I am following him now.

For a moment, nobody moved.

Nobody spoke.

They were too shocked to react.

Then the leader started laughing.

A cold, harsh laugh that held no humor.

“You are joking,” he said.

But his eyes showed he knew I was not.

“I am not joking,” I said, my voice growing stronger.

“Jesus Christ is the son of God.

He died for our sins and rose again.

He appeared to me last night and I surrendered my life to him.

I cannot follow Islam anymore.

I cannot participate in killing anymore.

I am a Christian now.

The reaction was immediate and violent.

Brothers jumped to their feet shouting, cursing.

One man spat at me.

Another picked up a rock.

The leader raised his hand and they froze, waiting for his command.

He walked toward me slowly, studying my face, looking for any sign that this was a joke or a breakdown or spiritual warfare.

Denise, he said, his voice controlled but seething underneath.

You have been a faithful brother.

You have served the cause well.

This is Satan deceiving you.

This is spiritual attack because of what you did yesterday.

The Christians have cursed you somehow.

Their sorcery is affecting your mind.

It is not sorcery.

I said it is truth.

Jesus is real.

He is alive.

He appeared to me as clearly as you are standing in front of me now.

And he offered me forgiveness for everything I have done, including killing that preacher yesterday.

That man prayed for me for two years.

He loved me even though I hated him.

That is the power of Jesus.

Another brother shouted, “You have become what we hate.

You are a traitor.

” Others joined in, their voices rising in anger and disbelief.

The leader held up his hand again for silence.

He looked at me for a long moment, and I saw the decision forming in his eyes.

“Then you are no longer our brother,” he said quietly.

You are our enemy now.

You have until sunset to leave this compound.

After that, we will hunt you like we hunt all Christians.

Your blood will be lawful to spill.

We will make you an example of what happens to traitors.

I understand, I said.

I expected nothing less.

I turned to go back to my room to gather my few belongings.

As I walked, brothers shouted curses at me, called me apostate, traitor, infidel.

The same words we had used against Christians for years were now directed at me.

I felt a hatred like physical blows.

But underneath, I felt Jesus’s peace holding me steady.

In my room, I packed quickly.

I had almost nothing of value.

some clothes, a little money, my Quran.

I looked at the Quran, the book I had memorized and weaponized for so many years.

Part of me wanted to take it, but I knew that chapter of my life was closed.

I left it on the mat and took only the essentials.

As I was packing, my closest friend came to my door.

We had grown up together, fought together, believed together.

He looked at me with pain and confusion in his eyes.

Denise, you’re throwing your life away.

For what? For some vision that was probably just a dream.

It was not a dream.

I told him it was real.

More real than anything I have ever experienced.

I met Jesus.

He forgave me.

He changed me.

I cannot go back to what I was.

The Christians brainwashed you somehow.

My friend insisted that preacher cursed you before he died.

This is not you thinking clearly.

No, I said he blessed me.

He prayed for me for 2 years.

He loved me when I hated him.

He forgave me as he died.

That kind of love does not come from brainwashing.

It comes from God.

My friend shook his head violently.

Love that is not strength.

That is weakness.

We are strong because we are willing to fight, to kill, to die for our cause.

They are weak because they turn the other cheek.

I thought that too, I said.

But I was wrong.

It takes far more strength to love your enemy than to kill him.

It takes more courage to forgive than to seek revenge.

The preacher had strength I never understood.

And now I want that same strength.

My friend looked at me with disgust.

You are already one of them.

You are not the man I knew.

He turned and walked away without another word.

I knew I would never see him again in this life.

I had lost my best friend, my brother, in a single conversation.

I finished packing and walked out of my room for the last time.

Every brother in the compound was watching me.

Some looked angry.

Some looked sad.

Some looked afraid like my conversion was contagious and they might catch it.

The leader stood near the gate, the arms crossed, face hard.

“You are making the biggest mistake of your life,” he said as I approached.

“No,” I replied.

The biggest mistake of my life was everything I did before last night.

Leaving here is the first right choice I have made in years.

We will find you, he promised.

Wherever you go, we will find you.

And when we do, you will die like the traitor you are.

I know, I said, but I would rather die as a follower of Jesus than live as what I was.

I walked through the gate and onto the road.

Behind me, I heard gunshots.

They were firing into the air, a warning and a promise.

They would hunt me.

They would keep their word.

But I did not look back.

I just kept walking and praying.

Jesus, I have left everything for you.

I have no plan, no safety, nowhere to go.

Please help me.

Show me what to do.

And immediately I felt the clear instruction.

