This testimony isn’t just another story.

It’s one of those rare journeys that shakes the very foundation of what you believe and makes you question everything you thought you knew.

Beloved, lean in and watch closely.

Every moment of this testimony reveals how the unstoppable love of Jesus tears down lies, shatters false beliefs, and opens the door to the freedom we all long for.

My name is Amamira Castillo and I grew up in a quiet village in Costa Rica where everyone in my neighborhood followed my father’s teachings.

He was the imam of our small mosque, a man respected by many and feared by some.

From the time I was little, I was taught to pray five times a day, memorize verses, and never question our faith.

I tried my best to please my father and make him proud.

Our home was always filled with people coming to ask my father for prayers, advice, or blessings.

I would sit by the door and listen quietly, sometimes wondering if God ever listened back to us.

I never said that aloud because doubt was not allowed in our home.

My mother would smile gently at me and say, “Just believe, Amira.

” So, I did, or at least I tried.

One morning when I was 10, something strange happened.

I woke up before dawn and felt a warmth in my room, soft like sunlight, even though it was still dark.

I thought maybe the lamp was on, but it wasn’t.

I sat up and felt peace I couldn’t explain.

It was as if someone invisible was near me, calm and kind, watching over me.

I didn’t see anyone, but deep inside, I knew something or someone was there.

That day, everything felt different.

When I went to school, I found myself smiling at people I usually ignored.

Even the girl who always teased me about my hijab didn’t make me angry.

I didn’t understand why, but I felt lighter, like my heart had been washed clean.

When I got home, I told my mother about the strange light in my room.

She frowned and said it might have been a dream, but I wasn’t sure.

That night, when I lay down again, I whispered, “Whoever you are, thank you.

” I didn’t know it then, but that was the beginning of my journey.

The morning that would one day change my whole family, my father, and even our village.

Days passed, but the feeling inside me stayed.

It wasn’t just peace.

It was as if a gentle voice had moved into my heart.

Not a loud or scary voice, but a whisper that seemed to guide me.

When I got angry or afraid, it reminded me to be kind, to forgive, and to pray not out of fear, but out of love.

One afternoon after school, I sat by the mango tree behind our house reading my Arabic lessons.

Suddenly, I felt that same warm presence again.

My heart began to beat faster, but not from fear.

I felt a quiet nudge as if someone was saying, “Look beyond the words.

” I didn’t understand what that meant, but it stayed in my mind.

That evening, my father came home tired.

He had been at the mosque all day teaching.

I wanted to tell him about what I felt, but I was afraid he would think I was being foolish.

So, I just smiled and helped my mother prepare his food.

Later that night, when everyone was asleep, I knelt beside my bed and whispered to the unseen presence again.

“Are you Allah?” I asked softly.

Why do you make me feel so loved? I didn’t hear an answer, but I suddenly remembered a story my teacher once mentioned about a man named Isa who healed the sick and brought peace wherever he went.

Some said he was a prophet, others said he was more.

As I thought of him, tears filled my eyes, and that same warmth surrounded me again.

Over the next weeks, I started dreaming of a man whose face I could never fully see, but who carried light wherever he walked.

Each time, I woke up with a piece too strong to describe.

Once I dreamed that he touched my shoulder and let me know that he loved me and had chosen me to show love to others, even when they would not understand.

I didn’t tell anyone, not my friends, not even my mother.

But deep inside, I began to change.

I wanted to help others to share kindness without expecting anything back.

The whisper in my heart grew stronger each day and it made me want to know who I isa truly was.

From that time on, I couldn’t stop thinking about Isa, the man of peace in my dreams.

Who was he really? Was he just a prophet or was there more to him? I wanted to know, but I had to be careful.

In our town, asking too many questions about other faiths could cause trouble, especially for someone like me, the Imam’s daughter.

One afternoon after school, I went to the small public library near the market.

My father hardly went there, so it felt safe.

I looked around the shelves until I found a section marked Religion Delmundo.

My hands shook as I pulled out a small Spanish Bible.

It was old and torn, but as I opened it, I felt the same warmth I had felt during my dreams.

I whispered, “Please let me understand.

” I began reading slowly from the book of Luke.

The stories about Jesus touched my heart deeply.

He healed people others rejected.

