Watch the Muslim woman in hijab approaching aggressively. Her name is Jaweria. She’s demanding this elderly nun convert to Islam immediately. Notice how she suddenly stops midstride. Her legs completely freeze. Divine intervention has just begun.

My name is Jaweria and on January 13th, 2019, I was a radical Muslim activist. I led aggressive campaigns to force Christians to submit to Islamic law. That day, I targeted an innocent nun, and God himself intervened to stop me.

My journey into Islamic extremism didn’t happen overnight. It was a gradual descent into hatred that consumed every fiber of my being. By 2019, I had become the lead organizer for our local Islamic activist group dedicated to what we called establishing true religious authority in America. We believed that Christians needed to submit to Islamic law, and we weren’t going to ask politely.

I had built my reputation on successful intimidation campaigns. We had forced three local businesses to remove Christmas decorations, pressured a school to cancel their Easter celebration, and convinced several Christian families to move out of our neighborhood. Each victory fed my growing sense of righteous power. I truly believed I was doing Allah’s work by silencing the voices of what I saw as false believers.

The morning of January 13th started like any other planning session. We gathered in my apartment, spread maps across my kitchen table, and identified our next target. Sister Catherine at St. Mary’s Convent had been on our radar for months. She ran a food kitchen that served the homeless, operated a small library, and worst of all, she openly shared her Christian faith with anyone who would listen to us, she represented everything wrong with American religious freedom.

My lieutenant, a fierce woman who had converted from Christianity herself, suggested we start with economic pressure. But I had grown impatient with subtle tactics. I wanted a public example that would send a clear message to every Christian in the city. Sister Catherine would convert to Islam, wear the hijab, and publicly denounce Jesus Christ. Or she would face the full consequences of what we believed was righteous justice.

I spent hours crafting our ultimatum. Every word was chosen for maximum impact. She would have 24 hours to comply with our demands, remove all Christian symbols from the convent, convert to Islam in a public ceremony, adopt proper Islamic dress, and submit to the authority of our local Islamic council. If she refused, we would escalate our response until she had no choice but to surrender.

The plan was comprehensive and ruthless. We would surround the convent at dawn, block all entrances and exits, and maintain constant pressure until she submitted. I had recruited 12 other activists, each one as committed to the cause as I was. We had researched every legal loophole, prepared for police intervention, and even arranged for media coverage to broadcast her conversion across social media.

As I prepared for the confrontation, my heart burned with what I thought was holy fire. I had convinced myself that forcing this elderly nun to abandon her faith was an act of mercy. In my twisted worldview, I was saving her from eternal damnation by bringing her into what I believed was the one true religion. Every prayer I offered that morning strengthened my resolve to complete this mission.

Ask yourself this question. Have you ever been so convinced of something wrong that you called it righteous? That was my reality. I had surrounded myself with people who reinforced my extremist beliefs, consumed media that fed my hatred, and isolated myself from any voice that might challenge my worldview. I was living in a bubble of justified anger, and Sister Catherine had become the perfect target for my misguided zeal.

The night before our confrontation, I couldn’t sleep. My mind raced with anticipation and what I thought was divine inspiration. I had studied every detail of the convent layout, memorized Sister Catherine’s daily schedule, and prepared responses to every possible scenario. I even practiced the speech I would deliver when she finally submitted to our demands. I had no idea that within hours, my entire understanding of God, faith, and truth would be completely shattered. I had no idea that the very power I thought I was serving would abandon me in my moment of greatest need. I had no idea that the gentle nun I was targeting would become the instrument of my salvation.

The morning arrived cold and gray, matching the darkness in my heart. As I gathered my fellow activists and reviewed our final plans, I felt absolutely certain that we were on the side of righteousness. We loaded into our vehicles, each one carrying signs demanding Islamic compliance and justice. I led the convoy toward St. Mary’s convent completely confident that by evening we would have achieved our most significant victory yet.

Looking back now, I can see how perfectly God had positioned every element for what was about to unfold. Sister Catherine’s decades of faithful service had prepared her for this moment of testing. My own heart and heart had become the perfect canvas for demonstrating divine power. Even my fellow activists, who I thought were my allies, would become witnesses to God’s intervention in ways I never could have imagined.

