My name was Princess Amira al-Sawud.

I was 19 years old when this happened in 2016.

I was born into the Saudi royal family, raised in strict Islamic traditions my entire life.

But nothing prepared me for the day my father announced I would marry my own cousin against everything I believed was right.

That’s when Jesus Christ intervened and changed my life forever.

I was born into what most people would consider paradise.

The Alsad Palace in Riyad was my entire world with its marble floors, golden fixtures, and endless servants attending to every need.

From the moment I could walk, my life was structured around the five daily prayers, Quran memorization, and Islamic law studies.

I knew every verse about a woman’s duty to her family, every rule about modesty, every expectation of silent obedience.

My mother was the perfect example of what I was supposed to become.

She never questioned my father’s decisions, never raised her voice, never expressed a personal opinion that contradicted his will.

She would glide through the palace halls in her black abaya, her eyes downcast, speaking only when spoken to.

I watched her for 19 years, thinking this was the pinnacle of Islamic womanhood.

She had given my father six children, managed the household servants, and never once complained about her arranged marriage to a man she had met on their wedding day.

My education was carefully controlled.

Private Islamic tutors came to the palace daily, teaching me Arabic literature, Islamic history, and the proper interpretation of religious law.

I memorized chapters of the Quran in perfect classical Arabic, could recite the hadith traditions, and knew exactly how a Muslim woman should behave in every situation.

But I was never allowed to question why these rules existed or whether they truly reflected God’s heart for women.

Have you ever lived in a golden cage where questioning was forbidden? That was my existence for nearly two decades.

I had no contact with men outside my immediate family.

When we traveled, which was rare, I was completely covered and surrounded by female relatives and bodyguards.

The internet was heavily filtered.

Television programs were preapproved and every book in our library had been carefully screened for inappropriate content.

My siblings, three brothers and two sisters, seemed perfectly content with this arrangement.

My brothers enjoyed the freedom that came with their gender, while my sisters eagerly anticipated their own arranged marriages.

They would spend hours discussing which cousin or family ally might make a suitable husband, treating their future like an exciting business transaction rather than a matter of the heart.

I pretended to share their enthusiasm, but something deep inside me felt wrong about the entire system.

The first crack in my perfect Islamic facade appeared when I was 17.

My older sister, Fatima, had been married to our second cousin in a lavish ceremony that lasted 3 days.

6 months later, I walked into her room to find her crying.

When I asked what was wrong, she whispered that her husband treated her like property, that she had no voice in any decision about her own life, and that she was desperately unhappy.

But then she quickly composed herself and said that this was Allah’s will and that happiness was not important as long as she was obedient.

That conversation planted a seed of doubt in my mind.

I began watching the women around me more carefully.

My mother’s apparent contentment seemed more like resignation.

My aunts spoke in careful whispers when the men were absent, but fell silent the moment any male family member entered the room.

The female servants looked exhausted and fearful, especially the ones who had been married off to male servants in arrangements made by my father.

I started having dreams that troubled me deeply.

In these dreams, I was running through open fields, laughing and speaking freely, wearing colors brighter than the muted tones we were required to wear.

I would wake up feeling guilty about these visions, praying extra prayers to cleanse my mind of such inappropriate thoughts.

But the dreams kept coming, and with them a growing sense that something was missing from my spiritual life.

My prayers began feeling empty around my 18th birthday.

I would prostrate myself on my prayer rug five times daily, reciting the same Arabic phrases I had known since childhood.

But the words felt hollow.

I sensed no connection to Allah, no feeling of love or peace, only obligation and fear.

I wondered if this was normal, if other Muslim women felt this spiritual emptiness, but I had no one I could safely ask such dangerous questions.

The Islamic teachings about paradise particularly bothered me.

We were taught that righteous men would be rewarded with beautiful women in the afterlife, but what was the reward for women? The descriptions were vague, focusing mainly on our service to our husbands even in eternity.

I began wondering why Allah seemed to value men so much more than women, why our entire purpose seemed to revolve around their pleasure and comfort.

Ask yourself this question.

What would you do if your entire identity was chosen for you before you could even think for yourself? Every decision about my life had been made by men.

My father decided what I would study, where I would go, how I would dress, and eventually whom I would marry.

My future husband would decide everything else.

I would never own property, never travel alone, never make a significant choice about my own existence.

