I simply have to start this report with a deep word of gratitude towards our hosts in Lebanon and Syria, who welcomed us with extraordinary warmth, generous hospitality, and unwavering love. Your faithfulness and care have left a lasting imprint on us. We have much to learn from the way you embody Christ’s love—steadfast, gracious, and sacrificial. Every moment that revealed His presence was made possible through you. Thank you, from the depths of our hearts. We also want to express our gratitude towards our three fellow travelers: Tristan, Zaldi and Jana. Thank you for your love and compassion.
WHERE HEAVEN TOUCHES EARTH
The most visible landmark in the Beqaa valley, Lebanon, is Mount Hermon – rising 2,814 meters above sea level and straddling the border between Lebanon and Syria.
Given its geographic prominence and proximity to Caesarea Philippi—where Jesus had just been with his disciples (Matthew 16:13)—Mount Hermon is considered by some modern scholars to be a plausible location for the transfiguration of Jesus.
This was the moment when heaven touched earth – one of the most powerful images in Scripture and the essence of our Christian confession. It was not just a moment—it sparked a movement. When heaven’s light flooded earthly darkness, it was a collision of glory and dust, turning despair into hope.
Oh, how glorious that sight must have been
Traveling through Lebanon and Syria, I was reminded—again and anew—that the church in these nations is where heaven touches earth today. Everyday. Not with thunder but with tenderness.
Here, every embrace offered in kindness, every child greeted with a smile, every story received with love, every grief whispered and held in compassion—each one is a sacred touch. A divine encounter. A moment where heaven stoops low through the church and meets those in need. Not as spectacle, but as mercy. Not as noise, but as nearness.
These encounters are etched into my heart. They are glimpses of glory—heaven touching earth through the hands and hearts of Christ’s followers. Hope leaning into despair. Grace interrupting sorrow. The gospel alive in quiet acts of courage and care.
(Names withheld for security reasons)
ENCOUNTERS WHERE LIFE TOUCHES DARKNESS
Sometimes darkness belongs to a womb and not a tomb. A place not of endings, but of beginnings. A darkness that prepares the way for birth, not death. And when life emerges from that sacred obscurity, hope is born, and the shadows begin to dissolve.
In Jaramana, Syria, we met a local pastor whose community responded with extraordinary courage and compassion following the mass killings of Alawites in Suweida between 6 and 17 March 2025. In the wake of unspeakable trauma, the Church did not retreat. Instead, they mobilized—sending teams into the heart of the conflict zone to comfort survivors and their families.
As the pastor shared the story, I had this vivid image of a fire sweeping through a region —flames devouring everything in their path. While everyone is running away from the fire for safety, the firefighters run towards the blaze, risking everything to rescue, to restore, to redeem.
From that courageous outreach, nine house churches were planted. Twenty spiritual workers are now being trained. “This is a busy season for us,” the pastor said with quiet resolve.
And at their centre in Jaramana, the urgency of spiritual life continues. Between 2,000 and 3,000 women are actively engaged in various projects every month—a breathtaking testament to resilience, vision, and faith.
Out of the ashes, life has emerged. The darkness became a womb. And hope was born.
ENCOUNTERS WHERE TIME TOUCHES ETERNITY
Eternity is not measured in seconds or hours. It does not tick by in chronological time. Eternity unfolds in Kairos moments—God’s appointed opportunities, sacred seasons, divine occasions.
One pastor we met in Damascus offered a living witness to this truth. “This time is God’s time for us,” he said, “Never forget—the suffering church is, and always has been, a growing church. We feel honoured to be here in Syria, now.”
Then he shared a story that felt like stepping into the book of Acts.
One Sunday morning, an ISIS fighter walked into the church. Not with violence—but with vulnerability. The Holy Spirit met him there, pierced his heart, and led him into repentance.
Weeks later, the man returned. This time, he invited the pastor to his village to baptize him. But when the pastor arrived, he found not one—but forty new believers waiting to be baptized.
Kairos. A divine interruption. A moment when eternity touched time—and grace multiplied.