The final moments before we arrived at the convent, I offered what I believed was a prayer of thanksgiving for the opportunity to advance Islamic authority. I asked for strength to overcome any resistance, wisdom to handle the media attention, and patience to guide Sister Catherine through her conversion process. In my arrogance, I even thanked Allah for choosing me to lead this important mission.

As we pulled up to St. Mary’s convent that cold January morning. I had no way of knowing that I was about to encounter the living God in the most dramatic and undeniable way possible. My mission of hatred was about to become God’s demonstration of love. And my moment of perceived triumph was about to become my complete surrender to the true Lord of heaven and earth.

We arrived at St. Mary’s convent just as the morning sun broke through the gray clouds. The irony wasn’t lost on me later, but at that moment, I interpreted even the changing weather as a sign that Allah was blessing our mission. I stepped out of my vehicle and immediately began directing my fellow activists into position. We had rehearsed this operation dozens of times, and everyone knew their role perfectly.

The convent sat on a quiet residential street surrounded by a small garden and bordered by a rot iron fence. It was exactly the kind of peaceful Christian sanctuary that I believed had no place in America. As we surrounded the property, I felt a surge of righteous anger. How dare these Christians operate so openly, so confidently in what I saw as territory that should belong to Islam.

Sister Catherine emerged from the main building exactly on schedule, just as she did every morning to tend her garden. She was a small woman, probably in her 70s, wearing the traditional black and white habit of her order. Her movements were slow but purposeful, and she carried herself with the kind of quiet dignity that only comes from decades of faithful service. At that moment, seeing her vulnerability, I should have felt compassion. Instead, I felt only contempt for what I saw as her stubborn adherence to false beliefs.

I signal to my team and we moved into formation. Three activists blocked the main entrance. Four more positioned themselves along the fence line. And the rest of us formed a semicircle around Sister Catherine’s location in the garden. Our signs were clear and threatening. Submit to Islamic authority. Convert or face consequences and only one true religion. The messages were designed to create maximum psychological pressure.

Sister Catherine looked up from her flowers as we surrounded her. I expected to see fear, panic, or at least confusion in her eyes. Instead, she regarded us with what I can only describe as gentle curiosity, as if we were visitors she hadn’t been expecting, but welcome nonetheless. Her calm response infuriated me. How dare she remain so peaceful when we were delivering what I believed was divine judgment.

I stepped forward and began reading our prepared ultimatum. My voice carried across the garden with what I thought was prophetic authority.
“Sister Catherine, you have been chosen to demonstrate the supremacy of Islamic law in this community. You have 24 hours to convert to Islam, remove all Christian symbols from this property, adopt proper Islamic dress, and submit to the authority of our religious council.”
She listened without interrupting, her hands still holding the small gardening tool she had been using. When I finished reading our demands, she simply nodded and said,
“I understand what you’re asking of me.”
Her response was so calm, so matter-of-fact that it completely disrupted my expectations. I had prepared for screaming, pleading, or immediate submission. I had not prepared for this serene acceptance.

My fellow activists began chanting slogans and holding up their signs. We had practiced this intimidation technique many times before, and it had always proven effective. The combination of loud voices, threatening messages, and superior numbers typically broke down resistance within minutes. But Sister Catherine continued her guarding as if we weren’t even there. Her peaceful resistance drove me to escalate our tactics.

I ordered my team to block every entrance and exit, ensuring that no one could enter or leave the convent without going through us. We positioned ourselves to create maximum visibility from the street, hoping to draw attention and create public pressure. I wanted the entire neighborhood to witness what I believed was righteous justice in action.

As the morning progressed, Sister Catherine went about her normal routine with infuriating calm. She finished tending her garden, swept the front steps, and even offered us water when she noticed we had been standing in the sun. Her kindness in the face of our aggression only intensified my anger. I interpreted her peace as defiance, her kindness as mockery of our authority.

I decided to increase the pressure by making our demands more specific and immediate.