The weight of this realization grew heavier each day.

I watched my 19th birthday approach with dread rather than excitement, knowing it meant I was now at prime marriageable age.

My female relatives began making comments about my beauty, my family connections, and how many eligible cousins were reaching the age where they needed wives.

Their words felt like a countdown to the end of whatever small freedoms I still possessed.

Despite all these growing doubts, I continued performing my religious duties perfectly.

I was considered one of the most devout young women in our extended family.

I never missed a prayer, never questioned Islamic law openly, never showed any sign of the spiritual turmoil brewing inside my heart.

I had learned to be the perfect Muslim princess.

Even as my soul was slowly dying under the weight of a system that seemed designed to crush any trace of individual identity or personal relationship with the divine.

It was a Tuesday evening in March when my father summoned the entire family to the main reception hall.

These formal gatherings usually meant either celebration or serious family business, and the somber expression on his face told me it was the latter.

My mother sat beside him in perfect silence, her hands folded, eyes downcast as always.

My siblings arranged themselves according to age and gender, with my brothers closest to father, and my sisters and I forming a respectful line behind our mother.

Father cleared his throat and began speaking in the formal Arabic he used for important announcements.

It is time for Amira to fulfill her duty to this family and to Allah.

He declared, “I have arranged a marriage that will strengthen our tribal connections and honor our bloodline.

” My heart began pounding so hard, I was certain everyone could hear it.

She will marry her cousin Abdullah, son of my brother Khaled.

The engagement ceremony will be held next month and the wedding will follow within 3 months.

The room fell completely silent except for the sound of my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.

Abdullah was 15 years older than me, already divorced from his first wife, who had failed to produce male heirs.

I had seen him at family gatherings where he barely acknowledged the presence of women, speaking only to other men, and treating female relatives like invisible servants.

The thought of spending my entire life as his property, made my stomach turn.

My mother reached over and squeezed my hand, which I took as encouragement until I saw tears forming in her eyes.

She had gone through this same experience 30 years earlier and now she was watching her daughter face the same fate.

But even her tears were silent and hidden because crying would be seen as questioning my father’s wisdom and Allah’s will.

Father, I heard myself saying, my voice barely a whisper.

May I ask about Abdullah’s character and his intentions for our marriage? The question was as bold as I dared to be, framed in the respectful language I had been taught to use when addressing male authority figures.

His eyes flashed with displeasure.

A daughter does not question her father’s choice.

Abdullah is a good Muslim man from our own blood.

That is all you need to know.

He turned to address my brothers about the financial and political aspects of the arrangement, effectively dismissing my existence from the conversation.

I sat there listening to them discuss my future like I was livestock being traded between farms.

That night I lay in my bed staring at the ceiling, my mind racing with desperate thoughts.

I tried praying to Allah for guidance, but the formal Arabic prayers felt more hollow than ever.

I found myself pleading in my native dialect instead, begging for some way out of this arrangement.

But every path I considered led to the same dead end.

In Saudi Arabia, a woman cannot travel without male permission.

I had no passport under my own control, no money that was not monitored by family accountants, no friends outside our close circle who could help me.

Over the following weeks, I watched helplessly as plans for my engagement moved forward.

Wedding planners arrived daily to discuss flowers, music, and guest lists for celebrations I wanted no part in.

Religious leaders came to counsel me about the duties of a Muslim wife, explaining in detail how my sole purpose would be to serve my husband, bear his children, and maintain his household according to Islamic law.

Every conversation reinforced that my personal feelings were irrelevant, and that happiness was a western concept that had no place in a godly marriage.

The most crushing moment came when I overheard my father speaking to Abdullah on the phone about my rebellious tendencies.

He was advising my future husband to be firm with me to break any independent spirit early in the marriage and to remember that women need strong male guidance to keep them on the righteous path.

Abdullah laughed and assured my father that he knew how to handle difficult women, referring to techniques he had used with his first wife.

Look inside your own heart right now and imagine discovering that your own father saw you as a problem to be solved rather than a daughter to be loved.

The realization that my family viewed me as defective for having personal thoughts and feelings shattered something deep inside me.

I began experiencing physical symptoms that I now recognize as panic attacks.

My chest would tighten until I could barely breathe.

My hands would shake uncontrollably.

And waves of nausea would overwhelm me at random moments.

Sleep became impossible.

