I am taking a taxi to the train station, homeward bound after a meeting. As we head steadily closer to the centre of this large cosmopolitan city, we soon find ourselves sitting in a traffic jam, and it doesn’t take long for me to start chatting with the taxi driver, who must be in his late thirties or early forties.

He has an open demeanour, and a willingness to chat. He tells me how his parents emigrated to the UK from Pakistan several decades ago; how he and his siblings have been raised here; how he met and married his wife after they were introduced through mutual friends; how this city has become their home.

Then he turns to me. “Where are you going this afternoon?” he asks, “Are you heading home?”

I tell him where I’m taking the train to, and confirm that, yes, it’s the place I call home. I watch as he studies me in the rear view mirror. “I know your city,” he reveals, tentatively. “I’m over there about once a month at the moment.”

“Why’s that?” I ask, curious.

“It’s my daughter,” he tells me. “She has an incurable heart condition, and the hospital in your city has a specialist unit, where she’s receiving treatment.”

I express my sympathy and ask her name and age. He tells me and then, looking over his shoulder into the rear view mirror, I catch his eye. “Has anyone prayed for your daughter?” I ask him. It is partly audacity; partly anger that life’s lottery has dealt such a blow on one so young.

“Pray for her?” he queries, evidently bemused by my question. He ponders for a moment, and then says, “Yes, I suppose my wife and I sort of pray for her.” He hesitates before continuing. “I’m not sure whether Allah ever hears us though,” he confides.

Before my boldness has the opportunity to escape, I explain why I’m asking. “I’m a Christian,” I tell him, “and I believe that, when we pray in the name of Jesus, He has power to heal.” His face, reflected in the rear view mirror, looks back at me, puzzled.

“Would you like me to pray for your daughter?” I ask him.

“What?” he says. “Here in the cab?”

“Sure,” I say, “Why not?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “OK,” he says.

Sitting in the back seat of the taxi, I pray a simple prayer. Out loud, I ask God to heal the driver’s daughter’s heart, and to reveal Himself to both of them, in the name of Jesus. It’s no more than a couple of sentences, but I have faith to believe it’s been heard.

Just as I say ‘Amen’, we emerge through to the other side of the traffic jam.

Our conversation continues, with him sharing how he attends the local mosque and wrestles with reading the Koran because his Arabic is only basic, and me telling him about my church and how the Bible can be read in many languages. “You should try reading it,” I suggest, “perhaps starting with the Gospel of John.”

Before I know it, we’re edging ever closer to the train station.

“Thank you for praying for my daughter,” he says, as I pay him for the fare. “You’re the first Christian I’ve met in this country who’s ever prayed with me, and I feel a strange sense of peace.”

“Maybe that’s Jesus,” I suggest, as I reach over to open the door of the cab. “Keep calling out His name, and watch what happens.”

I smile and wave, as I jump out and head for my train.


Photo via Pixabay


1 Comment

  1. bettyboo76 Reply

    Great story! Your boldness is encouraging and challenging. I would have probably prayed for his daughter but in the quiet of my own heart. BBx

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