“You have until noon to begin the conversion process,” I announced through a small megaphone I had brought. “Remove the cross from above your door as a sign of your submission to Islamic authority.”

I was certain that forcing her to take down the symbol of her faith would break her resolve.

Sister Catherine looked at the cross above the convent entrance, then back at me.

“I cannot remove that cross,” she said simply. “It represents my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ and my allegiance belongs to him alone.”

Her words were spoken without anger or fear, just quiet conviction. But to me, they represented the ultimate act of defiance against what I believed was God’s will.

The other nuns inside the convent had noticed our presence by now, and I could see faces occasionally appearing at windows. I knew they were probably praying for their sister outside, and the thought of their Christian prayers made my anger burn even hotter. How dare they appeal to their false god when the representatives of the true faith were demanding submission.

By mid-morning, our confrontation had drawn the attention of neighbors and passers by. Some stopped to watch, others hurried past with obvious discomfort. A few even took photos with their phones, which I initially welcomed as documentation of our successful intimidation campaign. I had no idea that these images would later serve as evidence of God’s miraculous intervention.

As noon approached, I realized that Sister Catherine had no intention of complying with our demands. Her continued calm in the face of our increasing aggression had become a direct challenge to everything I believed about power, authority, and religious supremacy. I made the decision that would change my life forever. I would personally confront her and force her submission through direct intimidation.

Look inside your own heart right now and consider what it feels like to be absolutely certain you’re right about something that is completely wrong. That was my reality as I prepared to march across that garden toward an elderly nun who had spent her entire life serving others. I was about to learn that when you fight against God, you don’t stand a chance of winning.

The moment I made the decision to personally confront Sister Catherine, something shifted in the atmosphere around us. I can’t explain it in scientific terms, but there was a heaviness in the air that I had never experienced before. My fellow activists sensed it, too, though none of us understood what was happening. We just knew that something significant was about to unfold.

I handed my megaphone to one of my lieutenants and began walking across the garden towards Sister Catherine. Each step felt deliberate and powerful, as if I was marching under divine command to execute righteous judgment. The other activists formed a wider circle, giving me space to carry out what I believed would be the final phase of our mission. Their eyes were fixed on me, waiting to witness what we all expected would be her ultimate surrender.

Sister Catherine was kneeling beside a small flower bed, carefully tending to some roses that were just beginning to bloom. She had removed her gardening gloves and was working with her bare hands, gently removing weeds and adjusting the soil around each plant. The image of her peaceful labor in the midst of our aggressive confrontation should have given me pause, but instead it fed my righteous anger. How dare she continue gardening when I was delivering what I believed was a divine ultimatum.

As I approached, she looked up at me with those same calm eyes that had infuriated me all morning. There was no fear, no anger, no hint of the submission I expected to see. Instead, she smiled slightly, as if she was genuinely pleased to see me walking toward her. That smile was the final insult to what I saw as my religious authority. I was about to teach her the cost of defying Islamic law.

I stopped about 3 feet away from where she knelt and began delivering what I intended to be my final demand.
“Sister Catherine, your time for peaceful resistance is over. You will convert to Islam right now in front of these witnesses or face the immediate consequences of your defiance.”
My voice carried across the garden with what I thought was prophetic power. Every word was chosen to maximize the impact and force her submission.

She rose slowly from her kneeling position, brushing the soil from her hands with careful, unhurried movements. When she reached her full height, she was still considerably shorter than me, but something about her presence made me feel small. She looked directly into my eyes and said,
“Jawaria, I cannot and will not deny my Lord Jesus Christ. He is my savior, my king, and my god. No earthly power can change that truth.”
Her use of my name caught me off guard. I hadn’t introduced myself, and I realized that she must have asked someone in the neighborhood who was leading these confrontations. But more disturbing than her knowledge of my identity was the way she spoke my name. There was no hatred, no fear, no condescension. She said it with the same gentle respect she might use when speaking to a friend or family member.

The rage that had been building inside me all morning finally reached its breaking point. How dare this elderly Christian woman speak to me with such casual familiarity when I was representing the authority of Allah himself. I took a step forward, intending to move close enough to make her feel physically intimidated. I wanted her to understand that her peaceful resistance would no longer protect her from real consequences.

