The big white Chevrolet Suburban sped across the desert. It had been hours since we crossed the Jordan border into Iraq, hours of nothing but mile after mile of barren sandy soil dotted occasionally by an isolated house far off the road. Suddenly the driver swung into an Iraqi version of an interstate fuel stop. There was a merchant in a room with three walls and an open front, his wares consisting of a couple of cartons of cigarettes, a can of black-market gasoline and a few boxes of things that might have been food. Out back, there was a toilet with a hole in the floor that dumped the waste onto open ground down the hill a bit. While we were "shopping," the driver hung heavy black curtains over all of the side windows of the Suburban. We climbed back into the Suburban and drove off even faster than before … lots faster. From inside, the car looked like a hearse. "Why the curtains?" we asked. "We’ve just entered the Sunni Triangle. It’s not safe here," the Iraqi who was traveling with us responded. I was beginning to feel very glad that the members of my church were praying for my safety. The Sunday before I left for my two-week business trip to Iraq, the pastor of Calvary Temple Assembly of God had called me forward and, supported by all the members of the church, prayed for me. And I was confident that many were continuing to pray. Eleven hours after leaving the relative safety of Amman, Jordan, we arrived at the Babylon Oberoi Hotel, just across the Tigress River from the military’s Green Zone in Baghdad. From outside, the hotel was huge and imposing. Inside, it was huge and tired. My room was a large disappointment. Every bit of plumbing in my bathroom leaked and unknown liquids dripped down from the bathroom upstairs. The carpets were worn and stained. The furniture was dilapidated. The bed was tiny. The balcony door had no lock. The worst problem was that the rooms could be accessed only by one of three elevators and the electricity went off frequently. Substantial steel doors sealed the stairway so terrorists could not reach the guest rooms. Of course, this meant that the guests could not reach the lobby and the street by the stairs, either. The rest of the city was similar. As I traveled about, trash, war damage and poverty were visible everywhere. Baghdad of today makes Saigon of 1967 look wealthy and clean by comparison. On my first full day in Baghdad, I met with the Minister of Finance. On the second day, I met with the Minister of Oil. And on the third day, I met Osama, a Palestinian taxi driver. Osama and I have nothing in common. He is very poor, young and Muslim. In fact, he is a devout Muslim. He speaks frequently and fervently of his faith. In spite of our differences, Osama and I bonded quickly. At the end of the day, Osama said to me, "I am your son. I will take care of anything you need." The next day, we were scheduled to meet with one of the largest Defense Department contractors inside the Green Zone. But the terrorists had other plans. A large bomb was detonated at one of the main gates to the Green Zone, about a mile from my hotel. As a result, the Green Zone was closed to vehicle entry. So we walked in. Once inside we discovered that our host company and several other U.S. companies would not open their offices because of the bombing. The terrorists met their objective that day. Business was, indeed, disrupted. When we left the Green Zone, we spent more than two hours stuck in traffic. By the end of the day with Osama, he was calling me "Dad." Travel within Baghdad is extremely slow and difficult. Many roads are closed. Many traffic lanes are restricted. There is little traffic control by police, and the few traffic signals are ignored. But Osama is a masterful driver. He threaded the 12-year-old Chevrolet Caprice through traffic as one might thread an embroidery needle through a pillowcase. Many times, there was less than an inch of space between our car and another driven by a similarly intent and aggressive Iraqi. That night, Osama invited me and two of my American associates to dinner. My first thought was, "This would be a great chance for a young Palestinian to kidnap three Americans." But, my spirit of adventure took control and I agreed to join him. It turned out to be a memorable evening. We went to an exceptionally nice, very formal restaurant in an area of the city where Americans seldom travel. Osama’s Iraqi boss wanted to talk business. He told us that, some years ago, he owned a prosperous construction company which had been confiscated by Saddam Hussein. Now he was looking for a new start supporting U.S. construction projects in Iraq. He treated us like royalty. There must have been 12 plates of appetizers (for five people) and two unbelievable main courses. The food was wonderful, the service was perfect, and the company was great. We talked business, but there was some discussion of religion, too. They seemed to be amazed that I knew about Abraham and Ishmael and Esau and Moses.

