We urgently need more volunteers at the medical station.”

I couldn’t help but overhear the conversation next to me.

“We’ve had just one person running it every day since we started, and he’s exhausted. He needs a break.”

I recognized the desperation in Alexis’ voice.

“I’m an emergency medical technician, and I’d like to help,” I offered enthusiastically.

Alexis was thrilled. We arranged a time, and she came to pick me up. As I climbed into her vehicle, I noticed she wore her hair in two braids.

“You might want to put your hair up,” she said with a smile. “All the kids have lice.”

She honked briefly at a car trying to back into us and somehow found space to swerve around it. “I’ll have someone show you the medical station when we get there. People shouldn’t come to you until they’ve showered and received clean clothes.”

We made a brief stop to pick up another passenger. “I’m not sure what supplies we have now,” she added. “Let me know if you need anything, and I’ll see what I can find. It can be hard to get things now.”

I looked down at my backpack. I’d packed it as best I could: stethoscope, blood pressure cuff, pulse oximeter, trauma shears, pen light, and flashlight. It all seemed so basic.

We arrived at the center and began unloading bags of donated clothes. A young man offered to show me to the medical station—a small area walled off by cabinets. Inside were a folding table and two rows of chairs.

I reviewed the meager supplies: a nearly empty burn kit, non-sterile gauze, two rolls of tape, iodine and alcohol wipes, antiseptic and antibiotic ointments, cloudy eye drops, a few bandages, gloves, masks, cotton swabs, tongue depressors, tweezers, surgical scissors, and saline.

The center came alive within minutes as the first carload of displaced families arrived. Mothers and children filled the waiting area. A volunteer played songs on his guitar while children sang and colored as they waited to shower.

“Here’s a paper for you,” said an eighth-grade student at the learning center.

I read the brief note: 2 children ages 2 and 2. Lice, cuts, and infection.

Soon, two crying toddlers were plopped onto the chairs. The diagnosis was accurate—lice, cuts, and infections. Gently, I cleaned and disinfected the crusty, weeping wounds on their scalps, then applied antibiotic ointment. I treated the other scrapes and wounds as I found them.

All day, people poured in. There were sores to flush, burns to dress, lice to remove, and infected feet to clean and bandage. Some needs went beyond my ability, such as a pregnant woman whose water had broken during the bombing. It was too early for her to deliver, and she needed hospital care. I hated the thought of her returning to the streets with no shelter. I did my best to meet not only her physical needs but her spiritual ones as well.

“Can I pray with you before you go?” I asked.

“Yes!” she answered eagerly.

When I opened my eyes at the end of our prayer, tears were in hers. She reached for my hand, her expression filled with trust.

“Habibti!” she said—the most affectionate Arabic word, meaning “my beloved.” The love of Jesus had melted her heart.

Each family was driven back to their street home: clean with new clothes, bandaged wounds, and full tummies. But more important, they had encountered—perhaps for the first time—the love of Jesus through every volunteer who had spent the day with them in the clothing area and in the children’s play center, braiding their hair or bringing them back and forth in cars, binding their wounds, cooking for and feeding them, and sending hot meals to family members who couldn’t come.

I was exhausted, but my heart was happy. I couldn’t help but think of the words of Jesus: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Matthew 25:40).