My name is Muhammad.

I’m 34 years old.

And on March 22nd, 2019, my entire world collapsed.

I was a devoted Muslim living in Riyad with everything I thought mattered.

A Saudi prince took my wife and I thought I’d never see her again.

But then Jesus did something impossible.

I was born into a world where Islam wasn’t just a religion.

It was everything.

My father woke me before dawn every day from the time I could walk.

Teaching me to wash my hands, my face, my feet in the precise way our prophet commanded.

The call to prayer wasn’t just a sound in our house.

It was the rhythm of our heartbeat.

Five times a day, every day, without question, without hesitation, I would kneel on my prayer rug facing Mecca and pour my soul out to Allah.

By the time I was 12, I had memorized half the Quran.

My mother would weep with pride as I recited verses in perfect Arabic, my voice echoing through our small apartment in Riyad.

Islam wasn’t something I did.

It was who I was.

It flowed through my veins like blood.

Shaped every thought, every decision, every breath I took.

I believed with absolute certainty that Allah saw everything, controlled everything, and would protect those who served him faithfully.

When I turned 28, my father arranged for me to meet a mirror.

I still remember walking into her family’s sitting room, my eyes cast down in respect, stealing only the briefest glance at this woman who might become my wife.

She was beautiful, yes, but it was more than that.

There was a gentleness in her voice when she spoke about the Quran, a light in her eyes when she talked about serving Allah.

She wore her hijab with such dignity, such grace that I knew immediately this was the woman I wanted to build my life with.

Our wedding was simple but filled with joy.

We moved into a tiny two- room apartment on the outskirts of Riyad with barely enough furniture to fill the space.

I worked as a mechanic at a local garage, coming home each evening with grease under my fingernails and oil stains on my clothes.

Amira would have dinner waiting, her face lighting up when I walked through the door like I was some kind of prince myself.

We were poor in money, but rich in everything that mattered.

Can you picture that kind of pure, simple happiness? Every morning we would wake before the first call to prayer and kneel side by side on our prayer rugs.

Our voices joining together as we recited the words our parents had taught us and their parents had taught them.

After I left for work, Amamira would spend her mornings reading the Quran, preparing meals, keeping our little home spotless.

In the evenings, we would take walks through our neighborhood, talking about our dreams, about the children we hoped Allah would bless us with, about saving enough money to make the pilgrimage to Mecca.

Those were the most beautiful three years of my life.

Amira had this way of making even our cramped apartment feel like a palace.

She would arrange our few possessions with such care, place fresh flowers from the market on our small table, cook meals that tasted like they came from the finest restaurants, even though they cost almost nothing.

When I was frustrated about money, about our old car breaking down, about the rich customers at the garage who looked at me like I was dirt, she would take my hands and remind me that Allah sees the heart, not the wallet.

We had plans, real plans for our future.

We were saving every real we could spare for Haj, keeping the money in a small box under our bed.

Amira would count it every week, her eyes shining as she told me we were getting closer to our dream.

We talked about the children we would have, how we would raise them to love Allah, how they would memorize the Quran just like we had.

We even picked out names.

Amira insisting our first son should be called Omar after the great khalif.

Every Friday we would walk hand in hand to the mosque for juma prayers.

Amamira would sit with the other wives while I joined the men, but I could always feel her presence, could always hear her voice joining in the prayers.

After the service, we would sometimes visit her parents or mine, spending hours discussing the Imam’s sermon, sharing meals, feeling completely surrounded by family and faith and purpose.

I believed with every fiber of my being, that as long as we stayed faithful to Allah, as long as we followed every command in the Quran, as long as we lived as true Muslims should live, nothing bad could touch us.

Allah was our protector, our provider, our everything.

When I saw terrible things happen to other people, I convinced myself they must have done something wrong, must have strayed from the straight path somehow.

Good Muslims who obeyed Allah had nothing to fear.

Amira and I would lie in bed at night talking about our future like it was guaranteed.

We would have four children, maybe five if Allah willed it.

I would work hard and eventually open my own garage.

We would buy a bigger apartment, maybe even a small house with a garden where Amira could grow vegetables.

We would grow old together, watch our children get married, hold our grandchildren, and when Allah called us home, we would die knowing we had lived exactly as he wanted us to live.

