My name is Amamira al- Sahed, the daughter of a royal bloodline that has ruled Saudi Arabia for centuries.

And ever since I was a little girl, I was taught one thing.

In my country, reading the Bible is not just forbidden.

It is rebellion, a crime punishable by death.

I grew up inside palaces covered in gold, yet terrified by the whispered stories of people who disappeared simply for owning a book.

I never imagined I would become one of them.

Until the day I was summoned before the religious council.

When I stepped into that room, the silence felt like a blade.

On the table right under a narrow beam of light, was my Bible opened to the exact page I read at midnight.

No one told me how they found it.

But I knew the person who betrayed me wasn’t a stranger.

It was someone I trusted more than myself.

One of the elders looked straight into my eyes and asked, “Amira, did you read the Bible in my country?” That question is not to discover the truth.

It is to decide the day you will die.

I could deny it.

I could lie.

I could save my life.

But in that moment, something rose from deep inside my soul.

A whisper soft but unmistakably clear.

Do not deny me.

I felt as if someone was standing right beside me.

Even though I couldn’t see anyone.

My heart trembled, but I knew I could not return to the darkness I had stepped out of.

So I told the truth.

The sound of the gavl struck me like lightning.

They sentenced me to death.

All because I read the words of Jesus.

I thought that was the end of my story.

But I didn’t know that sentence was only a gateway.

A gateway to a miracle that I will never forget.

A miracle that happened at 3:33 a.

m.

That moment Jesus stepped into my life and everything began to change.

I was born into a world where people believe that power and luxury automatically create happiness.

But they don’t know that behind those golden walls lives a kind of loneliness no one can imagine.

Since childhood, I was surrounded by servants.

Yet none of them were allowed to look me in the eye.

They bowed before me, but none ever saw the emptiness growing inside my heart.

In the royal family, you have everything except one thing, the freedom to be yourself.

Every morning, I woke up in a room so large that even my footsteps echoed back at me.

But the older I grew, the more frightening that silence became.

There was no real laughter, no genuine embrace.

No one ever asked me how I truly felt.

Everything in my life was predetermined.

The clothes I wore, the friends I was allowed to see, the places I had to appear, even the emotions I was expected to show.

I wasn’t a daughter.

I was a symbol, a piece of a dynasty, not a human being.

But what hurt the most was that I always felt something missing in my soul.

An empty space that no banquet, no luxury trip, no glittering jewelry could ever fill.

Many nights I stood on the palace balcony watching the city lights below.

I saw ordinary families walking together, talking, laughing, and I wished just once to live like them.

To walk freely without guards following my every step.

To say what I truly felt without judgment.

To live a life that was mine, not one written for me.

I didn’t know it then, but that emptiness would become the first door leading me toward the truth I later found in the Bible.

A truth that changed everything.

Before I could see that light, I had to survive a childhood of strict religious rituals where everything was controlled, including my faith.

Even though I grew up in a powerful dynasty, my spiritual life was locked inside rigid traditions.

From a very young age, I was taught to memorize every prayer.

Bow at the perfect angle.

Stand, kneel, and remain silent exactly as tradition demanded.

If I made one wrong movement, the servants were reprimanded.

If I asked a question I wasn’t supposed to ask, I was taken to a private room for correction.

And if I showed curiosity about any other belief, my entire family would look at me as if I had committed an unforgivable sin.

I was taught to fear but never taught to love.

I remember once when I was eight, I asked my mother, “Does God hear me when I speak?” She gently placed her finger on her lips and whispered, “Amira, don’t ask things you shouldn’t ask.

” That answer closed my heart long before I understood why.

I began to believe that faith was duty, that prayer was obligation, and that God was a distant figure I was never allowed to approach.

Each time I stood in the royal prayer hall, its cold marble walls echoing every sound.

I felt a distance between me and the God I was supposed to be reaching for.

My lips prayed, but my heart felt nothing.

I never felt warmth, comfort, or presence.

Nothing like what I would later discover in Jesus.

And the older I grew, the stronger that emptiness became.

I followed every ritual.

But inside me, there was a door that had never been opened.

I didn’t know that years later in a foreign country that door would open because of one small book I held in my hands.

But before that moment came, I had to endure another shock.

A shock that taught me that in my family even marriage did not belong to me.

When I reached my teenage years, I discovered another truth about royal life.

Here marriage has nothing to do with the heart.

It is negotiation, a transaction of power between families.

