This was the truth I had been searching for my entire life without knowing it.

I started meeting with the pastor twice a week.

I brought every hard question I could think of.

How could God be three persons but one God? If Jesus was God, how could he die? Why did he have to die at all? If the Bible had been corrupted like I’d been taught, how could we trust it? What about all the supposed contradictions? What about the Quran’s claim to be the final revelation? The pastor answered every question.

He never got defensive or frustrated with me.

He pointed me to scripture, explained theology, shared historical evidence, but always brought it back to Jesus himself.

Don’t get so caught up in defending doctrines that you miss the person.

He told me, “Christianity isn’t about having all the right answers.

It’s about knowing Jesus, having a relationship with him, being transformed by his love.

” And that’s what got me the relationship part.

Islam had given me rules to follow, rituals to perform, a system to obey, but it had never given me a relationship with God.

Allah was distant, unknowable, a master to be feared and obeyed.

But Jesus offered something completely different.

Not a religion, but a relationship.

Not performance, but grace.

not earning your way to God, but being loved by God, even in your unworthiness.

I was terrified of what accepting this would cost me.

My family would be devastated.

My father would disown me.

My mother would weep and beg me to reconsider.

My siblings would cut me off.

The entire Muslim community I’d been part of for 34 years would reject me, maybe even threaten me.

I knew what Islam taught about apostates.

I knew the dangers of leaving the faith.

But every time I tried to push Jesus away, I remembered that light, that presence, that overwhelming love that had shattered me on the sidewalk.

And I knew I couldn’t go back.

I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t experienced what I had experienced.

I couldn’t deny the truth just to keep my family and community comfortable.

On August 15th, 2023, alone in my apartment at 2:00 a.

m.

, I stopped fighting.

I had been pacing my living room for hours, wrestling with God, arguing with him, pleading with him to let me go back to my old life.

But he wouldn’t let me go.

His love pursued me relentlessly, cornered me, left me with no escape.

I fell to my knees on my living room floor.

The same posture I’d been in when Jesus first revealed himself to me.

But this time, I wasn’t praying to Allah.

I was praying to Jesus.

I said out loud, my voice shaking.

Jesus, I believe you’re real.

I believe you’re the son of God.

I believe you died for my sins and rose again on the third day.

I don’t understand everything.

I’m terrified of what comes next.

But I surrender.

I’m yours.

Take my life.

Make me new.

Save me.

What happened next wasn’t dramatic like the light in the storm had been.

There was no supernatural manifestation, no voice from heaven, no physical sensation.

But there was peace.

deep, profound, unshakable peace that flooded my heart like warm water, washing away years of striving and fear and anger and pride.

For the first time in my life, I felt truly known and truly loved at the same time.

Not loved because I performed the right rituals or followed the right rules.

Loved because Jesus had chosen to love me, had pursued me, had broken through every wall I’d built.

Loved not for what I could do, but for who he was.

I wept again.

But these were different tears.

Not tears of breaking, but tears of relief.

Tears of coming home after being lost for so long.

tears of finally finding what I’d been searching for my entire life without even knowing I was searching.

I stayed on my knees for a long time, just experiencing that peace, letting it sink into every part of me.

And when I finally stood up, I was different.

The old Nadgam, the Muslim who had walked up to that church three weeks ago, was gone.

In his place was someone new, someone being remade by the love of Christ.

I didn’t know what would come next.

I didn’t know how my family would react or what I would lose.

But I knew I had found the truth.

And that truth had set me free.

3 weeks after my surrender to Jesus on September 10th, 2023, I was baptized at the same church where Jesus had confronted me.

Standing in that baptismal pool, looking out at the congregation, I felt the weight of what was happening.

Many of these people had been there that Sunday when I knelt outside with my prayer mat.

They had watched me come in hostility and witnessed God break me with love.

Now they were here to celebrate my new birth.

The pastor stood beside me in the water, his hand on my shoulder.

He looked at me with such genuine joy and said loud enough for everyone to hear, “Mam, do you renounce your old life and accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior? Do you believe he died for your sins and rose again on the third day?” I said yes
with every ounce of conviction in my body.

My voice didn’t shake.

I wasn’t uncertain.

I had counted the cost and I was ready.

The pastor smiled and said, “Then I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

” He lowered me back into the water.

And for a moment I was completely submerged, surrounded by water, the old life being washed away.

Then he raised me up and the congregation erupted in applause and tears.

When I came up from that water, gasping and dripping, I felt like a new creation.

The old Nagam who had lived for Islam, who had defined himself by his religious performance, who had been so full of pride and anger, he died in that water.

The person who emerged was different, remade, belonging to Gizas now.

But I knew what was coming.

I had put of telling my family for as long as I could, but I couldn’t hide my conversion forever.

The day after my baptism, I drove to my parents’ house.

My hands were shaking on the steering wheel the entire way.

I had rehearsed what I would say a 100 times, but nothing could prepare me for what was about to happen.

I sat down with my parents in the living room.

My mother sensed something was wrong immediately.

She kept asking if I was sick, if I was in trouble, if something had happened.

My father just watched me with narrowed eyes, already suspicious.

