It was midnight before he finally slept. Yet I couldn’t leave him. How I dreaded the possibility of watching my son die! I twisted in my bedside chair, trying in vain to find a comfortable position. Finally, the steady rhythm of his breathing helped me nod off.

My younger son, Muhammad,* had been born after we had fled Iraq to escape Saddam Hussein’s death sentence. Now just a young child, he had broken out in a rash and was steadily weakening — always scratching, always suffering. The doctor doubted he would live much longer.

That night, as I rested in my chair between sleep and wakefulness, a beautiful girl in white appeared to me in a vision. “May I take Abraham*?” she asked.

“I don’t have a son named Abraham,” I replied. But she insisted on pulling my son out of bed.

“I’m taking him to be healed,” she said.

My eyes followed her every movement as she floated up to a cloud where a handsome man, sporting long hair and a beard, awaited. His face glowed so brightly I could barely focus. She knelt before his throne, placed my son in his arms and said, “Master, here is Abraham.”

As the man poured a bowl of water over him, my son’s body glistened like silver. The man smiled at me and said, “I love you, but you’re not taking care of me.” On hearing His words, I realized that He was Jesus.

The girl returned with my son, saying, “This is Abraham. The Lord has healed him; now you need to find a teacher named Sami* in a church. Have him baptize Abraham and give him Communion.”

“Who are you?” I asked.

“The daughter of your friend George* — but now the daughter of the Lord.”

I wanted this dream to continue, but my son’s voice woke me. “Papa! Papa! Please give me some milk!”

I must still be dreaming, I thought, but my son sat up and nudged my leg with his foot. How fantastic! My son lay at death’s door, but now he wants something to drink!

Suddenly he jumped out of bed and rushed out calling, “Mama! Mama!”

We Arabs believe that a sudden burst of energy in someone very ill indicates death is imminent, so I anxiously followed my little son from the room. A quick glance revealed that the rash had disappeared; only a smattering of small scabs remained.

“Muhammad feels better!” I shouted. “He’s hungry!” To my wife’s great astonishment, Muhammad came charging toward her, then guzzled down a full glass of milk.

Two days later our Christian neighbor Sameer* visited us. Muhammad’s healthy condition — his laughing and playing — surprised him. I told him about the vision.

“You won’t understand this as a Muslim,” Sameer said, “but this is the work of our Lord Jesus.”

Although I was 38 when my son was healed, I understood nothing about Christianity. However, I greatly respected the Healer in my vision. Maybe George, the father of the beautiful girl in white, can help me comprehend Jesus’ healing of my son, I thought. And maybe he can help me find a Christian leader named Sami.

The only Christian I knew named George taught at a local university. I met with him and his wife and poured out the story of my strange vision and my son’s healing. When I mentioned the name of the girl’s father, George became agitated.

“I need to show you a picture album,” he said. Laying it in my lap, George made a strange request: “Look for the girl in your dreams.”

I couldn’t believe it when I saw her picture. “There she is!” I gasped.

Suddenly, George and his wife burst into tears. “I didn’t intend to bring sadness here,” I said. “Why are you crying?”

“This is our daughter’s picture,” George explained. “She loved Jesus. Sadly, she died 10 years ago of leukemia.” All three of us wept … tears of sorrow over their daughter’s death, tears of joy for the part she had played in my son’s healing.

George knew a priest named Sami. But before we could make contact, the police put me in prison for anti-Hussein statements printed in a local magazine. During my incarceration, Father Sami baptized Muhammad. When I was released, I rejoiced at my son’s new — Christian — name, Abraham. I would never call him Muhammad again.

I hungered to learn more about Christianity, but Sami worried about discussing Jesus with a Muslim because it was illegal to proselytize (convert a Muslim in an Islamic country). He refused to give me a Bible or Christian literature and would only discuss Christianity with me at George’s home. I struggled to develop my faith in this atmosphere of fear.

One day, Sameer burst into my home. “I’ve found another Sami!” he said. “He’s the pastor of an evangelical church. You must meet him!” We rushed to the church and asked if we could speak with Brother Sami, who agreed to see us immediately.

His positive response to our visit surprised me. I felt his kindness and love and noticed his lack of fear. When Sameer and I realized that Brother Sami recognized the truth of my dream, we cried with relief. The “Sami” in my vision had been found!

He then read these words from his Bible: “For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life” (John 3:16).

“Brother Sami, what do I need to do next?” I asked.

“It’s simple,” he replied. “Just bow your head and ask Jesus into your heart.” I took that step of faith, and now the Jesus of my vision was my Lord and Savior.

My wife agonized over my choice to follow Jesus. I constantly prayed for her. “Lord, please help my wife to be established in the Christian faith. I want my family to accept You as Lord, for all of us to be headed on the same path.” In response, the Lord appeared to my wife in several dreams. I rejoiced when she finally had victory over her doubts and fears and accepted Jesus as her Lord. Soon afterward we were baptized.

Before we came to Christianity, faith was like a dead stone. No relationship with God existed. Now we can touch His presence. We know He will never leave us.

*Names marked with an asterik have been changed in this true story.