known.

Near the entrance of the school is a gallery unlike any other I’ve seen. Drawings. Dozens of them. At first glance, they seem like typical kids’ artwork, but then you look closer. One side shows their life in Iraq—bombings, fire, soldiers, tears. The other side is their life now—playing, families gathered around dinner, sunshine, safety. These drawings are therapy. They tell a story words sometimes cannot. They reflect a deep truth: the human soul was made for peace.

After school, we joined others in visiting homes of refugees. The homes are modest, sometimes crowded, but never lacking in warmth. Suffering was present—we saw it in tired eyes and heard it in quiet stories—but so was hospitality. Tea was served. Laughter came easily. Conversations flowed. Somehow, it all felt familiar, like we were sitting with old friends in our own living rooms.

We ended the day at the home of an Iraqi woman who cooked for us—dolma, rice-stuffed grape leaves, enough to feed an army. It was absolutely delicious, but more than that, it was a gift. She gave generously from what little she had, reminding me again of the depth of kindness that thrives even in hardship.

As I reflect tonight, I’m overwhelmed by gratitude—for Marka Church, for the brave children in that school, for the beauty drawn from ashes, and for the reminder that the Kingdom of God often looks like a shared meal, a hopeful drawing, and truth wrapped in mercy.

This is what love looks like in action. And I’m thankful to have experienced it firsthand.