I took a deep breath and said it plainly.

I’ve become a Christian.

I’ve accepted Jesus as my Lord and Savior.

I was baptized yesterday.

The silence that followed was deafening.

My mother’s face went white.

Her hand flew to her mouth.

My father’s expression transformed from suspicion to fury in an instant.

He stood up from his chair, towering over me, his face red with red.

He shouted at me in a voice I had never heard from him before.

You have betrayed everything, everything we taught you, everything we believe, everything our family stands for.

you are a traitor to Islam, to your heritage, to your own blood.

I tried to explain.

I tried to tell them about the experience outside the church, about the light, about the overwhelming love I had felt.

But my father wouldn’t listen.

He cut me off, his voice rising higher.

I don’t want to hear your excuses.

I don’t want to hear about your delusions.

You have brought shame on this family.

Do you know what you’ve done? Do you understand what this means? My mother was weeping now, rocking back and forth, her hands covering her face.

She kept saying through her sobs, “How could you do this to us? How could you throw away your soul? You’re going to hell, Nagam.

You’re condemning yourself to eternal fire.

” I felt my own tears starting, but I forced myself to stay calm.

I said, “I’m not condemning myself.

I’ve found the truth.

I found Jesus.

He is the way to God, not Muhammad, not the Quran.

Jesus is the truth.

” That was too much for my father.

He pointed at the door and said in a voice cold as ice, “Get out.

Get out of my house.

You are no longer my son.

You are dead to me, dead to this family.

We will mourn you as if you had died because the son we raised is gone.

My mother wailed at his words, but she didn’t contradict him.

My siblings, who had come into the room when they heard the shouting, just stared at me with expressions of shock and disgust.

Not one of them defended me.

Not one of them asked to hear my side.

I stood up, my legs unsteady.

I looked at each of them, trying to memorize their faces because I didn’t know when or if I would see them again.

I said quietly, “I love you all.

I’m sorry this hurts you, but I can’t deny what I’ve experienced.

I can’t deny Jesus.

I hope someday you’ll understand.

” My father’s response was to turn his back on me completely.

My mother wouldn’t even look at me.

I walked out of that house knowing I had just lost my entire family.

Over the next few days, the rejection spread through my community like wildfire.

Friends from the mosque blocked my number.

People I had known for years crossed the street to avoid me.

Someone’s spray painted the word apostate on my car.

I received threatening messages telling me I deserved what happens to people who leave Islam.

I won’t sugarcoat this for you.

The cost of following Jesus was real and it was devastating.

There were nights I cried myself to sleep, missing my family, feeling the crushing weight of isolation.

There were moments I wondered if I had made a terrible mistake, if the price was too high.

But then I would remember that light, that presence, that overwhelming love that had shattered me on the sidewalk outside the church.

And I knew no matter what it cost me, I had found the truth.

I had found Jesus.

And he was worth everything I had lost.

The church became my new family.

The people who had watched me pray outside their building with hostility now welcomed me with open arms.

They helped me find a new job when my old employer, also Muslim, fired me for converting.

They invited me to dinners, to Bible studies, to their homes.

They walked with me through the hardest season of my life, showing me what the body of Christ really means.

The pastor became like a father to me.

He discipled me, taught me, encouraged me when I was struggling.

He never minimized my pain, but he also never let me wallow in it.

He kept pointing me back to Jesus, reminding me that what I had gained was infinitely greater than what I had lost.

And slowly, painfully, I began to experience something I had never had in Islam.

Through freedom, freedom from the fear that one mistake could send me to hell.

Freedom from the endless striving to earn God’s favor through perfect performance.

Freedom from the uncertainty of never knowing if I had done enough.

In Islam, I had lived under the weight of constant religious obligation.

Five prayers a day, fasting, following countless rules and regulations, always wondering if Allah was pleased or displeased with me.

But in Christ, I found rest.

Not because I had stopped serving God, but because my service came from love and gratitude, not fear and obligation.

I learned what grace actually meant.

Not just a theological concept, but a daily reality.

Every morning I woke up knowing I was loved, not because of what I had done, but because of what Jesus had done.

My salvation didn’t depend on my performance.

It was secure in Christ’s finished work on the cross.

Today, I serve in outreach ministry at the same Protestant church where Jesus confronted me.

I share my testimony with Muslim communities, not to attack Islam or make people feel bad, but to point them to Jesus.

I know what it’s like to be on the other side.

I know the questions, the doubts, the fears, and I can speak to Muslims in a way that many lifelong Christians can’t.

Every Sunday, I walk past that spot on the sidewalk where my prayer mat used to be.

I can still picture it clearly.

Me kneeling there in my white soul, so full of pride and anger, so certain I was right.

And I remember how God met me in my rebellion and broke me with his love.

That spot on the sidewalk is sacred ground to me now.

It’s where I encountered the living God.

It’s where my old life ended and my new life began.

It’s where the proud Muslim named Naga died and a child of God was born.

If you’re Muslim and you’re watching this, I want to say something to you directly.

I know what it costs to even consider that Jesus might be who he claims to be.

I know the fear of family rejection, of community ostracism, of losing your entire identity.