I thought Allah would always protect those who served him faithfully.

I thought our devotion was like a shield around us, keeping us safe from the evil in this world.

I prayed five times a day without fail.

Gave to charity even when we could barely afford it.

Treated my wife with kindness.

Worked honestly at my job.

What more could Allah ask of a man? But I was about to learn that sometimes faith isn’t enough to protect you from the cruelty of powerful men.

March the 22nd, 2019 started like every other day in our little apartment.

The call to prayer echoed across Riyad at dawn and Amira and I knelt side by side on our prayer rugs, our voices joining together in the familiar words that had shaped our entire lives.

After prayers, she made tea while I got ready for work.

Both of us moving through our morning routine with the easy rhythm of three years of marriage.

Before I left for the garage, Amira kissed my forehead and told me she needed to go to the market for groceries.

We were planning to visit her parents that weekend, and she wanted to bring them some of those special dates they loved from the vendor near the old mosque.

I remember her smile as she said it, how her eyes crinkled at the corners when she was excited about something.

I told her to be careful, gave her money for the dates, and headed off to work, thinking it would be just another ordinary day.

I spent the morning under the hood of a Mercedes, wrestling with a stubborn engine problem, my hands black with grease, my mind focused on the work.

Around noon, one of my co-workers mentioned seeing some kind of commotion at the central market.

Royal motorcycles and black SUVs, but I barely paid attention.

Princes and their entouragees were always causing disruptions somewhere in the city, blocking traffic, making ordinary people wait while they conducted their business.

It had nothing to do with me, nothing to do with my simple life.

What I didn’t know was that at that exact moment, Prince Khaled bin Abdullah was stepping out of his armored vehicle in the marketplace where my wife was selecting vegetables for our dinner.

He was known throughout Riad as a man who took whatever caught his eye, a royal who believed his bloodline gave him the right to claim anything or anyone he desired.

When his gaze fell on a mirror among the crowd of shoppers, her modest black abaya flowing as she moved between the stalls, something dark awakened in him.

She was wearing her most conservative dress, her headcarf pulled properly forward, her eyes cast down as she had been taught since childhood, but evil sees what it wants to see.

And Prince Khaled saw a beautiful woman he decided he must possess.

He stood there watching her for several minutes, his guards forming a protective circle around him, other shoppers backing away in fear and respect.

Then he spoke the words that would destroy our lives.

I was still working on that Mercedes engine when the royal guards arrived at our apartment building that evening.

Our elderly neighbor later told me she saw the black SUVs pull up, saw men in traditional dress with visible weapons climbing the stairs to our floor.

By the time I got home from work, grimy and tired, and looking forward to Amira’s cooking, they were already there, standing outside our door like harbingers of doom.

The lead guard was tall and stern, his beard perfectly groomed, his white th spotless.

He spoke with the kind of authority that comes from serving absolute power.

His voice carrying the weight of royal command.

He told me that his royal highness Prince Khaled had requested the honor of Amamira’s presence in his household.

The word requested was a mockery and we all knew it.

When royalty requests something in Saudi Arabia, refusal isn’t an option.

I fell to my knees right there in front of our door, my voice breaking as I begged them to reconsider.

I told them Amira was my wife, that we were faithful Muslims who had never caused trouble for anyone, that we were simple people who just wanted to be left alone.

The guards looked at me with a mixture of pity and disgust like I was a dog whimpering for scraps.

They gave us one hour to prepare her belongings.

Amir emerged from our bedroom pale and trembling, her hands shaking as she tried to pack a small bag.

I watched her fold her few dresses, her prayer clothes, the little Quran her mother had given her as a wedding gift.

She moved like a woman in a trance, her usual grace replaced by the mechanical motions of someone trying not to completely fall apart.

When our eyes met, I saw a terror so deep it took my breath away.

I tried everything in that hour.

I offered the gods money we didn’t have, promised to work for the prince for free, begged them to take me instead.

They ignored me completely, their faces stonecalled, their loyalty belonging entirely to the man who paid their wages.

Our neighbors gathered in the hallway, their faces a mixture of sympathy and relief that it wasn’t happening to them.

No one said a word.

No one dared.

When the hour was up, they led Amira away like she was a piece of property being transferred from one owner to another.