That’s when it happened. Midstep, as my right foot was moving forward and my left foot was planted firmly on the garden path, both of my legs suddenly became completely paralyzed. It wasn’t a gradual weakness or a muscle cramp. One moment I was walking with full strength and control, and the next moment I had absolutely no sensation or movement below my waist. My legs simply stopped working as if someone had flipped a switch in my nervous system.

The sudden paralysis caught me completely off balance. My upper body continued moving forward with the momentum of my aggressive approach, but my legs could no longer support me. I stumbled forward, my arms windmilling as I tried to catch myself, but there was nothing I could do to prevent my fall. I crashed to the ground right at Sister Catherine’s feet, my face hitting the soft soil of her flower bed.

The physical shock was immediate and terrifying, but the psychological impact was even more devastating. I had gone from feeling powerful and in control to being completely helpless in the span of a single heartbeat. My legs felt like they belonged to someone else, completely unresponsive to any command from my brain. I tried to move my feet, flex my muscles, even feel the ground beneath me, but there was nothing. It was as if my lower body had simply been disconnected from my consciousness.

I rolled over and looked up at Sister Catherine, who was now standing directly above me. The expression on her face was not triumph or satisfaction, but genuine concern and compassion. She immediately knelt down beside me, her gardening forgotten, and placed her hand gently on my shoulder.
“Are you hurt?” she asked, as if I was a friend who had taken an accidental fall rather than someone who had been threatening her moments before.

Behind me, I could hear my fellow activists shouting in confusion and alarm. Some were calling my name, others were demanding to know what had happened, and a few were backing away from the scene entirely. The carefully planned intimidation campaign had dissolved into chaos, and I was lying helpless in a flower bed, unable to move or explain what was happening to me.

I tried to speak, to call out for help or demand explanations, but the words wouldn’t come. The terror of complete paralysis had overwhelmed my ability to think clearly. All I could do was lie there, staring up at Sister Catherine’s concerned face, and confront the reality that something far beyond human understanding had just occurred. In that moment, lying powerless in the dirt, I knew with absolute certainty that I had been fighting against a power infinitely greater than anything I had ever imagined. The God I thought I was serving had abandoned me. But the God that Sister Catherine served was demonstrating his reality in the most undeniable way possible.

Lying there in the dirt, completely helpless and paralyzed from the waist down, I experienced a terror unlike anything I had ever known. This wasn’t just physical fear of being unable to move. This was the deep existential horror of realizing that everything I believed about God, power, and truth had just been shattered in an instant. My legs felt like dead weight attached to my body, completely unresponsive to any desperate command from my brain.

Sister Catherine knelt beside me with a gentleness that I absolutely did not deserve. I had spent the entire morning threatening her, intimidating her, demanding that she abandon her faith and submit to what I believed was superior religious authority. Now I was the one lying powerless at her feet. And instead of taking advantage of my helplessness or expressing any satisfaction at my downfall, she was treating me with genuine concern and compassion.
“Don’t try to move,” she said softly, her hand still resting on my shoulder. “Let me help you.”
Her voice carried none of the triumph I would have expected from someone whose tormentor had just been brought low. Instead, there was only kindness and what I would later recognize as Christ-like love for someone who had shown her nothing but hatred.

Behind me, my fellow activists were in complete chaos. Some were shouting demands for explanations. Others were backing away in obvious fear, and a few were already retreating to their vehicles. The carefully organized intimidation campaign had dissolved into panic and confusion. I could hear frantic phone calls being made, probably to our leadership, trying to explain what had just happened. But how do you explain the unexplainable?

I tried desperately to make my legs work. I concentrated every ounce of mental energy on moving my feet, flexing my muscles, feeling the ground beneath me. Nothing. It was as if my lower body had simply been erased from existence. The complete absence of sensation was more terrifying than pain would have been. pain at least would have confirmed that my legs still existed and were still connected to my nervous system.