Go to the village.

Go to the Christians.

Tell them what happened.

They will help you.

The village where I had killed the preacher was 3 hours away on foot.

Every step toward it felt insane.

These people had every reason to kill me on site.

I had murdered their pastor.

I had terrorized their community.

I had brought violence and death to their doorstep.

Why would they listen to me? Why would they believe me? Why would they not simply take revenge? But I felt strongly that this was where Jesus wanted me to go.

So I walked, praying constantly, feeling the weight of what I was about to do.

As I got closer, my fear intensified.

What if they killed me before I could explain? What if they thought this was a trick? What if they could not forgive what I had done? H arrived at the village in the early afternoon.

People saw me coming from a distance and recognized me immediately.

Women grabbed their children and ran inside the homes.

Men picked up whatever they could find as weapons.

Tools, sticks, rocks.

They formed a defensive line, ready to protect their families from the terrorist who had returned.

“Stop right there!” A man shouted, his voice shaking with rage and fear.

“Do not come any closer.

” I stopped in the middle of the road and raised my hands to show I was unarmed.

My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might burst from my chest.

“I am not here to hurt anyone,” I called out.

I know you have no reason to trust me.

I know what I did to you, but I have come to confess.

I have come to ask forgiveness.

Jesus appeared to me last night and saved me.

The men looked at each other, the uncertain.

This had to be a trick.

Why else would I return? An old man with white hair and kind eyes stepped forward.

I recognized him as one of the church elders.

“Why should we believe you?” he asked.

“This could be a trap.

You could be trying to get close to us to attack again.

” “It could be,” I admitted.

“And I understand why you would not trust me.

But I’m telling you the truth.

Jesus Christ appeared to me last night in my room.

He showed me what I have done.

He offered me forgiveness.

He changed me completely.

I have left my group.

They are going to kill me for converting.

I have nowhere else to go.

I am in your hands.

Do with me whatever you think is right.

The elder started me for a long moment.

He looked into my eyes, searching for deception, for danger, for any sign that this was a trap.

Finally, he said, “Follow me.

But if this is a lie, God will judge you severely.

He turned and began walking toward the church.

The other men surrounded me, keeping weapons ready, watching my every move.

I walked in the center of them, hands still raised, showing I meant no harm.

They led me to the small church building, the same one I had dragged the preacher from just yesterday morning.

Walking through those doors felt like walking into judgment itself.

Inside, several church members were gathered, including some leaders.

They all stopped talking when they saw me.

The fear and anger on their faces was immediate and intense.

Sit down, the elder commanded, pointing to the floor in front of the small pulpit.

I knelt down, then sat back on my heels.

Everyone else remained standing, forming a circle around me.

I was surrounded trapped completely at the mercy.

When if they wanted revenge, this was their moment.

The elders spoke.

You said Jesus appeared to you.

You said you have converted.

Tell us everything, every detail.

Leave nothing out.

We will know if you are lying.

I took a breath and began to speak.

I told them about killing the preacher, about his final words, about how those words had haunted me all day.

I told them about lying awake that night, unable to sleep, tormented by what I had done.

I told them about the light that filled my room at 3:00 in the morning, about Jesus appearing in that light, about the questions he asked me.

I described the vision he showed me of the preacher’s life, how I saw him pray for me specifically for two years.

I told him about the crushing weight of guilt when I understood what I had truly done.

I confessed not just yesterday’s murder, but years of violence against Christians.

every church I had born, every person I had terrorized, every evil act I had committed in the name of God.

As I spoke, I began to weep.

The shame of it all spoken out loud in front of the very people I had victimized was overwhelming.

But I held nothing back.

I gave them every reason to hate me, to reject me, to turn me away.

I told them about Jesus showing me the cross, about understanding for the first time that he had died specifically for my sins, that he had endured hell so I would not have to.

I told them about his scarred hands, about him kneeling beside me on calling me forgiven, about the impossible grace he offered.

I told them about leaving my group that morning, about the threats on my life, about having nowhere else to go.

When I finished, there was silence in the church.

Some people were crying, others looked angry.

All of them were processing what they had heard.

A woman spoke up, her voice tight with emotion.

How do we know this is not manipulation? How do we know you are sincere? You killed our pastor yesterday and today you claim to follow Jesus.

It is too convenient, too easy.

You are right, I said looking at her directly.

You have no reason to believe me.

Only time will prove whether I am sincere.

Only my life will prove it.

But I am telling you the truth.

Jesus saved me last night and I am his now.

Whatever the cost may be.