I followed them down the stairs, still pleading, still hoping for some miracle that would make them change their minds.

At the last moment, Amir turned back to look at me, her beautiful face stre with tears, her lips moving in what I knew was a prayer.

Then she was gone, disappearing into the black SUV like she had never existed at all.

I stood in the street watching those taillights disappear into the riad traffic, feeling my soul being ripped from my body.

Have you ever had your heart completely shattered in a single moment? Have you ever felt the ground disappear from under your feet while you’re still standing on it? That’s what happened to me in that street under the street lights of a city that suddenly felt like a foreign country.

I stumbled back to our apartment and fell face down on our prayer rug.

The same rug where we had knelt together just that morning, praising Allah and asking for his blessings.

I cried out to him with every ounce of faith I had left, prostrating myself until my forehead was raw, reciting every dua I had ever learned for protection and deliverance.

I begged Allah to soften the prince’s heart, to send angels to protect my wife, to show his power against this injustice.

But the apartment stayed silent except for my weeping.

The phone never rang.

No miraculous rescue came.

For the first time in my life, I began to wonder where Allah was when his faithful servant needed him most.

The days that followed became a blur of sleepless nights and unanswered prayers.

I stopped eating because food tasted like ash in my mouth.

I stopped showering because what was the point of cleanliness when my soul felt filthy with helplessness? I called in sick to work day after day until my supervisor stopped answering my calls altogether.

My small apartment, which had once been filled with air’s laughter and the aroma of her cooking, now felt like a tomb, where I was buried alive with my grief.

Three weeks passed with no word from my wife.

Three weeks of pacing our tiny living room, staring at the door she had walked through for the last time, jumping every time I heard footsteps in the hallway, hoping against hope that she would come home.

I became a ghost, haunting my own life, existing but not really living, breathing but feeling like I was suffocating with every breath.

Sleep became my enemy because I would dream of her voice calling my name, dream of her safe in my arms, only to wake up to the crushing reality that she was gone.

When exhaustion finally forced me to close my eyes, I would bolt awake in a panic, my heart racing, my body soaked in sweat, the silence of our empty apartment crushing down on me like a physical weight.

I started talking to her picture, the one from our wedding day where she looked so radiant and hopeful, asking her if she was okay, if she was thinking of me, if she was still alive.

I tried everything I could think of to get help.

I went to our local imam, a man I had respected my entire life, a scholar whose Friday sermons had moved me to tears with their wisdom and passion.

But when I poured out my heart to him, told him about the injustice that had been done to my family, he looked at me with cold eyes and told me this was Allah’s will.

He said I should submit to what had happened, that perhaps this trial was meant to test my faith, that questioning the actions of those Allah had placed in authority was a dangerous path for a believer to walk.

I left that mosque feeling more alone than ever before.

The man I had turned to for spiritual guidance had essentially told me to accept that my wife had been stolen from me to praise Allah for this devastating trial.

For the first time in my life, I wondered if the religious leaders I had trusted my whole life really understood anything about justice or mercy or the heart of a man whose world had been destroyed.

My next stop was the police station, though I knew it was probably hopeless.

The officer at the desk barely looked up from his paperwork when I tried to file a complaint.

When I mentioned Prince Khaled’s name, he actually laughed, a harsh sound that echoed through the sterile government building.

He told me that princes don’t steal wives.

They honor women by inviting them into their households.

He suggested that maybe I should be grateful that such an important man had noticed my wife, that perhaps this could benefit my family somehow.

When I pressed him to take my statement anyway, to at least create some official record of what had happened, his demeanor changed completely.

He leaned forward across his desk, his voice dropping to a threatening whisper, and told me that men who make false accusations against members of the royal family sometimes disappear.

He advised me very strongly to go home, accept what had happened, and never speak of this matter again to anyone in uniform.

I called my brothers, the men who had played with me as children, who had stood beside me at my wedding, who had always promised they would support me no matter what happened.

But when I told them about Amira, their voices became strained and uncomfortable.

They offered weak platitudes about Allah’s plan and suggested I should try to move on, maybe find another wife.

When I asked them to help me, to stand with me against this injustice, they suddenly had urgent reasons to get off the phone.