I would lie awake for hours thinking about my future with a man who saw me as property in a system that offered no escape or appeal.

I stopped eating regularly, claiming I was fasting for extra spiritual devotion.

But really, I had lost all appetite.

Food tasted like ash in my mouth when I thought about spending the rest of my life in silent servitude.

My attempts to confide in female relatives were met with gentle but firm redirections.

Marriage is jihad for women.

My aunt told me, “Your struggle against your own desires is your path to paradise.

” My older sister, Fatima, still trapped in her own unhappy marriage, could only offer the same empty comfort.

Submission becomes easier with time, she whispered.

“Eventually, you stop remembering what you wanted before.

” The most terrifying realization was that everyone around me genuinely believed this was God’s will.

They were not being cruel or unusual by their standards.

They truly thought they were saving my soul by crushing my spirit.

That breaking my individual will was the most loving thing they could do for me.

This made their actions feel even more hopeless because I could not appeal to their compassion or sense of justice.

Two weeks before the engagement ceremony, I found myself researching escape routes on the limited internet access I was allowed.

But every search led to the same conclusion.

Women who fled arranged marriages in Saudi Arabia were considered criminals.

If caught, they faced imprisonment and their families were legally obligated to bring them back.

Even if I somehow made it to another country, I would be considered a fugitive and could be extradited back to face punishment.

Have you ever felt so trapped that even your dreams offered no escape? That was my state of mind as the engagement date approached.

I felt like I was slowly drowning in a sea of tradition and religious law, with every attempt to surface only pulling me deeper into despair.

The walls of my golden palace had become the walls of my prison, and I could see no key that would ever set me free.

The night of my engagement ceremony arrived like an executioner’s appointment.

300 guests filled our palace’s grand ballroom, including distant relatives who had traveled from across Saudi Arabia to witness what they considered a blessed union.

The women’s section was separated from the men’s by an ornate screen, allowing us to remove our face coverings while maintaining proper Islamic modesty.

I sat on a throne-like chair decorated with white roses and gold ribbons, wearing a emerald green dress that cost more than most people earn in a year.

Everyone kept commenting on how radiant I looked, how blessed I was to marry into such a prestigious family, how Allah had clearly favored me with this perfect arrangement.

But underneath the carefully applied makeup and forced smile, I felt like I was dying inside.

Each congratulation felt like another nail in my coffin.

The traditional music and celebratory singing sounded like funeral durges to my ears.

I kept nodding and thanking people while internally screaming for someone to rescue me from this nightmare.

Abdullah arrived with his family in a procession of luxury vehicles.

When he finally entered the women’s section briefly for the official betroal ceremony, I got my first close look at the man who would own me for the rest of my life.

He was tall and imposing with cold eyes that looked at me like I was an acquisition rather than a person.

When he spoke the traditional words, accepting me as his future wife, his voice carried no warmth or affection, only the satisfaction of a successful business transaction.

The most crushing moment came when he leaned close during the ring ceremony and whispered, “I expect complete obedience from my wife, my first marriage failed because my ex-wife had too many opinions.

I will not tolerate that from you.

His breath smelled of coffee and cigarettes, and his grip on my hand was unnecessarily tight, as if he was already asserting his dominance.

I managed to nod submissively while fighting back tears, knowing that hundreds of people were watching for my reaction.

After Abdullah left to rejoin the men’s celebration, the women surrounded me with more congratulations and advice about married life.

My grandmother pulled me aside and gave me what she considered wisdom about surviving marriage.

“Forget whatever foolish ideas you have about love or happiness,” she said matterof factly.

“Your job is to produce sons and keep your husband satisfied.

Everything else is vanity and rebellion against Allah’s plan.

” Her words were meant as kindness, but they felt like stones being thrown at my already broken spirit.

That night, I sat alone in my room, still wearing the engagement dress, unable to bring myself to remove it, because doing so would make everything feel more real.

The gold engagement ring felt like a shackle around my finger, heavy and cold against my skin.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror and barely recognized the person looking back at me.

My eyes looked dead, as if my soul had already begun separating from my body in preparation for the spiritual death that awaited me.

I tried one final time to pray to Allah for deliverance, prostrating myself on my prayer rug and reciting every verse I could remember about God’s mercy and compassion.

But the words felt like empty echoes bouncing off the walls of my room.