He forgave those who hurt him.

And he spoke of loving enemies, blessing those who curse you.

It was so different from the fear I had grown up with.

Each page made my heart burn like light was entering the deepest parts of me.

When I read about his death and resurrection, I cried quietly in that corner of the library.

Something inside me whispered again, letting me know that this was true, that he really did rise again.

And in that moment, I felt the whisper say that he loved me, too.

After that day, I started visiting the library every week, hiding the Bible inside my school bag.

I read whenever I could on the bus behind the mosque when no one was watching.

Even late at night under my blanket with a flashlight.

The more I read, the more I understood that Jesus wasn’t just a prophet.

He was alive and he was calling me to follow him.

But fear began to grow in me, too.

I knew if my father found out, he would be heartbroken, maybe even angry.

In our family, turning to Jesus was not only forbidden, it was seen as betrayal.

Still, the peace I felt from him was stronger than the fear.

I prayed quietly, “Help me to be brave.

” It happened one evening when the sky was painted orange with the setting sun.

I had just returned from the library and was hiding in my room with the Bible under my pillow.

My heart was full.

I had just finished reading the story where Jesus calmed the storm.

and I felt that same piece settle inside me again.

But as I was about to hide the Bible deeper in my drawer, my door swung open.

It was my father.

He looked tired but serious.

“A mirror,” he said.

“What are you hiding?” My hands trembled.

I tried to smile and said, “Just my schoolwork.

” But as he came closer, the edge of the Bible slipped out from under my pillow.

He saw it.

In an instant, his face changed.

confusion, then anger.

He grabbed it from my hand.

What is this? He shouted.

“Where did you get this book?” I couldn’t speak.

My lips quivered.

My mother came rushing in, her face pale with worry.

“Please let her explain,” she whispered.

But my father didn’t listen.

He opened the book and saw the name Jesus on the pages.

He looked at me again, his eyes filled with pain.

You have brought shame to this family,” he said softly.

That night, no one spoke to me.

My mother cried in the kitchen while I sat in my room, staring at the floor.

For the first time, I felt the weight of persecution, the cost of believing in Jesus.

I didn’t sleep.

I kept praying silently, asking God to help my father understand.

The next morning, my father didn’t go to the mosque.

He stayed home and prayed in his room for hours.

When he came out, his face looked tired but less angry.

He sat beside me quietly.

Amir, he said, “Why do you believe in this Jesus?” My heart pounded.

I told him about the light I saw, the dreams, and the peace I felt every time I prayed in his name.

I told him Jesus taught me to forgive, to love, and to care for people without fear.

My father listened silently, not interrupting once.

Then he stood up and left the room.

For days he didn’t speak to me again, but I noticed him watching me from a distance, watching the way I treated others, how I prayed quietly, and how I never stopped smiling even though I felt so alone.

He didn’t know it, but the same Jesus who touched my heart was already beginning to touch his.

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After that day, things in our home became strangely quiet.

My father stopped inviting guests for a while and even the mosque visits grew fewer.

He didn’t scold me anymore, but he also didn’t speak much to me.

Still, I could feel something changing in him, something I couldn’t explain.

Sometimes I caught him standing outside my room when I prayed softly.

He would listen for a moment and then walk away.

I didn’t pray loudly, but I always whispered words of love and forgiveness, asking God to show him the same peace he gave me.

One evening, my father sat alone in the living room.

I was passing by when he called me softly, “Amira, come sit.

” I obeyed quietly, unsure what he wanted.

He looked at me for a long time, then asked, “When you pray, what do you feel?” I thought carefully before answering, “I feel peace, Papa.

I feel love.

It’s like a hand holding my heart even when I’m afraid.

” He didn’t reply.

Instead, he lowered his head and sighed deeply.

“I’ve prayed all my life,” he said quietly.

“I’ve followed every rule, but lately, I feel like God is far from me.

” His voice cracked.

It was the first time I had ever seen tears in his eyes.

I wanted to reach out and comfort him, but I stayed still.

I only said, “He’s closer than you think, Papa.

” A week later, I noticed him reading the Bible I thought he had thrown away.

He didn’t hide it.

He just sat quietly under the mango tree where I used to read.

I didn’t disturb him.

I simply prayed from my room, thanking God for what he was doing.