Even my own family, the people who were supposed to love me unconditionally, were too terrified to get involved.

They were afraid for their own safety, afraid that associating with me might bring the prince’s attention to their own families.

I understood their fear, but it didn’t make the abandonment hurt any less.

I realized with crushing clarity that I was completely alone in a world where power mattered more than righteousness, where money trumped morality, where a man like me had no recourse against men like Prince Khaled.

For the first time in my life, I stopped praying.

I couldn’t bring myself to kneel on that prayer rug where Amira and I had worshiped together.

Couldn’t bring myself to praise a God who seemed to be deaf to the cries of the innocent.

I started questioning everything I had believed since childhood.

If Allah was truly just, how could he allow this to happen to two people who had served him faithfully? If Allah was truly merciful, why was there no mercy for me in my darkest hour? The bitterness grew in my heart like a cancer.

I would lie awake at night wondering if anything I had been taught about God was actually true.

Maybe the rich and powerful were right to live however they wanted because there really was no divine justice coming to balance the scales.

Maybe I had wasted my life following rules and restrictions that only applied to people too weak to break them.

I started having thoughts that terrified me.

Thoughts about ending my own life because the pain of living without a mirror felt unbearable.

Death seemed kinder than this daily torture of not knowing if she was safe, not knowing if I would ever see her again, not knowing if the God I had trusted my entire life was even listening to my prayers.

Sometimes God uses the most unlikely people to reach us, doesn’t he? It was in my darkest moment when I was seriously planning how to end my suffering permanently that my neighbor Ahmed knocked on my door.

We had lived next to each other for 2 years, but had never been close.

He was quiet, kept to himself, always polite, but never joining the community prayers or religious discussions that were normal in our building.

Ahmed stood in my doorway, looking at me with genuine compassion, something I hadn’t seen in anyone’s eyes since this nightmare began.

He told me he had been watching my pain, seeing me waste away, hearing me cry through our thin walls at night.

His voice was gentle when he said he knew what had happened to a mirror, that the whole neighborhood was talking about it in whispers.

Then he said something that shocked me to my core.

He told me he had been praying for me, but not to Allah.

He revealed that he was a Christian, that he had been secretly following Jesus for several years, and that his God specializes in impossible situations.

When I reacted with anger, calling him a kafir and demanding to know how he dared practice such blasphemy in a Muslim country, he didn’t get defensive or angry back.

Instead, he looked at me with those compassionate eyes and said something that stopped me cold.

Muhammad, brother, your Allah hasn’t answered your prayers.

What do you really have to lose by trying someone else? Ahmed’s words echoed in my mind for days after our conversation.

What do you really have to lose by trying someone else? The question haunted me because the truth was I had already lost everything that mattered.

My wife was gone.

My faith was shattered.

My family had abandoned me.

and I was living in a darkness so deep I couldn’t see any way out.

What did I have to lose? Indeed, for several days, I wrestled with Ahmed’s suggestion.

Everything in my upbringing screamed that even considering prayer to Jesus was the ultimate betrayal of everything I had been taught.

My father’s voice echoed in my memory, warning me about the dangers of Christian corruption.

The Imam’s sermons about the foolishness of those who worship three gods instead of one.

The absolute certainty I had carried my entire life that Islam was the only true path and everything else was deviation that led to hellfire.

But my certainty was crumbling like sand.

If Islam was the truth, why was I suffering while evil men prospered? If Allah was truly just and merciful, why had my faithful service meant nothing when I needed divine intervention most? The questions that I had been pushing down for weeks finally demanded answers, and I didn’t have any that made sense anymore.

On April 15th, 2019, exactly 3 weeks and 4 days after Amira disappeared from my life, I reached the end of my rope.

I had spent another sleepless night staring at the ceiling, my mind cycling through the same hopeless thoughts, my heart aching with a pain that felt like it was literally killing me.

As the sun rose over Riyad, painting our empty apartment in golden light that somehow made the silence even more oppressive.

I made a decision that would change everything.

I knelt down in the middle of our living room, but not facing toward Mecca like I had done thousands of times before.

Instead, I turned my face toward heaven, toward whatever God might actually be listening, and for the first time in my life, I prayed to Jesus Christ.

My voice was from crying, my words broken and desperate.

