I was a seminarian in the hot deserts of Luxor, Egypt. Wondering if King Tut ever longed to hear the bells of an ice cream truck, I stepped into a small corner market. I scanned the store. Marlboro, Camel, Coke. Canned fish, figs, dates, and Ray-O-Vac batteries. There two men sitting behind the counter talking over tea turned and stared at me. One of them stood up and said with a heavy accent, “America?”

“Yes,” I said, and nodded.

His black eyes smiled at his own detective work. “Christian?” he asked.

“Yes.”

His moustache lifted an inch as he grinned. Then he did something I will never forget. After scanning the store and street for prying eyes, he turned to me. Holding my gaze, he laid his arm on the counter palm up and moved his silver watchband half an inch down his wrist exposing a small turquoise tattoo—a cross. He put the watchband back in its place and pointed upward. “Jesus Christ!” he said emphatically and then pounded his heart with his fingertips.

For the first time, I felt a brotherhood with the persecuted church. Right then, this man’s brand of Christianity didn’t matter to me. He knew Jesus, I knew Jesus, and we were family.

This month, my family and I will leave to begin our ministry in Turkey. Like that little cross tattoo, we are hidden behind pseudonyms. However, our hope will be evident to Turkish seekers.

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