The silence in our house no longer felt heavy.

It felt holy, like something sacred was growing between the walls.

My mother began to soften, too.

Though she didn’t say much, I often saw her glancing at my father, curious about what he was reading.

The peace that started in my heart was slowly spreading to my family.

Not through my words, but through the quiet work of the one who changed me.

It was a rainy night.

The wind pressed against the windows and thunder rolled across the hills.

I couldn’t sleep.

Something inside me told me to pray.

I knelt by my bed, whispering, “Lord, please reach my father.

Let him see you the way I have.

” As I prayed, I suddenly felt that same warmth again, the one that had filled my room months ago.

It wrapped around me like gentle light.

Then, deep inside, I felt that peaceful voice speak again.

He let me know that he was also near my father.

At that very moment, I didn’t understand fully, but I kept praying.

The next morning, I saw my father sitting outside under the mango tree.

His eyes were red as though he had been crying.

In front of him was the Bible opened to the book of John.

He didn’t look angry or confused anymore, just quiet and thoughtful.

When he noticed me, he said, “Amira, last night I couldn’t sleep.

I prayed for truth.

I asked God to show me who he really is.

I saw a light.

It wasn’t from the lamp.

It filled the whole room.

I felt peace and I heard words inside me saying that Isa is the way, the truth, and the life.

He looked down as if afraid of his own words.

I don’t understand it all, he said softly.

But I can’t deny what I felt.

My heart swelled with joy, but I didn’t shout.

I just smiled and said, “Papa, that’s him.

He’s been calling you too.

” He closed the Bible gently and looked at me.

“I don’t know what this will mean for us,” he said.

“People will not understand.

They may turn against us.

” I nodded because I knew he was right.

But I also knew that the same Jesus who gave us peace would give us courage.

That evening, he gathered our family together.

My mother sat close, holding her scarf tightly, and my younger brothers looked curious.

My father spoke with calm strength I had never seen before.

He said he had found the truth and that from now on, our family would follow Jesus, the one who brings true peace.

There was silence at first.

Then my mother began to cry, not from anger, but from relief.

She said she too had seen a soft light near her bed the night before and had felt comfort in her heart.

My brothers, though confused, sat quietly as my father prayed for us for the first time, not in the way we used to, but simply from his heart.

That night, our house became something new.

The peace that once lived only in my heart now filled every room.

Not long after my father’s decision, the news spread through our town.

Someone from the mosque must have noticed that he had stopped attending the daily prayers.

Soon whispers began.

First among neighbors, then among his students, and finally throughout the whole community.

One afternoon, while we were eating, there was a loud knock at the door.

When my father opened it, three men from the mosque stood there.

Their faces were hard and cold.

One of them said, “We’ve heard things, Imam Castillo.

People say you’ve turned away from your faith.

Is this true? My father stood tall, though his voice trembled slightly.

I have found peace in Isa Amasi, he said.

I cannot deny what God has shown me.

The men grew angry.

You’re misleading the people.

One of them shouted.

You of all people are teacher.

They warned him to repent or leave the town.

My mother held my brothers close and I stood frozen behind the door.

When they left, the house fell silent.

My father looked weary but peaceful.

“We will not fight them,” he said.

“We will love them.

We will pray for them.

” The days that followed were difficult.

Some neighbors stopped greeting us.

Others threw stones at our gate at night.

The market sellers refused to sell us food.

Yet my father never raised his voice or cursed them.

Instead, he visited some of them quietly, helping when they were sick or bringing food when their children were hungry.

At first, they turned him away, but slowly something began to change.

One of the men whose wife had fallen ill came to our house for help because no one else would go near them.

My father prayed with him gently, and not long after, the woman recovered.

Word spread quietly that the fallen Imam had prayed in the name of Jesus and someone got healed.

More people began to visit us secretly asking my father about the peace he spoke of.

He never argued.

He only shared his story and what Jesus had done for him.

I often sat beside him listening as he spoke with calm love to those who once hated him.

The same community that had turned against us slowly began to see something different.

Not religion, but a living piece they couldn’t explain.

Our suffering became our witness.

The storm that tried to destroy us became the very wind that carried the message of Jesus to others.

Months passed and our lives slowly began to bloom again.

Not with comfort, but with quiet strength.