But I poured out my heart to this foreign god that my neighbor claimed specialized in impossible situations.

“Jesus,” I whispered, feeling strange even saying the name.

“I don’t even know if you exist, but I’m desperate.

They say you care about broken people, about the powerless and the suffering.

If that’s true, then I need you now because I have nowhere else to turn.

My wife is gone.

My God isn’t listening.

and I’m dying inside.

If you’re real, if you have any power at all, please help me.

Please bring Amira home safely.

” The moment those words left my lips, something supernatural happened in that room.

An unexplainable peace washed over me like warm water, starting at the top of my head and flowing down through my entire body.

It wasn’t the absence of pain, but rather the presence of something greater than my pain, something that seemed to wrap around my broken heart and hold it together.

I felt like someone invisible had entered the room and sat down beside me, a presence so real and comforting that I actually looked around to see if Ahmed had somehow come in without me noticing.

For the first time in almost a month, I wasn’t alone with my anguish.

Whatever this presence was, it seemed to understand my grief completely, to know exactly what I was going through and to care deeply about my suffering.

It was like being embraced by love itself, a love so pure and unconditional that it made everything I thought I knew about God seem small and incomplete by comparison.

That night, I slept peacefully for the first time since Amir was taken.

No nightmares, no jolting awake in a panic, just deep restorative sleep that seemed to heal something inside me that had been bleeding for weeks.

When I woke up the next morning, I felt different, like something fundamental had shifted in my soul during those hours of rest.

I was sitting in our kitchen, drinking tea, and marveling at this strange new sense of hope that had settled over me when my phone rang.

The number was unknown, but something compelled me to answer.

When I heard Amamira’s voice on the other end, whispered and frightened, but unmistakably real, I nearly dropped the phone in shock.

Habibi, she said, using the pet name that meant beloved.

I’m okay.

I can’t talk long, but I wanted you to know I’m okay.

Those three minutes of conversation were like drinking water after wandering in the desert for a month.

She told me she was being held in Prince Scarlet’s palace, but that something extraordinary was protecting her.

Every time the prince tried to approach her to force his attention on her, something would interrupt him.

Important phone calls would come at precisely the right moment.

He would suddenly fall ill with mysterious headaches.

Urgent business would demand his immediate attention.

It was as if an invisible shield surrounded her, keeping her safe from his advances.

The other women in the palace had noticed too, she whispered.

They had begun calling her the protected one because of how obviously different her experience was from theirs.

Some of the older wives had quietly told her that she must have very powerful spiritual protection, stronger than anything they had ever seen.

One woman had even asked her what god she prayed to because clearly that deity was watching over her with unusual care.

Before the call ended, Amira said something that made my heart race.

Muhammad, I’ve been praying to someone new, someone Ahmed told me about before this happened.

I think he’s the one protecting me.

The line went dead before I could ask what she meant, but I knew in my spirit exactly who she was talking about.

I called Ahmed immediately and told him everything.

He came over with tears in his eyes and a small Arabic Bible tucked under his arm.

He opened it to a passage about Jesus calming a storm on the sea and read it aloud in his gentle voice.

“He can calm the storm too, Muhammad,” Ahmed said, his hand on my shoulder.

He’s already started.

I’m asking you, when was the last time you truly surrendered everything to something greater than yourself? When was the last time you admitted that your own strength, your own wisdom, your own understanding wasn’t enough to handle what life had thrown at you? That day in my apartment reading about Jesus for the first time, I began to understand that sometimes the greatest breakthrough comes when we finally stop trying to be our own savior and let someone else rescue us instead.

The Jesus I was discovering in those pages wasn’t the weak, defeated figure I had been taught about in Islamic teachings.

This was a God who walked on water, who commanded storms to be still, who raised the dead to life, and who promised that nothing was impossible for those who believed in him.

This was exactly the kind of God I needed in this impossible situation.

Over the next several days, I watched in amazement as God began to orchestrate events that no human power could have arranged.

Ahmed brought me more news from his network of secret Christians throughout Riyad, believers who had learned to communicate carefully and watch out for each other in a country where following Jesus could cost you everything.

Through these quiet channels, we heard whispers about strange happenings at Prince Khaled’s palace that had the staff confused and increasingly nervous.