I begged him to give me strength to accept this path if it was truly his will, or to show me another way, if he had any love left for his daughters.

The silence that followed was deafening.

The next three days passed in a blur of wedding preparations that I watched like a spectator at my own funeral.

Dress fittings, menu tastings, flower arrangements, guest list confirmations.

Everyone around me was filled with excitement and purpose while I moved through each day like a ghost.

My mother tried several times to talk to me about what she called wedding nerves, but I could see in her eyes that she recognized the same despair she had once felt.

Have you ever felt so alone that even God seemed to have abandoned you? That was my state of mind as I lay in bed three nights after the engagement ceremony, staring at the ceiling and listening to the distant sounds of late night traffic outside the palace walls.

The sounds of freedom, the sounds of people who could choose their own destinies while I remained trapped in a life that felt like a death sentence.

The panic attacks had become constant by this point.

My chest would constrict so tightly I thought my ribs might crack.

My hands would shake so violently I could not hold a cup of tea.

Waves of nausea would hit me without warning, leaving me doubled over and gasping for breath.

But the worst symptom was the feeling of hopelessness that pressed down on me like a physical weight, making it hard to move or think clearly.

I found myself contemplating desperate measures to escape my fate.

For a brief moment, I considered throwing myself from my bedroom balcony, thinking that death might be preferable to a lifetime of spiritual bondage.

But even that escape was denied me because my room was only on the second floor and suicide was considered the ultimate sin in Islam, guaranteeing eternal damnation.

I was trapped not only in this life but terrified of the consequences in whatever came after.

Sleep had become impossible.

I would lie in bed for hours replaying every moment of the engagement ceremony, every cold word Abdullah had spoken, every piece of advice about submitting to my future husband’s will.

The wedding was now only 2 months away, and each passing day brought me closer to a point of no return.

Once I was legally married under Islamic law, there would be absolutely no escape.

Divorced women in our society were considered damaged goods, and running away from a husband was grounds for severe punishment.

That final night, before my world changed forever, I cried until I had no tears left.

I had exhausted every possible avenue of escape, every prayer for deliverance, every hope for rescue.

I felt completely abandoned by the Allah I had worshiped my entire life, forgotten by a god who seemed to care more about maintaining social order than protecting his daughters from spiritual death.

I fell asleep that night, believing that I would spend the rest of my life as a living corpse, going through the motions of existence, while my soul slowly withered away inside a marriage that felt like a tomb.

I must have fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion sometime around 3:00 in the morning.

But what happened next was unlike any dream I had ever experienced.

At first, I became aware of a gentle warmth filling my room, as if the morning sun was rising.

But when I looked toward the windows, it was still completely dark outside.

The warmth seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere at once, penetrating through my skin, and reaching places inside me that had been cold for months.

Then the light appeared.

Not the harsh fluorescent lighting of the palace or the golden glow of our chandeliers, but something pure and soft that made me feel safe for the first time in weeks.

The light grew brighter, but never hurt my eyes, and within it I began to see the outline of a figure approaching my bed.

My first instinct should have been fear, but instead I felt a peace so profound that my entire body relaxed completely.

The figure became clearer as it drew near, and I found myself looking at a man unlike anyone I had ever seen.

His face radiated love and compassion that seemed to pour directly into my heart.

His eyes held depths of understanding that made me feel like he could see every hurt I had ever carried, every fear that had ever tormented me, every desperate prayer I had ever whispered in the darkness.

But instead of judgment or disappointment, those eyes held only infinite tenderness.

He spoke to me in perfect Arabic, but with an accent I could not place.

His voice was gentle, yet carried an authority that made the very air in my room seemed to vibrate with power.

“My daughter,” he said, and those two words contained more love than I had heard in my entire 19 years of life.

“I have heard every cry of your heart.

I have counted every tear you have shed.

Your father in heaven knows your pain.

I tried to speak, to ask who he was, but no words would come.

Somehow he understood my unspoken question and smiled with such warmth that I felt my heart beginning to heal just from that expression.

I am Jesus, he said simply.

I am the way, the truth, and the life.

I have come to set you free from the chains that bind you, not just in this life, but for eternity.

The name Jesus sends shock waves through my Islamic upbringing.

I had been taught that Jesus was merely a prophet, that Christians had corrupted his message, that believing him to be the son of God was the ultimate blasphemy.

