A special joy appears when you witness someone you had discipled now discipling others—when the person you once poured into now pours out to others.

Dani is that kind of person.

I have been privileged to walk with Dani through his faith journey, but I find myself learning from him more often than teaching. Dani moves through our community with quiet boldness, always alert to the needs around him and always looking for open hearts. I have lost count of the times I have walked up behind him unannounced, only to overhear him gently weaving Bible stories or God’s blessings into conversations, offering hope, comfort and truth to strangers and friends alike.

As the world feels increasingly chaotic and tense, Dani’s warmth seems to shine even brighter. His compassion is not confined to a particular group; he mingles with people from all walks of life regardless of social status, religion or ethnicity. His presence communicates strength and care. His eyes are always open for the next opportunity to serve and share hope.

Just last week, he noticed my grapevines were overdue for pruning. “I know a gardener who could use the work,” he told me. “If you don’t have time, maybe he could come and take care of it.”

That’s classic Dani. He understands when it’s important for a man to earn rather than receive. In a culture where shame and honor shape every interaction, Dani knows how to preserve a man’s dignity. He sees the nuances I sometimes miss.

That’s how Ardi came to my home, tools in hand, heart heavy. Dani brought him over, stayed to chat with him while he got started, then left for a while. I was tied up with calls in my field director role and couldn’t join them.

Later, Dani stopped by again to check in on the work. This time, something deeper was unfolding. I watched from my window as Ardi put down his tools and gave Dani his full attention. Whatever was being said, it mattered. I could tell by Ardi’s posture: still, listening, open.

After Ardi left, Dani explained that the gardener and his wife were privately mourning. Their grown daughter had been trafficked in a neighboring country, and their religious culture dictates that they sever all ties with her to protect the family’s name—total silence for the rest of their lives. Those are the expectations. But it’s breaking them.
Somehow, people open up to Dani. They sense that he’s safe, that he sees pain without judgment, that he listens without turning away.

The next day, I talked with Dani about his moment with Ardi by the grapevines. “I saw you two talking. Something changed in him.”

Dani smiled the smile he gives when hope has been planted.

“I told him a Bible story,” he said. “The story of the honorable father. His son took his inheritance early while his father still lived. He wasted it all in shameful living and came crawling home. But the father didn’t care about the shame. He ran to meet his son. He welcomed him as if nothing had happened. He took the shame onto himself in the most honorable way. Because love for his son mattered more.”

And there it was. A story. A seed. A chance to reimagine what redemption could look like—even in a shame-bound culture.

Dani is still learning, of course. But so am I. And these days, more often than not, I am learning from him.

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