The prince, who was known for his relentless pursuit of whatever caught his fancy, had suddenly and inexplicably lost all interest in my wife.

Palace servants reported that he would start toward her quarters with obvious intent, then stop midway, as if he had forgotten why he was going there.

During meals, where she was required to be present, he would stare at her for a moment, then turn his attention elsewhere, as if she had become invisible to him.

The transformation was so dramatic and sudden that rumors began spreading among the staff about curses and supernatural protection.

Ahmed told me that one of the kitchen workers, a secret believer who had been praying for Amira since the day she arrived, witnessed something that left him shaken.

Prince Khaled had been walking toward Amamira’s room one evening, his intentions clearly written on his face when he suddenly stopped in the hallway, clutched his head in apparent agony, and stumbled back to his own chambers, calling for his personal physician.

The doctor found nothing wrong with him physically, but the prince complained of a splitting headache that lasted for hours.

Other incidents followed the same pattern.

The prince would approach Amira.

Then something would happen to derail his plans entirely.

A critical phone call from the king requiring his immediate attention.

A sudden violent illness that sent him rushing to the bathroom.

An urgent summons to handle a crisis at one of his business ventures.

It was as if an invisible hand was moving pieces on a chessboard, creating precisely timed interruptions that kept my wife safe from harm.

The most remarkable incident happened during a formal dinner where Amira was required to serve the prince and his guests.

According to the palace staff, who later whispered the story, Prince Khaled had been drinking heavily and making increasingly inappropriate comments about her beauty.

He had actually reached out to grab her arm when a massive electrical storm suddenly struck the palace, knocking out all power and plunging the entire building into darkness.

In the confusion that followed, Amamira was able to slip away to her quarters, and by the time power was restored hours later, the prince had passed out from drinking and apparently forgotten the entire incident.

The other women in the prince’s household began treating Amira with a mixture of awe and curiosity.

They had seen many beautiful women come and go from the palace over the years, had witnessed the prince’s obsessions and the terrible things that usually followed.

But they had never seen anything like the invisible protection that seemed to surround this particular woman.

Some of the older wives quietly began asking her about her faith, about what prayers she was saying, about which holy man was providing such powerful intervention on her behalf.

Meanwhile, my own faith was growing stronger with each passing day.

Ahmed had given me an Arabic translation of the New Testament, and I was reading it voraciously, hungry for more understanding of this Jesus who was proving his power in such dramatic ways.

The stories of his miracles, his teachings about love, conquering evil, his promise that God hears the cries of the oppressed, all of it resonated with something deep in my soul that had been crying out for truth my entire life.

I was praying to Jesus multiple times a day now, not out of religious obligation like my former Islamic prayers, but out of genuine conversation with someone I was beginning to trust completely.

I would thank him for protecting Amira, ask him to continue his intervention and beg him to provide a way for us to be reunited.

Each prayer session left me with more peace, more hope, more confidence that this nightmare would end with our victory rather than our destruction.

On April 28th, 2019, exactly 13 days after my first desperate prayer to Jesus, the miracle I had been hoping for finally came to pass.

Ahmed burst into my apartment with news that made my heart race with excitement and disbelief.

Through his Christian network, he had learned that Prince Khaled had suddenly and completely lost interest in Amira.

More than that, he had actually grown irritated by her presence in his palace and had given orders for her to be released temporarily for a family visit.

The palace staff were baffled by this turn of events.

They had prepared for another tragic story of a beautiful woman destroyed by royal obsession, but instead they were witnessing something unprecedented.

The prince, who never gave up anything he wanted, had essentially forgotten why he wanted it in the first place.

Palace insiders reported that he seemed confused when her name was mentioned, as if he couldn’t quite remember why she was there or why he had brought her in the first place.

That afternoon, I was pacing our apartment in nervous anticipation when I heard familiar footsteps in the hallway outside our door.

My heart stopped as I recognized the rhythm of her walk.

The soft sound of her movement that I had missed so desperately for over a month.

When the door opened and Amira stepped through, looking thinner than before, but otherwise unharmed, I felt my knees give out from pure relief and gratitude.

We fell into each other’s arms and wept like children, holding each other so tightly it was as if we were afraid one of us might disappear again if we loosened our grip.

