One afternoon, as we were serving at our humanitarian aid center in Haifa, an elderly man stood quietly outside the entrance. He was thin and frail, and for several long minutes, he slowly searched through his pockets, as if gathering courage more than coins. Every movement seemed heavy, as though history itself rested on his shoulders.
On the table near the door was a basket of chocolate that we were distributing freely alongside the food packages. The chocolate caught his eye. From a distance, he watched it — not with greed, but with hesitation. It was as if those small pieces represented something more than sweets. Perhaps a memory. Perhaps comfort. Perhaps something from a world long ago.
After nearly ten minutes, he finally stepped inside.
In a soft voice, he asked the price of only four pieces of chocolate. Just four. His hands trembled slightly as he spoke, careful not to take more than he believed he could afford.
As I approached him, my eyes fell on the number engraved on his wrist.
There was no mistaking it.
His name is Leonid — a survivor of the Holocaust, a living witness to the horrors of anti-semitism. The number on his arm spoke of genocide, loss, hunger, humiliation, and suffering beyond what most of us can comprehend. He carried the weight of history not only in his memories, but on his skin.
In that moment, I could not simply hand him four pieces of chocolate.
I gathered a generous amount and placed them in his hands. He tried to refuse, out of humility and dignity. But I gently insisted — not out of pity, but out of respect. Not charity, but honor. A small expression of mercy, freely given, without calculation.
He looked at me with tear-filled eyes and asked in a faint voice, “What should I say?”
I answered simply, “Thank God for His many blessings.”
Leonid slowly raised his trembling hands toward heaven and began to thank God. Then he turned to each of us and expressed his gratitude personally. In that quiet moment, something sacred filled the room. It felt as though heaven had drawn very near to earth.
This is why we serve.
The Gospel of Yeshua is not only proclaimed through sermons. It is revealed through mercy. Through dignity. Through love offered without condition. When we choose to be bridges of compassion rather than walls of fear, we reflect the heart of Messiah.
A piece of chocolate may seem small. But for a Holocaust survivor who once endured starvation and cruelty, it can carry deep meaning. And when it is given with honor and kindness, it becomes more than food — it becomes a reminder that love still exists.
We believe God positioned our center in Haifa for moments like this. Moments when history meets compassion. When wounds are acknowledged, not ignored. When practical kindness opens space for gratitude, prayer, and the quiet presence of God.
Would you prayerfully consider standing with us as we continue this work? Your partnership allows us to serve Holocaust survivors, the homeless, the elderly, and families in need — offering both practical help and the living testimony of Yeshua’s love.
Thank you for helping us be a bridge of mercy in this land.
With gratitude,
Pastor Saleem and the Home of Jesus the King Church family