Sister Catherine reached into her habit and pulled out a small worn prayer book.
“May I pray for you?” she asked as if requesting permission to help someone who had been threatening her just moments before.
I wanted to refuse to maintain some shred of my aggressive stance, but I was too terrified and confused to speak. I managed only a small nod, though I wasn’t sure if it was agreement or just an involuntary movement born of shock.

She opened her prayer book and began to pray, not in the loud, performative way I had expected, but in a quiet, intimate conversation with what she clearly believed was a living God. Her words weren’t directed at me or designed to prove any theological point. They were simply the heartfelt appeal of a faithful servant asking her Lord for mercy and healing for someone who had shown her nothing but hostility.

As she prayed, something began to happen inside my chest that I had never experienced before. It started as a small crack in the wall of anger and hatred I had built around my heart. The crack grew wider with each word of her prayer, and through that opening, something warm and unfamiliar began to seep in. I didn’t understand what was happening to me emotionally, but I knew it was connected to the physical paralysis I was experiencing.

Look inside your own heart right now and try to imagine what it feels like when everything you’ve built your identity on suddenly crumbles. That was my reality as I lay there listening to Sister Catherine pray for my healing. Every certainty I had held about God, faith, and religious authority was being challenged by the undeniable reality of what had just occurred.

The other nuns from the convent had noticed the commotion and were beginning to emerge from the building. I expected them to celebrate my downfall, or at least express satisfaction that their persecutor had been brought low. Instead, they approached with the same gentle concern that Sister Catherine was showing. One brought a small pillow to put under my head. Another brought water, and a third knelt down to join Sister Catherine in prayer. I found myself surrounded by the very people I had come to intimidate and force into submission. and they were treating me with more kindness and compassion than I had ever shown to anyone. The contrast between their Christ-like response and my own hateful intentions was so stark that it pierced through my confusion and terror to reach something deep inside my soul.

As the minutes passed, I became aware that my fellow activists were gradually abandoning me. The sounds of car door slamming and engine starting told me that my supposed allies were fleeing the scene rather than staying to help or support me. The movement that had seemed so strong and united just hours before was dissolving at the first sign of something they couldn’t understand or control.

But the nuns remained. These women I had targeted for persecution stayed with me, praying for me, caring for me, showing me a love I had never experienced in all my years of Islamic activism. Their response to my helplessness was teaching me something about the God they served that all my religious studies had never revealed.

Sister Catherine closed her prayer book and looked at me with eyes full of compassion.
“Jawaria,” she said gently, “I believe God is trying to reach your heart. He loves you far more than you know, and he doesn’t want you to continue down this path of anger and hatred. Will you let him speak to you?”
Her words penetrated the wall of fear and confusion surrounding my mind. For the first time since my legs had stopped working, I was able to think clearly about what was happening. This wasn’t just a medical emergency or some bizarre coincidence. This was a divine intervention, a direct communication from the God I thought I was fighting against, but who was actually trying to save me from my own destructive path.

As that realization settled into my consciousness, I felt the first stirring of sensation returning to my legs. The moment I acknowledged that God was trying to reach my heart, a tingling sensation began in my toes. It was subtle at first, like pins and needles after sitting in one position too long, but it was the most beautiful feeling I had ever experienced because it meant my legs still existed.

The sensation slowly spread upward through my feet, into my ankles, and gradually into my calves. With each inch of returning feeling, I understood that this healing was directly connected to my willingness to open my heart to truth. Sister Catherine must have seen something change in my expression because she smiled with genuine joy.
“Do you feel that?” she asked softly. “That’s Jesus reaching out to you with his healing love.”
Her words weren’t spoken with religious triumphalism or the satisfaction of being proven right. They carried only wonder and gratitude for witnessing what she clearly recognized as divine intervention.

As the feeling continued to return to my legs, the wall around my heart crumbled completely. Years of anger, hatred, and misguided religious fervor came pouring out in a flood of tears I couldn’t control. I had never cried in front of strangers before, had never shown such vulnerability to people I considered enemies, but I was powerless to stop the emotional release that accompanied my physical healing.