I remember the day my parents called me into the grand hall.

No one asked whether I loved someone.

No one asked what I wanted for my future.

They simply said, “Amira, you will be engaged to the son of a partnering family.

The decision has been made.

” It felt as if someone had pulled me out of my own life.

Everyone talked about honor, about tradition, about duty, but no one talked about love.

No one asked why my hands were trembling.

From that day on, I realized something painful.

In my family, I was not a daughter.

I was a piece on a chessboard, a bargaining item placed wherever others needed me to be.

Many nights I cried silently in my room.

Not because I rebelled against my family, but because I could not understand why God would create a heart if we were never allowed to use it to choose the one we love.

I didn’t know that this suffocating truth would become the first preparation for what I would later discover in the Bible, that humans were created to be loved and to love.

I didn’t know that only a few years later, during what seemed like a normal study trip, I would open a book and my life would split into before and after I left Saudi Arabia at 19 to study diplomacy in London.

People thought it was just another step toward my royal future, but in reality, it was the first breath of freedom I ever tasted.

I remember that afternoon vividly walking from the library back to my dorm.

The London air was crisp, leaves falling gently along the sidewalk, and I passed a tiny bookstore squeezed between two old buildings.

I didn’t plan to go in, but something, a faint pool, made me stop.

When I stepped inside, the scent of old paper and ink gave me a strange sense of peace.

I walked through the aisles without looking for anything until my eyes stopped on a small black book with worn edges.

The Holy Bible, the book I had been taught to fear my entire life.

My hands trembled as I touched it.

I had seen Bibles online, but this was the first time I had ever held one myself.

I opened it at random.

A verse appeared as if written directly for me.

Come to me all who are weary and burdened.

I froze.

I didn’t know why those words made my chest tighten.

I didn’t understand why the emptiness inside me suddenly felt seen.

I bought the Bible that day and hid it deep inside my coat pocket.

On the walk home, I kept my hand pressed against it as if I were holding something sacred I wasn’t yet ready to name.

That night, alone in my dark dorm room, I opened the book again.

I read slowly, then read the same lines again.

And for the first time in my life, I felt something I had never felt in all my years of religious ritual.

A gentle love, a real presence, a warmth spreading inside my heart.

I had performed countless rituals, prayed thousands of memorized words, but never once felt that God actually saw me.

But that night, for the first time ever, I felt as if he whispered my name.

I didn’t know it yet, but that quiet moment would become the greatest turning point of my life.

Because from that moment on, I knew that the path ahead of me would never be the same.

And when I returned to Saudi Arabia, I had to hide that Bible as if it were my life.

And that secrecy led me straight into the first storm of my faith.

When my study program ended, I carried the Bible back to Saudi as if I were carrying a new part of my soul that I couldn’t let anyone see.

I knew very well if anyone discovered it, I would lose everything, not just my royal position, but my life.

And yet, I could not leave it behind.

I couldn’t walk away from the only thing that had warmed my heart.

After years of emptiness, I hid the Bible deep inside my suitcase, buried under layers of heavy clothes.

And when I stepped back into the palace, I felt as if I were hiding a secret bigger than myself.

Every night, once everyone was asleep, I locked my door, pulled the curtains tightly shut, then took out my Bible, and pressed it against my chest like a treasure.

I read it in the dark, using nothing but a small lamp to illuminate each line.

And every time I opened it, I felt as if someone were gently touching my soul.

I began whispering prayers.

Not the rigid rituals I grew up with, but small, clumsy, honest words.

I had never dared speak to anyone.

I felt alive.

But with every passing night, fear grew alongside my faith.

I hid the Bible in a secret compartment behind the old wooden wall of my wardrobe, a place no one ever paid attention to.

But I knew this house had too many eyes, too many people trained to observe my every move.

One wrong glance, one door opened at the wrong moment, and everything would collapse.

There were nights when I heard the footsteps of servants passing by my room.

I instantly switched off my lamp, slid the Bible under my pillow, and held my breath until the footsteps faded.

My heart pounded so loudly I feared they might hear it from outside.

And yet, despite that terror, I still opened the Bible the next night because for the first time in my life, I felt closer to God than ever before.

And I had no idea that in just a short time, this secret would be exposed by the very person I never suspected.

And when it happened, my life shifted in a direction I was never prepared for.

One afternoon, Fatima, the cousin who grew up with me since childhood, walked into my room without knocking.

It wasn’t unusual.

In my family, privacy was almost non-existent.