The people who once avoided us started coming in secret to listen to my father speak about Jesus.

He no longer stood at the mosque’s pulpit.

Instead, he sat under our old mango tree with a small Bible in his hand, sharing stories about forgiveness, love, and peace.

At first, only two or three came, mostly those who were curious.

But as time went on, more began to gather.

Some came at night to avoid being seen.

Others brought their children, saying they wanted them to hear words that gave hope.

My mother would serve them tea, and I would sing softly the songs I learned from reading the psalms.

I watched my father, the same man who once taught with fear, now teaching with kindness and humility.

He didn’t try to prove anyone wrong.

He simply told them how Jesus had changed his heart.

I saw hardened men wipe tears from their faces, and women who had once mocked us now bow their heads in prayer.

One evening as the sun was setting, our yard was filled with people.

My father shared about the love that Jesus gives freely.

Love that forgives even enemies.

When he finished speaking, silence covered the crowd.

Then, one by one, people began to whisper prayers of their own.

It was then I felt that same warmth again, stronger than ever before.

It was as if the light that had filled my room months ago now filled the entire yard.

I didn’t see anything with my eyes, but I knew Jesus was there among us, smiling, comforting, drawing hearts to him.

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That night, my father told us that the love of God was never meant to be hidden.

The same Jesus who met us in secret, he said, is now calling others into his light.

The next morning, we woke to find even more people waiting at our gate.

farmers, merchants, mothers, all asking to know more about the peace they had heard in my father’s words.

Our small home became a place of prayer and worship.

And though we still faced threats from a few who were angry, the joy that grew among us was stronger than the fear.

The light that began in a little girl’s room had now spread to the whole village, shining quietly, changing hearts one by one.

As more people came to hear my father speak, our home could no longer hold them all.

The mango tree that once shaded a few of us now had dozens gathered beneath it every week.

My father never called it a church, but that’s what it had become, a gathering of hearts that had found peace in Jesus.

Soon, people from nearby towns began to visit because we lived in a Christian dominated area.

Some had heard about the former Imam who now taught about forgiveness and love through Christ.

Others came simply to see if the rumors were true.

They would sit quietly as my father shared our story.

How light entered our home and changed everything.

One day, a family from a town 2 hours away came to see us.

The father said he had been one of my father’s students years ago and that he had always respected him.

If you, my teacher, have found truth in Jesus, he said softly, then I want to know him, too.

Tears filled my father’s eyes as he prayed with them.

That moment marked the beginning of something much bigger than our family.

Little by little, small groups began to form in other towns.

People who wanted to read the Bible, to pray, and to learn how to live in peace.

The change wasn’t easy.

Some of my father’s old friends turned away completely.

Once when he went to a nearby town to speak, a few men threw stones at him.

He came home with a cut on his forehead but a smile on his face.

“Don’t be sad, Amira,” he said gently.

“Even when people hurt us, we will keep loving them.

That’s how Jesus wins hearts.

” His words stayed with me.

They taught me that courage isn’t about fighting back.

It’s about standing firm in love when the world pushes against you.

As time passed, my father became known not just as the man who left the mosque, but as a messenger of peace.

My mother began to teach women how to pray and forgive.

I helped with the children, teaching them stories from the Bible in simple words.

Sometimes I sat under the tree at sunset and thought about how it all began.

With a little light in my room and a whisper in my heart, I realized that God often starts big things in small, quiet ways.

We didn’t plan to change the world, but Jesus did something beautiful through our pain.

Our story became a bridge for others to find the same love that found us.

Now years have passed since that first morning when the light entered my room.

I am no longer the small, frightened girl who hid a Bible under her pillow.

I have grown and with me has grown a deeper understanding of what it means to follow Jesus.

But I have also learned that walking with Jesus is not always easy.

There are moments of pain, rejection, and loneliness.

There were times when I asked why people hated us for simply choosing peace.

Yet in every moment of sorrow, I felt his hand near me, steady, warm, and unshaken.

He never left us.

To every believer who reads or hears my story, I want to say this.

Do not be afraid to stand firm in your faith even when others don’t understand.

Courage in persecution is not shouting louder than others.

It’s loving when others hate, forgiving when others wound you, and trusting God when the path ahead seems dark.