ENCOUNTERS WHERE TODAY TOUCHES TOMORROW
The future is irreversibly linked to the present. For the 120 children at the centre in the Beqaa valley a touch of heaven by earthly angels is all that keeps tomorrow alive
Hamoudi came to the centre as a little boy who didn’t even know how to hold a pencil. He carried a heavy heart, full of fear and doubt, and kept his eyes on the ground. He didn’t believe in himself, how could he, when the world around him laughed at his dreams before they were even spoken?
But at the centre something different happened.
Day by day, moment by moment, the staff walked with him. They celebrated every small victory: the first word written, the first sentence read, the first dream whispered aloud. Slowly, that little spark inside Hamoudi began to grow into a flame.
“I want to be a doctor,” he finally whispered one day, his voice trembling. “But…Everyone laughs at me. My family… even my friends… they say I can’t. I’m a refugee.”
The teachers, however, told him: “Hamoudi, nothing is impossible with God. We believe in you. And we will walk with you, every step of the way.”
Even when Hamoudi returned to Syria, their connection did not break. They continued to guide him, teach him, encourage him, and cheer him on from afar. When the team visited him, they saw him translating English with confidence, a young man standing tall, full of purpose.
Today, Hamoudi is a nurse, serving others with compassion. And his dream keeps growing. He will become a doctor. When he shared this with the team, he could barely speak: “You… you were the only ones who believed in me. You never gave up on me… I thought my dreams were impossible… but you made me see God’s hand in my life. You gave me courage when I had none.”
Hamoudi’s journey is a living testament: Today can touch tomorrow. When a child is seen, believed in, and walked with in faith, God can turn the impossible into reality. His voice, once small and unsure, now carries hope to all who dare to dream
Today can touch tomorrow
(Shared by the staff of Nexus Mission)
ENCOUNTERS WHERE TRUTH TOUCHES NARRATIVES
Truth, it seems, is shaped less by what lies before our eyes—and more by what lies behind them. We all fall victim to the narratives of others, served to us in the guise of truth. Our lenses, our longings, our loyalties—they all shape the stories we call truth.
To find the truth in a nation like Syria is no exception.
When we asked a young Syrian leader—a history graduate—about the future of his nation and the truth of its past, his response was both honest and revealing.
“The one thing I’ve learned in all my studies,” he said, “is that I no longer believe in history. History is always written by the winners—never by the wounded. Truth and justice are determined by the media, not discovered by the masses.”
His words rang true. Not as cynicism, but as a warning. The truth of the past was written by President Bashar Al Asaad and contained erased voices, buried testimonies, and untold suffering. But today a new truth is being shaped by Ahmed Al Sharaa. His narratives are shaped not by compassion, but by control. And the history of the past is being rewritten for the future
And yet, as the brother shared, there was a longing—for a deeper truth. A truth not edited by empires or filtered through headlines. A truth that listens to the silenced, that remembers the forgotten, that refuses to let pain be forgotten.
Syria is at a crossroads. The future is uncertain and the nation is divided by sceptics and cynics. Perhaps real history will this time be made not by what is archived in textbooks, but what is carried in the hearts of the people. Perhaps justice begins not with declarations, but with discernment. And perhaps truth is not a monument to power—but a whisper of mercy behind the eyes of those who still dare to see.
The church will be the place where heaven’s truth will meet earthly narratives
ENCOUNTERS WHERE BEAUTY TOUCHES DESTRUCTION
“Damascus is a place of turning,” one pastor declared with quiet conviction, “this is where Saul became Paul. And in 2026 we aim to turn the ashes into beauty.” Her words carried more than hope—they carried a call.
“As Christians,” she continued, “we are not only called to expose darkness, but to reveal light. Restoration is our vocation. Beauty is our witness. When light is revealed, darkness departs on its own.”
This vision of beauty turns restoration into a proclamation, and the vision is taking it across Syria.
Two pastors from the north shared their joint dream for 2026: to establish gardens in fourteen cities across the nation. Not merely as decoration, but as declaration. These gardens will be living parables—preaching grace and redemption not only through words, but through colour, fragrance, and fruitfulness. A theology of soil and seed. A gospel that blossoms.