But that day, I made a mistake.

The Bible was still open on my desk, barely covered by a thin veil I forgot to fold.

When I stepped out of the bathroom, I saw Fatima standing completely still, her back facing me.

And right in front of her was the Bible, open, clear, exposed.

I felt the blood drain from my body.

My heartbeat surged so violently that I could barely breathe.

Amira, is this yours? Her voice trembled, not from fear for me, but because she knew that this little book could shake our entire family to its core.

I tried to steady my breathing, but my throat tightened painfully.

Fatima, please listen.

This isn’t.

But she stepped back as if my words might burn her.

You know how forbidden this is.

Why would you have it? I wanted to explain to beg her not to tell anyone because Fatima was the person I trusted most.

But what I saw in her eyes that moment was not compassion.

It was fear mixed with something colder.

A hint of disgust.

She exhaled sharply, turned around, and walked out.

I barely managed to call after her.

Fatima, please don’t tell anyone.

But the door closed before I finished the sentence.

That night, I heard noise downstairs.

Urgent voices, footsteps rushing through the hallway.

I knew it was over.

Just minutes later, four men entered my room.

No explanation, no sympathy.

They tore through everything, shattered my jewelry box, ripped open my bags, pulled out the handwritten Bible notes I had hidden for months.

And when they turned to look at me, I knew the cousin I loved like a sister had ended the last secret I still had.

They didn’t ask me anything.

They simply grabbed my arms and took me to the place where every answer would become evidence against me.

They tied my hands not to keep me from escaping, but to keep me from shaking.

They dragged me into an underground chamber I had heard about since childhood, a place people called the room of truth.

But I knew there was no truth here, only accusation.

For hours they asked the same question over and over.

Amira, who led you to betray the faith of your ancestors? Amira, they weren’t seeking an answer.

They wanted me to deny Jesus.

To say one sentence, I was wrong.

But the more they pushed, the clearer my heart became.

It felt as if an unseen hand was holding me upright.

As if God himself was somewhere in that cold, dark room, whispering, “Do not be afraid.

” They slammed the table, shouted, and threw the evidence before me.

The Bible, my notes, the verses I had written again and again about love and forgiveness.

One man pointed at me, his voice sharp as steel.

Do you understand the consequences? And over this is Ardu told Joran, “Here, reading the Bible is not a mistake.

It is rebellion.

” I nodded and I accept them.

For a moment, the entire room fell silent.

No shouting, no threats, only astonishment.

As if they could not understand how a girl raised in a palace could choose Christ over her life.

They dragged me before the religious council.

Seven men sat high above, faces shadowed under cold white light.

They asked questions I already knew the outcome of.

Do you believe in Jesus? Why did you dare read a forbidden book? Do you understand the punishment for this betrayal? I answered each question calmly, not shaking, not resisting, just telling the truth.

The truth I had found in London, the truth that had rescued my soul from the emptiness I endured for years.

After a brief exchange among themselves, the man in the center lifted the verdict.

I knew what was coming, but my heart still clenched violently.

Amira bint Rashad, you are sentenced to death for abandoning the faith of your ancestors.

I heard every word yet felt nothing beneath my feet.

But what hurt most was not the sentence.

It was when I lowered my gaze and saw my mother standing there, her eyes red, her hands trembling, whispering desperate please for me to do the one thing I knew I could not do.

They pulled me out of the courtroom.

And when the door closed behind me, I knew my path to martyrdom had begun.

But deep inside, a verse echoed like a whisper from heaven.

Though I walked through the valley of the shadow of death.

You are with me.

The days that followed were no longer about interrogation.

They were about waiting.

Waiting for death.

Waiting for a miracle.

Waiting to see if God truly heard my cry.

They put me in a small cell.

The iron door clanged shut behind me with a cold final sound.

And I knew this was no temporary holding place.

This was where people like me waited for their last day.

The cell had no window, only a dim yellow light flickering like it was dying, just like my own life felt at that moment.

During the first days, I tried to pray, but sometimes my mind went completely blank.

Not because I doubted God, but because I had never faced death so closely before.

I remembered my mother’s voice, her desperate please.

She visited me only once.

When she saw me through the bars, she was no longer the strong woman I grew up with.

She bowed her head, her voice breaking.

Amira, you only need to say one sentence, just one, that you renounce that faith.

If you do, you will live.

I wanted to hug her, to tell her I understood her pain.