It didn’t take long for me to come to the conclusion that Osama was the answer to the prayers of my church. He was God’s provision for my safety. He was my driver, my interpreter, my security force and my friend. He proved himself to be trustworthy many times over. We went together into all manner of places, and he had ample opportunity to cause me harm, but he did not. Rather, he frequently made moves to protect me. He watched the streets for things that didn’t "look right." He avoided the really bad places. One day, he took me to a bazaar, and, when he stopped in front, even my instincts said "No!" Osama had a two-sentence conversation with a man on the street and then drove away quickly. He said, simply, that it was not safe there. Later in that same day, he said, "I would like for you to share my food and meet my family, but it would not be safe for either of us." He said that he didn’t know all of his neighbors. There might be someone to cause trouble or someone to make a call to inform "bad people" that I was visiting. Yes, he was, indeed, the answer to prayer. Since I could not visit his home, I invited him to join me for dinner the next night. After another busy day, we met at a sidewalk café and dined on the best fish I’ve ever tasted. The fish were huge carp chosen from a live tank, cleaned on the spot, cooked over an open fire in a brick oven and served split open with five or six appetizer dishes. While we ate that meal, we were serenaded by the sound of a moving gunfight as it came toward us, passed by about a 100 yards away, and moved off into the distance. Interesting place, Baghdad. Three fish had fed five hungry men with lots left over. As we collected the excess fish for Osama to take to his family, I was reminded of the stories of the apostles collecting the abundance of fish after Jesus fed the multitudes. The next morning, Osama brought his two children, Noor and Huda, to my hotel to meet me. They are beautiful children. Noor is a big-eyed, all boy, "Rambo" five-year-old. Huda is a "sugar and spice" cuddly little girl. They were both shy about meeting me, but I made a toy from my handkerchief, played the Chinese handcuff trick with their fingers, and quickly won them over. I also gave them some little packages of potato chips and snack crackers. Before the children left, I was getting lots of hugs. In the course of my visit to Baghdad, I met all kinds of people, from the most powerful to the poorest. I ate in private homes, local restaurants, street cafes and hotels. I drank tea from street vendors. I shopped in local shops for antiques and pastries. I was close to one really huge bomb blast and one rocket attack, and within hearing distance of gunfire almost every day, sometimes several times a day. But I didn’t feel stressed even though I had no weapon. I had Osama. The country is dirty and poor, but the people are intelligent and well educated. They desperately want to change their country and their life. Every Iraqi I talked with was pleased that we had come to help them. One old man who spoke no English simply pulled a photo of President Bush from his wallet and, with a toothless grin, gave me a "thumbs up." By the end of my stay, commercial airline flights had resumed in and out of Baghdad Airport. "Resumed" might be an overstatement. Actually there was one small Jordan Air flight in and out each day. Rather than facing another 11-hour drive across the desert, I opted for the flight out. On my day of departure, it took more than two hours to make it through the tight security into the airport and to the gate. I sat in the huge Baghdad International Airport watching the people around me. There were far more security guards and bomb-sniffing dogs than there were passengers. At most, there might have been 50 tense-looking passengers sitting quietly in the terminal. There was very little conversation and much uncertainty. When we finally departed, the flight out of Baghdad was a rather steep climb in a tight spiral. The airplane stayed within the boundary of the airport until it reached its cruise altitude. I guess I didn’t put my weight down fully until the pilot turned off the seat-belt sign. By then we were well out of missile range. During that visit to the "cradle of civilization," one well-known scriptural principle was confirmed. God still answers prayer. There can be no doubt that Osama, the Palestinian taxi driver, was placed on my path to be my friend and guardian angel. I will never forget him. Charles Belitz was born and raised in Knoxville, Tenn., and has lived in Munford for about seven years. Formerly part of a defense contractor company, he is starting a business/tech writing and media company, Inklings Media Co. He lives with his wife, Judy, and has a grown son, Chris, who lives in Anniston.