She felt real and warm and alive in my arms.

And for several minutes we just stood there in our little living room, overwhelmed by the miracle of being together again.

I buried my face in her hair and thanked Jesus over and over again for bringing her home to me.

safely.

When we finally pulled apart enough to look into each other’s eyes, Amiri told me something that confirmed everything I had begun to believe about the power of Christ.

Muhammad, she said, her voice filled with wonder.

I prayed to your Jesus, too.

From the very first night in that terrible place, I cried out to him for protection and I felt him answer me.

I felt his presence with me every single day, keeping me safe, giving me strength, shielding me from evil.

Look inside your own heart right now and ask yourself if you have ever witnessed such obvious supernatural intervention in impossible circumstances.

We had both independently turned to Jesus Christ in our darkest hour, and he had moved heaven and earth to protect us and reunite us.

We knew without any doubt that we had encountered the real God, the one with actual power to change hearts and circumstances and destinies.

That night, kneeling together on our old prayer rug, but facing toward heaven instead of Mecca, we both asked Jesus Christ to become our Lord and Savior.

We confessed that we had been wrong about who God really was, that we wanted to follow him instead of the religion that had failed us.

so completely in our time of greatest need.

Ahmed was there to guide us through our first Christian prayers.

Tears streaming down his face as he witnessed two more Muslims crossing from darkness into the light of Christ.

We felt born again that night, literally born into a completely new understanding of God and his love for us.

The fear that had consumed me for over a month was replaced by a peace that surpassed all understanding.

The hopelessness that had nearly driven me to suicide was replaced by a joy that bubbled up from somewhere deep in my soul.

We both knew that our lives had been transformed in the most fundamental way possible.

That we would never be the same people we had been before Jesus rescued us from our impossible situation.

The immediate joy of our reunion was tempered by the sobering reality that we could not stay in Saudi Arabia.

Ahmed made it clear that Prince Khaled’s sudden disinterest in Amira might not be permanent and that powerful men like him were unpredictable and dangerous even in their indifference.

More importantly, we had both become followers of Jesus Christ, which made us targets for persecution or even execution if our conversion was discovered by the wrong people.

Ahmed’s network of secret Christians had been preparing for situations like ours for years.

Within days of our decision to follow Christ, they had quietly arranged safe passage out of the country through an underground network that had helped dozens of Muslim converts escaped to safety.

The plan required us to leave everything behind except the clothes on our backs and a small amount of money hidden in our shoes.

Our entire life in Riyad, our apartment, our belongings, even our wedding photos would have to be abandoned for the sake of our safety and our faith.

The night before we fled, Amira and I sat in our little apartment one last time, looking at the place where we had been so happy as Muslims and where we had become Christians through the most devastating trial of our lives.

We burned our Qurans, our Islamic prayer books, our copies of hadith literature, watching the smoke carry away the last remnants of our former religious identity.

It wasn’t done in hatred or bitterness, but as a symbolic act of complete commitment to our new faith in Jesus.

There could be no looking back, no divided loyalties, no safety net to fall back on if following Christ became difficult.

Jesus provided every detail of our Exodus in ways that still take my breath away when I think about them.

The Christian underground had arranged for forged travel documents that would get us to Jordan, where we could apply for refugee status and eventually seek asylum in a country where we could worship freely.

The documents were perfect, created by believers who risked their own lives to help fellow Christians escape persecution.

The timing of our departure was coordinated down to the minute with multiple backup plans in case something went wrong.

Even more miraculous was the supernatural protection that continued to surround us during our escape.

At the airport, we were required to go through multiple security checkpoints where our documents would be carefully examined and our faces compared to databases of wanted individuals.

Ahmed had warned us that this was the most dangerous part of our journey where one suspicious guard or computer glitch could result in our arrest and possible execution.

But God’s angels were working overtime for us that day.

At the first checkpoint, the God who was supposed to scrutinize our papers was called away to handle an urgent situation just as we approached, and his replacement barely glanced at our documents before waving us through.

At the second checkpoint, a computer system malfunction forced the guards to process travelers manually, creating such chaos and delays that they were rushing everyone through without proper verification.

By the time we reached our gate, we both knew we were witnessing divine intervention on a scale that defied human explanation.