But instead, I could only hold the cold steel bars and whisper, “Mother, I can’t.

” She broke down.

I had never seen her cry like that.

She didn’t scold me.

Didn’t curse me.

She simply fell apart.

The next day, they told me my family would not be visiting again.

And they did not ask to.

They abandoned me silently.

No letters, no promises, no final goodbye.

And that silence hurt more than any sentence ever could.

Every night I curled up on the cold floor, holding the scarf my mother had left behind.

It still carried her scent.

But with each passing day, it faded.

I began to recite every verse I remembered, repeating them like lifelines.

The Lord is close to the brokenhearted.

I will not leave you.

In the darkness, his light still shines.

Some nights, I didn’t even have the strength to pray.

I just lay there watching the dim light tremble on the ceiling, wondering, “Does God still hear me?” But in that silence, I felt something the palace had never given me.

A deep peace as if God were saying, “Your story is not ending here.

” I didn’t know how the miracle would come or if it would come at all.

But one thing I was certain of, I was not alone in that death cell.

And he had not abandoned me.

Not now, not ever.

And then, on a night that seemed no different than any other, when the clock struck 3:33 a.

m.

m, everything changed.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

The room was as dark as always.

The only sound, the soft dripping of water from a pipe somewhere above me.

I curled up on the cold floor, trying to keep whatever warmth was left.

I didn’t pray aloud anymore.

I simply whispered in my heart.

Lord, if you are truly here, please don’t let me die alone.

I didn’t ask for anything else, not freedom, not rescue.

All I asked was not to be abandoned.

Then, just as I thought I was drifting into a brief dream, I heard a sound so soft I thought it was the wind, but in an underground cell there is no wind.

I opened my eyes.

The dim yellow bulb still flickered, but in the corner of the room there was another light, a different kind of light, white, gentle, warm enough that I felt it on my skin.

I sat up instinctively, and at that exact moment, the old clock on the wall, a clock that had been malfunctioning for days, stopped completely.

At one single time, 3:33 a.

m.

m I didn’t know why, but my heart pounded so violently I had to hold my chest.

Something was happening, something beyond anything I had words for.

The light grew brighter, but it did not scare me.

Instead, an overwhelming peace washed over me, too.

as if someone placed a hand on my shoulder and whispered, “I have heard you.

” Then from within the light, I saw a figure, not a hallucination, not a dream, but a presence.

A figure clothed in radiant light, face filled with gentleness, eyes overflowing with love, and instantly I knew who he was, Jesus.

My legs gave out beneath me.

My hands trembled uncontrollably, not out of fear, but because the love I felt was too powerful for a human body to bear.

I heard him speak, not with sound, but with understanding that resonated deep inside my soul.

Amir, you will not die here.

I am with you.

Tears streamed down my face.

Not from sorrow, but from finally knowing that I was seen, known, loved.

Even when the world had abandoned me, the light filled the cell, then slowly, softly began to fade.

The yellow bulb flickered again.

The room returned to darkness and cold.

But everything inside me had changed.

I was no longer waiting for death.

I was waiting for his promise, and that promise was fulfilled sooner than I ever imagined.

Just a few hours later, my cell door opened by itself.

After the light faded, I sat on the cold floor for a long time.

Not because I was afraid, but because I was trying to understand what had just happened.

I hadn’t even taken my second deep breath when a sound broke the silence.

Click, soft, but unmistakable.

I turned my head.

The iron door, the door that normally required two guards to pull open, was moving on its own.

There was no one outside.

Dot.

No footsteps.

only the sound of metal sliding open slowly as if an invisible hand were pushing it.

I stood up carefully, my heart racing.

I could hardly believe what I was seeing.

But deep inside, I knew this wasn’t an accident.

It wasn’t a malfunction.

This was the beginning of the promise Jesus had spoken to me just hours earlier.

When the door finally opened wide, I peeked into the hallway.

Everything was eerily silent.

Usually the death row area had at least six guards.

Two at the main door, two in the hall, and two constantly patrolling.

But tonight, not a single guard was standing, I stepped out slowly, each step trembling, not knowing what waited ahead.

But knowing I could not go back.

Then I saw them.

Four guards lying unconscious on the chairs and the floor.

Not asleep, but placed into a state no human could wake them from.

They were breathing.

Their hearts were beating.

There were no signs of struggle, but they were completely unaware.

I touched the arm of one guard.

No response, no reaction.

I looked up and saw the security camera in the corner.