In 2025, their focus was “Gates”—exploring the gates of Scripture, the thresholds of transformation, the places where heaven meets earth. But 2026 will be THE YEAR OF GARDENS. Of Eden reclaimed. Of beauty planted in the ruins.
Indeed, how lovely on the mountains are the feet of those who bring good news. Not only with sermons, but with shovels. Not only with doctrine, but with daisies. Not only with truth, but with trees.
This is the gospel in bloom. Where beauty touches destruction
ENCOUNTERS WHERE DIGNITY TOUCHES POVERTY
“He raises the poor from the dust and lifts the needy from the ash heap. (Psalm 113:7)
(From the team at the school in the Valley)
“Something sacred happened in our centre. We gathered to celebrate the graduation of 120 Syrian refugee boys and girls whose stories are marked by war, displacement, and unimaginable loss. But on this day, they were not defined by their suffering. They stood clothed in dignity, wrapped in their first graduation gowns, holding certificates with trembling hands, and smiling with a joy that words cannot fully capture.
It was not just a ceremony. It was a holy moment. A glimpse of what love can do in the lives of the broken-hearted.
These children have known too much pain for their young age. Some were born in tents. Others fled under the sound of bombs Many came to us shy, angry, confused carrying trauma that showed not only in their eyes but in their learning and behaviour.
But here, within the walls of our centre, something began to change. They were welcomed, accepted, loved not as numbers or “cases”, but as children of God. They were given books, yes, but more importantly, they were given back their names, their voices, their childhood. And now, years later, we watched them walk across a small stage… with heads lifted high.
Some even whispered dreams:
“I want to be a teacher.”
“I want to be a doctor.”
“I want to help children like me.”
To us, it was a foretaste of the Kingdom. And to God, we believe it was worship, pure and powerful. A moment when heaven leaned close and smiled over His little ones, clothed in beauty instead of ashes. This celebration was more than a ceremony. It was the visible fruit of quiet, persistent faithfulness the kind that rarely makes headlines but moves heaven. It was the labour of teachers who sowed seeds in silence, without applause. Of volunteers who became the steady hands that wiped away tears, who translated trauma into trust, and who carried every child on their shoulders in prayer.
This is not fast work. It is not glamorous. It is slow, sacred, and often unseen. But oh, how heaven sees. and in moments like these a cap on a child’s head, a proud smile breaking through years of sorrow we remember: This is the work of Jesus. To bind up the broken-hearted. To raise the lowly from the ashes. To rebuild what war tried to ruin. To allow heaven to come down and touch earth
ENCOUNTERS WHERE REDEMPTION TOUCHES RELATIONSHIPS
This is the testimony of our local worker while we were there. It illustrates the context of our visit to the camps and the way we have been received as messengers of Christ
A Night in the Rain
“Yesterday I visited the Syrian family in the refugee camp as I often do. Around nine o’clock, rain began to fall, a rare gift in the high valley where I live. The mountains usually hold the rain, and the valley only drinks from their streams. It was beautiful, and for a while, we stood outside just to feel it.
But as the hours passed, the rain didn’t stop. The roads turned to mud, the wind grew icy, and the motorbike stood soaked. When the family invited me to stay the night, as they had many times before, I finally accepted. It felt right this time.
The one daughter brought out an extra mattress in the men’s sleeping area. As I lay there, hearing the rain on the tent, I opened my Bible app to John 13:20:
“Very truly I tell you, whoever accepts anyone I send accepts me; and whoever accepts me accepts the one who sent me.”
Lying there, I thought about how deeply those words applied in that moment, their hospitality was more than kindness; it was a reflection of something divine.
Even though they are Muslims and I am a Christian missionary, they know who I am and what I believe. They welcomed me not only into their home but into their lives. And as I read that verse, I felt a quiet peace, that even if they have not yet accepted Christ as the Son of God, their acceptance of me, His messenger, carries meaning. In that tent, surrounded by rain and warmth, I felt the verse come alive, a small glimpse of the Kingdom in a place few would expect to find it.”