The other nuns gathered closer, not to gawk at my breakdown, but to surround me with their prayers and presence. I could hear them whispering gentle supplications, asking their God to complete whatever work he was doing in my heart and life. Their unity of purpose and genuine love for someone who had threatened them was unlike anything I had ever witnessed in all my years of religious activism.

By the time I could move my legs enough to sit up, most of my fellow activists had completely abandoned the scene. A few lingered at the edge of the property, probably torn between fleeing in fear and staying to witness what was happening to their leader. I could see confusion and uncertainty on their faces as they watched their aggressive, confident organizer reduced to tears while being comforted by the very people we had come to intimidate.

The transformation happening inside my heart was even more dramatic than the physical healing of my legs. Every hateful thought I had harbored toward Christians, every plan I had made to force religious conversion, every moment of rage I had nursed against those who believed differently than me was being replaced by an overwhelming sense of love and forgiveness that could only come from God himself.

I looked up at Sister Catherine through my tears and managed to speak for the first time since my legs had been paralyzed.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, the words feeling completely inadequate for expressing the depth of my remorse. “I came here to destroy your faith, to force you to abandon everything you believe, and instead, you’ve shown me more love than I’ve ever experienced.”
She reached out and gently took my hand.
“Jaweria, that’s exactly what Jesus does. He takes our worst intentions and transforms them into opportunities for his love to shine. You didn’t come here by accident today. God knew this moment would happen long before you made your plans.”
Her words carried such certainty and peace that I knew she wasn’t just offering religious platitudes. She truly believed that even my attack on her faith was part of God’s plan to reach my heart.

As I struggled to my feet, testing my newly restored legs, I felt compelled to make a declaration that would have been unthinkable just an hour before. With my remaining activists watching from the distance, with neighbors peering over fences and through windows, with the nuns gathered around me in prayer, I spoke the words that would change my life forever.
“Jesus Christ is Lord,” I said, my voice growing stronger with each word. “He is my savior, my God, and my king. I renounce my hatred. I renounce my plans to persecute Christians. And I surrender my life completely to him.”
The declaration felt like a weight being lifted from my soul, as if I was finally speaking the truth my heart had been searching for through all those years of misguided religious passion.

The few activists who were still watching from a distance reacted with shock and disgust. Some shouted accusations of betrayal. Others simply turned and walked away in obvious disappointment. One of my closest allies, a woman who had followed me into Islamic activism, looked at me with such contempt that I knew our friendship was over forever.

In the span of a single morning, I had lost my entire social circle, my religious community, and my identity as I had known it for years. But as I stood there surrounded by the nuns who were now praying prayers of thanksgiving for my conversion, I felt more peace than I had ever known. The isolation from my former life was painful. But it was overshadowed by the incredible joy of finally knowing the truth about God’s love. I had been fighting against him for years, thinking I was serving him. But now I understood the difference between religion driven by hatred and faith rooted in love.

Sister Catherine invited me inside the convent for tea and conversation. An offer that would have been unthinkable under any other circumstances. As we walked toward the building I had come to attack, passing the cross I had demanded she remove. I marveled at how completely God had reversed the situation. I had come as a persecutor and was being welcomed as a sister. I had come to destroy faith and had found my own salvation instead.

Ask yourself this question. When was the last time you witnessed God completely transform someone’s heart and life in a single moment? That’s exactly what happened to me on January 13th, 2019 in Sister Catherine’s garden, surrounded by women whose love for Jesus was so genuine that it could reach even someone as hardened and hostile as I had become.

In the months following my dramatic conversion, my life was completely transformed from the inside out. Sister Katherine became not just my spiritual mentor, but truly like a mother to me. She welcomed me into the convent for daily Bible study, prayer, and fellowship with the other nuns who had witnessed my miraculous transformation. These women who had every reason to reject me because of my past hatred instead embraced me with the unconditional love of Christ.

The personal cost of my conversion was immediate and severe. My family disowned me within days of learning about my public declaration of faith in Jesus Christ. Friends who had stood with me in Islamic activism turned their backs completely. Some even threatening me for what they saw as the ultimate betrayal. The mosque I had attended for years banned me from the property. And the Islamic community that had once celebrated my aggressive leadership now treated me as if I had died.