The red indicator light, the one that blinked day and night, was off.

Every camera was off.

It felt as if the entire security system designed to keep me trapped, had bowed itself before the power of God.

I walked past the guards, each step feeling like walking on water.

No one saw me.

No one stopped me.

No one woke up.

I reached the large gate leading to the prison yard.

This gate was always double locked.

But tonight, the lock was already undone.

I stood there right between death and life, not knowing whether I should run or fall to my knees in gratitude.

But then Jesus’s words echoed in my heart.

You will not die here.

So I placed my hand on the door and pushed it open.

The night sky stretched out before me, and for the first time in months, I breathed in the air of freedom.

But freedom in the dark was only the first step.

I still had to flee the country, cross borders, and reach the place God had prepared.

And the miracles weren’t over yet.

I left the prison that night, not knowing where I was going, only knowing that every step was guided by the promise Jesus had spoken.

I stayed in the shadows, walking behind old buildings near the prison to avoid being seen.

The night air was cold, but strangely, I felt no fear.

I felt light as if invisible wings were lifting me forward.

When I reached an old parking lot near a small regional airport, I saw someone waiting.

It was a driver I had secretly helped a year before.

The only person outside my family who knew I longed for freedom.

He looked at me with shock.

Amir, how did you get out? I simply said, God opened the door.

He didn’t ask another question.

He just said, get in.

We don’t have much time.

We drove through the night.

Every security checkpoint was strangely empty.

No one stopped the car.

No one looked inside.

Each time we passed a gate, my heart tightened, then eased when no one recognized me.

Near the border, the driver pulled over, placed a trembling hand on my shoulder, and said, “From here, you walk alone.

God before you.

” I hugged him, the only person brave enough to help me when the whole world seemed against me.

Then I stepped into a land I never imagined I would survive long enough to reach.

Hours later, I found myself inside a small European airport, hands shaking as I held my temporary passport.

The security officer stared at me for a long moment.

My heart nearly stopped and then he stamped it, smiled, and said, “Welcome.

” Just that one word made me burst into tears right there in the airport hall.

When the plane landed in Amsterdam, the sky was gray, the wind was cold, and strangers passed by without knowing my story.

I walked down the staircase, and when my feet touched the ground, I felt like I had been born again.

No metal doors, no angry voices, no judging eyes, just the wind and the freedom God had promised me.

I whispered into the air, “Thank you.

I’m alive.

” But God didn’t just save me.

He wanted to renew me.

And that began the day I stepped into the waters of baptism.

In my first days in Amsterdam, I lived like someone who still doubted her own survival.

I flinched whenever a door slammed.

I looked over my shoulder when someone walked behind me.

And deep inside, I carried the fear that one day someone from home would come for me.

But the more I prayed, the more I understood.

The freedom God gives is not only freedom from prison.

It is freedom from fear.

One morning I was invited to a small international church in the center of Amsterdam.

I walked inside and immediately knew I had found what my soul had longed for all my life.

No gold, no thrones, no rigid rituals, just gentle worship, and people from every nation standing together like one family.

There I met Pastor Anna, a woman with eyes so warm it felt like she had known me forever.

She placed her hand on my shoulder and said, “Amira, you have walked through darkness.

Now it’s time to step into new life.

” I couldn’t hold back my tears.

I knew this was what I needed to do.

That day, I stepped into the waters of baptism.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and as my body sank beneath the cool water, every image, the courtroom, the cell, the iron door, the shouting door, seemed to break away from me.

When the pastor lifted me up, my heart felt renewed.

No more heaviness.

No more fear.

No more darkness clinging to me.

People around me clapped.

But what I heard most clearly was a gentle voice deep inside.

You are mine.

And from today, the old has passed away.

I will never forget that moment.

It was the first time in my life.

I truly belong to God.

Not through ritual, but because he saved my life, saved my soul, and gave me a beginning I never thought I could have.

But my story didn’t end with rebirth.

Because God didn’t save me to stand still.

He saved me so I could help save others.

After my baptism, I believed God simply wanted me to live in peace.

I believed my miraculous escape was the end of the story.

But it turned out it was only the introduction to something much greater.

One evening during a prayer meeting, Pastor Anna looked at me for a long moment, then said a sentence that left me breathless.

Amira, you were saved to become a help for others.

I didn’t understand.

I even shook my head saying, “I’m just someone who barely escaped death.

How could I help anyone?” She smiled a knowing gentle smile because you know the darkness you can lead others out of it.