But standing in his presence, every theological argument I had ever learned crumbled like dust.

The love radiating from him was so pure, so complete that I knew without doubt I was in the presence of God himself.

But I am Muslim, I whispered, finally finding my voice.

I have worshiped Allah my entire life.

I have followed the Quran and the teachings of Muhammad.

How can this be possible? Jesus moved closer.

And I could see nail scars in his hands, wounds that should have been ancient, but somehow looked fresh, as if he had just endured them for my sake.

My child, he said gently, I died for you before you were born.

I took every punishment you deserve so that you could be free.

The God you have been seeking through Islam is not Allah but your heavenly father who created you for relationship not bondage.

Ask yourself this question.

Have you ever experienced love so powerful that it rewrote everything you thought you knew about reality? That was what happened to me in that moment.

The love flowing from Jesus was nothing like the distant demanding deity I had tried to please through Islamic rituals.

This was personal, intimate, overwhelming in its acceptance of me exactly as I was.

The marriage you fear will never happen,” Jesus continued.

And his words carried the weight of absolute truth.

I have a different plan for your life.

One that will bring you joy instead of sorrow, freedom instead of bondage.

But first, you must choose to follow me.

I will never force your decision, even to save you from suffering.

He extended his hand toward me, and I could see that the scars went all the way through his palm.

These wounds were for you, Amira, for your freedom, your forgiveness, your eternal salvation.

Will you accept the gift I purchased for you with my own blood? The moment felt suspended outside of time.

I understood that this was the most important decision I would ever make, not just for my immediate circumstances, but for my eternal destiny.

Every Islamic teaching I had ever learned warned against this moment.

Called it the ultimate betrayal of Allah.

But looking into Jesus’s eyes, I saw more truth and love than all my years of religious study had ever revealed.

“Yes,” I whispered, and the words seemed to echo through dimensions I could not see.

“Yes, I accept you as my Lord and Savior.

I believe you are the son of God who died for my sins.

I want to follow you whatever the cost.

The instant I spoke those words, I felt chains I had never seen breaking off my soul.

The spiritual weight that had pressed down on me for months suddenly lifted, replaced by a joy so intense I thought my heart might burst.

The fear that had dominated my thoughts for weeks vanished completely.

Not because my circumstances had changed, but because I now belonged to someone more powerful than any earthly authority.

Jesus smiled with such radiance that the whole room seemed to fill with celebration.

Now you are my daughter, purchased by my blood, sealed by my spirit.

No one can snatch you from my father’s hand.

The courage you need will be given to you.

The way of escape will be made clear.

Trust in me and I will lead you to freedom.

He began to fade but his voice remains strong and clear.

Remember this moment when fear tries to return.

Remember my love when others reject you.

Remember my promises when the path becomes difficult.

I will never leave you nor forsake you for you are mine forever.

The light gradually dimmed until my room returned to normal darkness.

But the peace and joy remained flooding my heart.

For the first time in my life, I felt truly loved, completely accepted, and absolutely secure.

I was no longer Amira, the trapped Saudi princess.

I was God’s beloved daughter and nothing would ever be the same again.

The escape happened exactly as Jesus had promised it would.

During my uncle’s birthday celebration, when the palace was filled with extended family and the security guards were distracted by managing the large gathering, I slipped out through the kitchen corridors with a Christian woman named Sarah, who had been working as a servant in our household for 2 years.

No one had suspected that this quiet, submissive worker was actually a missionary risking her life to help trapped Muslim women find freedom in Christ.

The journey to the Jordan border took 18 hours through desert roads and mountain passes I had never seen before.

Sarah and three other believers drove in shifts, stopping only for fuel and prayer.

They had prepared false identification documents, civilian clothes to replace my royal attire, and enough money to start a new life.

But more importantly, they carried Bibles in Arabic and English, Christian music, and testimonies from other Muslim women who had found freedom through Jesus.

During that long drive through the Arabian desert, I experienced God’s protection in ways that can only be described as miraculous.

At two separate checkpoints, guards who should have recognized my face from wanted posters looked directly at me and waved our vehicle through without question.

Sarah told me that the Christian underground had been praying for my journey for weeks, asking God to blind the eyes of those who would harm me.

When we finally crossed into Jordan, I fell to my knees in the sand and wept with relief.

For the first time in my life, I was in a country where I could worship Jesus openly without fear of death.