ENCOUNTERS WHERE BELIEF TOUCHES DESPAIR
One morning we had the joy to hand out 120 balloon balls to the all the children in the centre. It was a gift from a Church in Pretoria and heaven descended on the playgrounds. The joy was a tangible expression of pure delight bursting from children who have known far too much sorrow. Laughter echoed like a song of healing. It was beautiful
But the afternoon brought a quieter ache. During our youth gathering, Pastor Tristan—our fellow traveller—invited the refugee teens to write down their dreams. And they did: doctor, engineer, veterinarian, orphanage founder. Each dream contained a flicker of dignity, a whisper of possibility.
Then came the moment that broke our hearts.
Tristan gave each young person an empty cup and asked them to fill it with water—just enough to indicate the hope they carried that matched the possibility that their dream might come true.
Most cups contained only a few drops of water. Some remained completely dry. They have dreams, but no hope.
Hope, the most vital survival resource of all, has been drained. And that’s why we travelled to these two nations. To pour hope back in. To testify that God sees. That He remembers every dream scribbled on torn paper. That He is near to the broken-hearted and tender with the crushed in spirit.
QUOTES THAT SHAPED OUR VISIT
Many words were spoken that settled deep in our hearts—words of pain, resilience, and prophetic hope. Here are a few that continue to echo:
- “Oh my God, good luck!”
— Syrian customs officer, upon seeing our South African passports
We realised that travel into fragile places always comes at a cost—emotional, spiritual, and logistical. But the rewards of connection, witness, and shared humanity far outweigh the discomfort. The road may be rough, but the grace encountered is immeasurable. - “We can see the light at the end of the tunnel in Syria, but we don’t know how deep the tunnel is.”
— Leader of the Assyrian Church in Damascus
We realised that in this season of uncertainty, the solidarity and intercession of the global Church are not optional—they are lifelines. Hope flickers, but it needs fuel. Our prayers must be persistent, our presence intentional. - “Even a tyranny with rules is better than a government with no rules.”
— Pastor in Damascus
We realised that the new government in Syria, though transitional and fragile, is navigating a complex terrain. The longing for stability—even imperfect—reveals the deep scars of chaos. Justice must be pursued, but not without wisdom and patience. - “Syria is being sanctified.”
— Syrian pastor
We realised that suffering, when held in faith, becomes sacred ground. The Church in Syria is not merely surviving—it is being refined, set apart, and prepared to shine in the darkness. This is holy soil.
IMAGES ETCHED IN OUR HEARTS
Some moments do not fade. They imprint themselves on the soul—like icons of grace and grief, beauty and burden. These are the images etched in our hearts:
- The roadside in Beirut, lined with portraits of Hezbollah martyrs.
A solemn reminder that every conflict carries names, and every name bears a story. Victims are not statistics—they are sons, daughters, neighbors, beloved. - Children laughing, their balloon balls soaring into the sky.
A tender reminder that joy can be found in the simplest gifts. That delight, like grace, often comes unwrapped and unexpected. - The journey to Jaramana, winding through ruins of war’s devastation.
A sobering reminder of the immense challenges the Church still faces. Yet even among rubble, the gospel dares to plant seeds of hope. - Youth seated with empty cups—symbols of futures unfilled, dreams deferred.
A piercing reminder that hope is not optional. It is a matter of life and death. - A young girl in a doorway, wiping away tears as Tristan plays worship songs.
A sacred reminder that true worship does not entertain—it encounters. It draws near to the brokenhearted and ushers in the presence of the living God. - The youth worship team in Jaramana, lifting praise in a spectacular evening of song.
A glorious reminder that worship is not confined to buildings. It erupts from hearts, and when it does, heaven touches earth. - The South African team standing beneath a cedar tree planted over three millennia ago.
A quiet reminder that faithfulness is not proven in ease, but in endurance. Some roots only deepen through trial. - And finally, the radiant joy of our hosts as they welcomed us.
A holy reminder that hospitality is not mere kindness—it is sacrament. A sacred act of receiving Christ in the stranger.
These images remain with us. Not as photographs, but as parables. Each one a glimpse of the kingdom. Each one a call to remember, to respond, to rejoice.
No, heaven did not wait for man to ascend. Heaven entered, it stooped low—into a world of need.
The church of Christ is no different.