Weeks later I received my first call.

A young woman from the Gulf region discovered with Christian materials on her phone was running from her family.

The church asked if I wanted to speak with her.

I froze.

Old fear surged back.

But then I remembered Jesus’s words in the cell.

I am with you, I called.

And when I heard her voice trembling, desperate, so similar to my own a year earlier, I understood God was opening a new path.

One by one, people found their way to me.

Some fleeing home, some held secretly in confinement, some needing just one sentence to keep from abandoning their faith.

I wasn’t strong.

I wasn’t a strategist.

But I knew I had to do something.

I connected them with humanitarian groups.

I prayed with them over the phone.

I guided them on how to seek religious asylum.

And most of all, I told them about the one who opened my prison door.

Every story, every tear, every plea broke my heart because it reminded me of myself.

But it also filled me with hope because I knew God was doing something far bigger than me.

Over three years, God allowed me to help 37 believers from across the Middle East.

Some now live safely in Europe.

Some serve in international churches.

Some are still on their journey, but they are no longer alone.

I never saw myself as a rescuer.

I’m only a witness.

A small part of God’s much greater plan.

And each time another person escapes the darkness.

I remember the day he opened that iron door for me.

I understood that if God saved me from death, he had a purpose.

And that purpose becomes clearer each day.

But God didn’t just restore my mission.

He restored my heart in a way I never expected.

I never imagined God would restore my heart.

I believed he saved my life.

I believed he gave me freedom.

I believed he gave me purpose.

But love was something I thought I had lost forever.

Buried under royal expectations, betrayal, and the cold waiting of a death cell.

But God always works beyond what we imagine.

One evening during a small gathering in Amsterdam, I met Daniel, a missionary from Canada serving refugees and asylum seekers.

He didn’t know who I was.

He didn’t know my story.

He didn’t know the pain I carried.

He simply looked at me with calm eyes and said, “I sensed that God brought you through fire so you could be a light to others.

No one had ever spoken to me that way.

Not because they didn’t love me, but because they never truly saw me.

” But Daniel from the very beginning saw something inside me I thought only God knew.

We didn’t rush.

We didn’t chase emotions.

We prayed together, served together, shared stories of faith, miracles, and the moments when hope nearly slipped from our hands, only for God to lift us up again.

I told him about the prison cell, the 333 light, the promise of Jesus, the door that opened.

He wasn’t shocked.

He didn’t doubt me.

He simply said, “God didn’t just save you, he chose you.

” And then after nearly a year of seeking God together, Daniel knelt in a small park in Amsterdam, the same place where I saw my first autumn leaf fall in my first season of freedom.

And he said, “Amira, I don’t want to just tell your miracle story.

I want to help write the next ones with you.

” I cried, not from surprise, but because for the first time in my life, I understood what love felt like when it wasn’t controlled or bargained or demanded.

A love that was free.

A love given by God.

Our wedding was simple.

No royalty, no ceremonies, just a small church, a few friends, and the presence of the one who saved us both.

And on that day, I realized God didn’t only restore my life.

He restored my heart.

the part I thought would remain forever locked in a cold death cell.

Now looking back on everything, I see why God called me.

Because he didn’t just want me to survive.

He wanted me to testify to those standing between darkness and light.

Today, when I look back at my journey from a princess imprisoned in her own palace to a condemned prisoner awaiting execution to a woman God rescued and restored, I can only say one thing.

No darkness is too deep for God’s light to reach.

I’m not sharing my story so anyone will pity me.

I’m sharing it because I know someone watching right now is standing on the edge between despair and hope just like I once did.

Maybe you’ve been betrayed.

Maybe you feel abandoned.

Maybe you’re carrying a fear you’ve never spoken aloud.

Or maybe you’re simply wondering if God truly sees you.

I want you to know this from the bottom of my heart.

He sees you.

He hears you and he loves you far more than you realize.

If he could open the door of my prison cell, he can open the door in your life.

No matter how tightly it seems sealed.

If you’re longing for peace, if you want to know more about the love of Jesus, take a moment right now and let him touch your heart.

And if my story has spoken to you, I invite you to leave a comment, share your thoughts or your prayer.

I will read every comment and pray for you.

Subscribe to the channel so you won’t miss the next testimonies, stories of grace, miracles, and journeys of finding ourselves again in the light of God.

Thank you for walking with me to the end of this story.

May the peace and love of Jesus be with you today and every day of your life.