But for every relationship I lost in the Muslim community, God provided new Christian brothers and sisters who welcomed me with open arms. The local church where Sister Catherine worshiped invited me to share my testimony just 3 weeks after my conversion. Standing before that congregation, telling them how Jesus had paralyzed my legs to stop my persecution of his servants, I witnessed grown men weep and women fall to their knees in worship of our mighty God.

Within six months, invitations to speak at churches, conferences, and Christian gatherings began pouring in from across the country. My story of divine intervention and radical transformation resonated with believers who had been praying for breakthrough in the lives of hostile Muslims. Pastors would tell me that my testimony strengthened their faith and encouraged their congregations to keep praying for those who seemed unreachable.

The ministry that developed from my testimony was unlike anything I had ever imagined during my years of Islamic activism. Instead of trying to force people into religious submission through intimidation and threats, I was now sharing the love of Christ through personal story and genuine relationship. The contrast couldn’t have been more dramatic. Where I had once brought fear and division, I was now bringing hope and healing.

My ongoing relationship with Sister Catherine became the foundation of everything God was building in my new life. She taught me to study scripture with humility rather than the arrogance I had once brought to religious texts. She showed me how to pray as conversation with a loving father rather than obligation to a distant deity. Most importantly, she demonstrated daily what it means to love others the way Jesus loves us without condition or reservation.

The most challenging aspect of my new life was learning to forgive myself for the years of hatred and persecution I had inflicted on innocent Christians. Sister Catherine helped me understand that guilt can become another form of bondage if we don’t receive God’s complete forgiveness. She reminded me daily that the same grace that saved me from judgment also cleansed me from condemnation. This truth became essential as I began reaching out to other former Muslims who were considering conversion to Christianity.

Working with Muslim converts became my primary calling. As my testimony ministry expanded, I understood their fears, their family pressures, and their need for authentic Christian community in ways that most believers simply couldn’t. Through my own experience of losing everything to gain Christ, I could offer them hope that the temporary suffering of conversion would be overshadowed by the eternal joy of knowing Jesus.

The most profound moments in my ministry came when I had the privilege of leading other Muslims to saving faith in Christ. Each conversion reminded me of my own miraculous encounter with divine love in Sister Catherine’s garden. Watching former enemies of the cross become passionate followers of Jesus never failed to fill me with wonder at God’s transformative power.

3 years after my conversion, I was invited to return to my former neighborhood to share my testimony at a church plant that had started meeting just blocks from the mosque where I used to worship. The symbolism was not lost on me as I stood in that Christian sanctuary, looking out at an audience that included several people who remembered my days as an Islamic activist. Some came out of curiosity. Others came hoping to discredit my story. But many came with hearts genuinely open to hearing about God’s miraculous intervention.

That evening, as I recounted the supernatural moment when my legs stopped working and my heart opened to Christ, three young Muslim women approached me afterward with tears in their eyes. They whispered that they had been secretly questioning Islam and wanted to know more about Jesus. Over the following months, all three of them made public declarations of faith and joined the very church where I had shared my testimony.

Look inside your own heart right now and consider what God might be calling you to surrender to him. Is there an area of your life where you’re resisting his love because it would require you to abandon something you’ve been holding on to? My experience taught me that whatever we think we’re protecting by resisting God is nothing compared to what he wants to give us in return.

So, I’m asking you, just as someone who experienced God’s miracle would ask, to examine whether there are people in your life you’ve written off as unreachable for the gospel. My story proves that no one is too hardened, too hostile, or too far gone for Jesus to transform completely. The same power that stopped my legs and opened my heart is available to reach the most unlikely people in your circle of influence.

The morning of January 13th, 2019, I woke up as a radical Islamic activist planning to force a nun to convert to Islam. By evening, I was a born-again Christian testifying to the miraculous power of Jesus Christ. If God can transform someone as hostile and hardened as I was, he can reach absolutely anyone. Jesus Christ changed my life completely that day and he can change yours today if you’ll open your heart to receive his.