Sarah knelt beside me and we prayed together, thanking God for his faithfulness and asking him to guide the next steps of my journey toward complete freedom.

The refugee processing center in Aman became my temporary home for 3 months while my asylum application was reviewed.

Living in a crowded facility with other displaced people taught me about suffering I had never imagined during my privileged life in the palace.

But it also showed me the incredible resilience of human beings who refuse to give up hope even in the darkest circumstances.

During those months, I received my first real Christian disciplehip from a Jordanian pastor who visited the refugee center weekly.

Pastor Ysef had been a Muslim convert himself 20 years earlier, so he understood exactly what I was experiencing.

He taught me to read the Bible systematically, explained Christian theology, and helped me understand how my new faith would reshape every aspect of my identity.

The hardest part of those early days was learning about the family I had left behind.

Through carefully guarded communications, I discovered that my father had disowned me completely, declaring me dead to the family.

My siblings were forbidden from speaking my name and my mother had fallen into a deep depression.

The arranged marriage to Abdullah had been cancelled, bringing shame on both families and confirming their view that I was a selfish traitor who cared only about my own desires.

Have you ever experienced the pain of losing everyone you love because you chose to follow Jesus? The grief was overwhelming at times, but it also deepened my understanding of what Christ had sacrificed for me.

He had left his heavenly family to rescue me from spiritual death.

And now I was learning what it meant to share in his sufferings.

After 6 months, my asylum request was approved and I was relocated to a Christian community in Canada.

The transition from Saudi royalty to Canadian refugee was jarring in every possible way.

I had to learn how to use public transportation, shop for groceries, manage money, and navigate a culture where women could speak freely and make their own decisions.

But every challenge was also a gift.

Another taste of the freedom Jesus had purchased for me.

The local church that sponsored my resettlement became my new family.

These believers welcomed me with unconditional love, providing everything from winter, clothes to English language lessons to emotional support during my darkest moments of homesickness and grief.

They never made me feel like a burden or an outsider, even though my background was so different from theirs.

One of the most healing experiences was my baptism 18 months after arriving in Canada.

Standing in the church’s baptismal pool, I publicly declared my faith in Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior.

When the pastor lowered me into the water, I felt the last chains of my Islamic past breaking away forever.

When I came up out of the water, I was completely new creation, washed clean by the blood of Jesus and filled with his Holy Spirit.

God began opening doors for me to share my testimony at churches across Canada and eventually throughout North America.

The story of a Saudi princess who found freedom in Christ resonated with believers who had never considered the persecution faced by Muslim converts.

More importantly, my testimony began reaching other Muslim women who were trapped in situations similar to what I had experienced.

Over the years, I have received thousands of messages from women throughout the Middle East who heard my story and found hope for their own circumstances.

Some have made the dangerous journey to faith in Christ, while others are still praying for courage to take that step.

Each testimony reminds me that my escape was not just about my personal freedom, but about God using my story to reach others who desperately need his love.

5 years after my escape, I met David, a Christian man who worked with persecution ministries in the Middle East.

Our relationship was everything I had dreamed marriage could be, but never thought possible.

Built on mutual respect, genuine love, and shared commitment to Christ, our marriage became a beautiful picture of how God intended the relationship between husband and wife to function.

When we exchanged vows, I thanked Jesus for saving me from a marriage that would have destroyed my soul and bringing me into a partnership that glorifies him.

David and I now have two beautiful children who are being raised to know Jesus as their personal savior and to understand the cost of religious freedom.

We have established a ministry that helps Muslim women escape forced marriages and persecution, providing safe houses, legal assistance, and Christian disciplehip to women who are following the same path I once walked.

I’m asking you, just as a sister would, to consider what God might be calling you to sacrifice for the sake of the gospel.

My story did not end with my escape from Saudi Arabia.

It began there.

Jesus saved me from more than an arranged marriage.

He saved my eternal soul and gave me a purpose that brings meaning to every day of my life.

The princess who once lived in a golden cage now helps other women find the true freedom that can only be found in Christ.

When I passed away in 2019 after a brief battle with cancer, I knew that my testimony would continue to impact lives long after my death.

Have you experienced the freedom that only Jesus can give? If not, I pray that my story will point you toward the Savior who loves you more than you can imagine and who died to set you free from every chain that binds you.