I’ve lived it.

I’m still living some of it.

But I’m telling you from the depths of my experience, Jesus is worth it.

He is who he says he is.

He is the son of God, the word made flesh.

the only way to the father.

Not because I read it in the book or because someone convinced me intellectually because he revealed himself to me in a way that was undeniable.

Don’t take my word for it.

Ask him yourself.

Pray and ask Jesus to reveal himself to you if he’s real.

He met me on a sidewalk when I was actively opposing him.

He pursued me when I was running away.

He broke through every wall I had built.

He’ll meet you wherever you are.

And if you’re a Christian watching this, let me encourage you.

Never underestimate the power of love and kindness.

That pastor could have called the police on me that Sunday.

The church members could have been hostile or defensive.

Instead, they showed me compassion when I least deserved it.

They responded to my provocation with grace.

That kindness cracked open my heart.

It made me receptive to the gospel in a way that arguments never could have.

You never know when your patient, loving response to hostility might be exactly what God uses to reach someone.

Look inside your own heart right now.

Is there someone you’ve written off as too far gone? Too hostile to the gospel? Too set in their ways? I was that person.

I was a Muslim so zealous I publicly prayed outside a church to prove a point.

And Jesus pursued me anyway.

He broke through every barrier I had erected.

He shattered my pride, demolished my certainty, and rebuilt me from the ground up.

And he’ll do the same for anyone willing to encounter him honestly.

My name is Nagam.

On July 23rd, 2020, I went to a Protestant church as a Muslim trying to make a statement about religious freedom and Islamic visibility.

Jesus met me there with a love so overwhelming I couldn’t resist it.

He took my pride, my anger, my entire false foundation and replaced it with himself.

I lost my family.

I lost my community.

I lost my old life and everything I had built my identity on.

But I gained eternal life, true peace and a relationship with the living God.

I gained freedom from fear and religious performance.

I gained a love that will never let me go.

If Jesus can reach me, he can reach anyone, even you.

Don’t wait for a supernatural light from heaven.

Seek him today with an honest heart.

He’s already seeking you.

Jesus is Lord.

That’s not just what I believe now.

That’s what I know.

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(1848, Macon) Light-Skinned Woman Disguised as White Master: 1,000-Mile Escape in Plain Sight

The hand holding the scissors trembled slightly as Ellen Craft stared at her reflection in the small cracked mirror.

In 72 hours, she would be sitting in a first class train car next to a man who had known her since childhood.

A man who could have her dragged back in chains with a single word.

And he wouldn’t recognize her.

He couldn’t because the woman looking back at her from that mirror no longer existed.

It was December 18th, 1848 in Mon, Georgia, and Ellen was about to attempt something that had never been done before.

A thousand-mile escape through the heart of the slaveolding south, traveling openly in broad daylight in first class.

But there was a problem that made the plan seem utterly impossible.

Ellen was a woman.

William was a man.

A light-skinned woman and a dark-skinned man traveling together would draw immediate suspicion, questions, searches.

The patrols would stop them before they reached the city limits.

So, Ellen had conceived a plan so audacious that even William had initially refused to believe it could work.

She would become a white man.

Not just any white man, a wealthy, sickly southern gentleman traveling north for medical treatment, accompanied by his faithful manservant.

The ultimate disguise, hiding in the most visible place possible, protected by the very system designed to keep her enslaved.

Ellen set down the scissors and picked up the components of her transformation.

Each item acquired carefully over the past week.

A pair of dark glasses to hide her eyes.

a top hat that would shadow her face, trousers, a coat, and a high collared shirt that would conceal her feminine shape, and most crucially, a sling for her right arm.

The sling served a purpose that went beyond mere costume.

Ellen had been deliberately kept from learning to read or write, a common practice designed to keep enslaved people dependent and controllable.

Every hotel would require a signature.

Every checkpoint might demand written documentation.

The sling would excuse her from putting pen to paper.

One small piece of cloth standing between her and exposure.

William watched from the corner of the small cabin they shared, his carpenter’s hands clenched into fists.

He had built furniture for some of the wealthiest families in Mon, his skill bringing profit to the man who claimed to own him.

Now those same hands would have to play a role he had spent his life resisting.

The subservient servant bowing and scraping to someone pretending to be his master.

“Say it again,” Ellen whispered, not turning from the mirror.

“What do I need to remember?” William’s voice was steady, though his eyes betrayed his fear.

Walk slowly like moving hurts.

Keep the glasses on, even indoors.

Don’t make eye contact with other white passengers.

Gentlemen, don’t stare.

If someone asks a question you can’t answer, pretend the illness has made you hard of hearing.

And never, ever let anyone see you right.

Ellen nodded slowly, watching her reflection.

Practice the movements.

Slower, stiffer, the careful, pained gate of a man whose body was failing him.

She had studied the white men of Mon for months, observing how they moved, how they held themselves, how they commanded space without asking permission.

What if someone recognizes me? The question hung in the air between them.

William moved closer, his reflection appearing beside hers in the mirror.

They won’t see you, Ellen.

They never really saw you before.

Just another piece of property.

Now they’ll see exactly what you show them.

Continue reading….
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