The flight to Jordan was the longest four hours of our lives.

Every moment we expected security officers to board the plane and drag us away.

But our seats remained undisturbed and our identities remained undetected.

When the plane finally touched down in Ammon, Amira and I held hands and wept with relief and gratitude.

We had escaped the kingdom where our faith could have cost us our lives and we were finally free to worship Jesus openly without fear of persecution.

Our first months as refugees in Jordan were difficult but filled with hope.

We lived in a tiny apartment provided by a Christian relief organization, survived on basic food assistance, and spent our days learning about our new faith and trying to process everything that had happened to us.

Ahmed had given us contact information for a pastor in Aman who specialized in helping Muslim converts.

And this man became like a father to us as we took our first steps as baby Christians.

The most beautiful moment of this period came when we were both baptized in the Jordan River by this precious pastor.

Standing in the same waters where Jesus himself had been baptized by John the Baptist, going under the water as Muslims and coming up as Christians, publicly declaring our faith in front of a small congregation of fellow believers.

It felt like the final seal on our transformation.

The old Muhammad and Amira who had lived in fear and served a distant Allah were dead and buried in those waters and we emerged as new creations in Christ Jesus.

Three months after our arrival in Jordan, we received news that changed our lives forever.

Amira was pregnant with our first child, a baby who had been conceived after our conversion.

A child who would be born into freedom and raised in the knowledge of Jesus Christ from the very beginning.

We both broke down in tears when the doctor confirmed the pregnancy.

Seeing it as God’s special blessing on our new life, his promise that our future would be filled with hope and joy rather than fear and oppression.

Everything I thought I knew about God was completely wrong before I met Jesus.

I had spent 31 years believing that Allah was a distant, demanding deity, who required perfect obedience but offered little comfort or personal relationship.

Jesus showed me a God who knows my name, who cares about my pain, who intervenes in impossible situations, who loves me unconditionally and wants an intimate relationship with me.

The difference between Islam and Christianity isn’t just theological, it’s experiential.

Jesus didn’t just change my beliefs, he changed my entire experience of what it means to know God.

Eventually, through the help of Christian organizations and sympathetic government officials, we were granted asylum in Canada, where we now live in safety and freedom.

Our son Omar was born as a Canadian citizen raised in a church where he learns about Jesus’s love from the cradle, never knowing the fear and oppression that shaped his parents’ early years.

We named him Omar, not after the Islamic caiff we had once admired, but because it means flourishing in Arabic, and we wanted his name to represent the new life that God had given our family.

Our simple apartment in Toronto is filled with the same joy we once knew in RiyAt, but now it’s built on a foundation that cannot be shaken.

We have jobs that allow us to support ourselves with dignity, a church family that loves and supports us, and most importantly, a relationship with Jesus Christ that grows deeper and stronger every day.

We’re still poor in worldly terms, but we’re rich in the things that actually matter.

faith, hope, love, and the unshakable knowledge that we serve a God who has the power to move mountains and the heart to care about our smallest concerns.

What impossible situation are you facing today that seems beyond human solution? The same Jesus who moved Prince Khaled’s heart away from my wife, who orchestrated our escape from Saudi Arabia, who protected us every step of our journey to freedom, is still performing miracles today for those who call on his name.

He specializes in impossible situations, in turning tragedies into triumphs, in making ways where there seems to be no way.

Don’t wait until you lose everything like I almost did before you cry out to the one who has real power to save you.

The same God who rescued us from the palace of an earthly prince wants to rescue you from whatever prison you’re trapped in right now.

When you serve the King of Kings, earthly princes lose their power over your life.

Earthly problems become opportunities for divine intervention and earthly impossibilities become platforms for heavenly miracles.

If you want this same Jesus in your life, if you want to experience the kind of supernatural intervention that turned our tragedy into triumph, don’t close this video without making this decision.

Pray with me right now and ask Jesus Christ to become your Lord and Savior.

Tell him you’re sorry for living life without him.

Ask him to forgive your sins and take control of your circumstances.

And invite him to transform your impossible situation into a testimony of his power and love.

Your breakthrough could be one prayer away from happening.

My name is Muhammad.

Jesus Christ is my Lord and Savior and he wants to be yours,