The elder was quiet for a long time, studying me, praying silently.

Then he said something that shocked me.

If Jesus Christ has forgiven you, who are we to withhold forgiveness? We are not better than God.

Or if he can extend mercy to the worst of sinners, we must be willing to do the same.

Before anyone could respond to that, someone said, “The preacher’s wife is here.

” My heart stopped.

I had not expected to face her so soon, if ever.

The crowd parted and she walked into the church.

She was thin, exhausted, her eyes red and swollen from crying.

She wore black morning clothes.

When she saw me sitting there, she froze.

The color drained from her face.

For a moment, I thought she might faint.

I bowed my head, unable to look at her.

The shame was too great.

the pain I had caused too immense.

“I am sorry,” I whispered, my voice breaking.

“I am so, so sorry for what I did to you and your children.

” The wife began to weep.

Her whole body shook with the force of her grief.

I thought she would scream at me, curse me, strike me when I deserved all of it and more.

But instead, she walked towards me slowly, each step seeming to cost her great effort.

She stood in front of me, looking down at my bold head.

“You killed my husband,” she said, her voice trembling.

“You made my children fatherless.

You destroyed our family.

You took away the man I loved more than my own life.

” Each word was a knife in my heart, and I welcomed the pain.

It was the least of what I deserved.

Yes, I said through my tears.

I did all of that and I can never undo it.

I can never bring him back.

I can never repair what I broke.

I am sorry does not even begin to cover it.

But I am sorry.

I am so deeply, terribly sorry.

The wife was silent for what felt like an eternity.

Then she said something that broke me completely.

My husband prayed for you every single day for 2 years.

He would wake up at 4 in the morning before anyone else just to pray specifically for your salvation.

He told me about you, told me your name, told me he felt a burden from God to intercede for you.

She knelt down so she was at eye level with me.

Tears were streaming down her face, but her voice was steady.

He said to me, “One day Denise will know Jesus.

I can feel it in my spirit.

And when he does, when God answers this prayer, we must welcome him as a brother.

We must show him the same grace that Jesus showed us.

” Because that is what the gospel means.

I could not breathe, could not speak.

This man I had murdered had not only prayed for me but had prepared his wife to forgive me.

Even in death, his faith was bearing fruit.

His prayers were being answered in ways he never lived to see.

The wife continued, “My husband’s last words before you killed him were prayers for you.

He died asking God to forgive you, to save you, to open your eyes.

If his prayer has been answered, if Jesus has truly appeared to you and saved you, then I must honor his faith.

I must do what he asked me to do.

” She reached out and took my hands and hers.

I forgive you, Denise.

In Jesus’s name, I forgive you.

Then she did something incomprehensible.

She pulled me into an embrace.

This woman whose life I had destroyed was holding me like a brother, weeping with me, extending grace I did not deserve and could never earn.

I sobbed into her shoulder, the weight of her forgiveness somehow heavier than guilt had been.

I do not deserve this, I kept saying.

I do not deserve your forgiveness.

None of us deserve God’s forgiveness either, she said through her own tears.

But he gives it anyway.

That is what the cross means.

That is what grace is.

My husband understood that better than anyone.

And now you understand it too.

Around us, other people in the church were weeping.

Some were crying because they were moved by the display of grace.

Others were crying because they were struggling to forgive, wrestling with God over whether they could extend the same mercy.

I understood both reactions.

What was happening was supernatural beyond human capability.

After several minutes, the wife pulled back and called for her children.

Three young ones were brought into the church by a neighbor who had been watching them.

When the oldest boy, maybe 7 years old, saw me, he recognized me immediately.

He started crying and tried to hide behind his mother.

“That is the bad man,” he said, his small voice filled with fear.

“My heart shattered into a thousand pieces.

I had traumatized this innocent child.

I had stolen his father and left him with nightmares.

” The wife knelt down with her children and spoke to them gently.

Remember what daddy taught you about forgiveness.

Remember how Jesus forgives us even when we do bad things.

The children nodded, still crying, still afraid.

Their mother continued, “This man did a very, very bad thing.

He took daddy away from us.

But Jesus has changed his heart.

Jesus appeared to him and made him new.

And daddy spent two years praying that this would happen.

Can we honor daddy’s prayers by trying to forgive? The children looked at each other, then at me, then at their mother.

The oldest boy, the one who had hidden from me, slowly stepped forward.

His face was wet with tears and his voice trembled when he spoke.

My daddy loved Jesus more than anything.

He said, “Jesus loves everybody, even bad people who do not love him back.

” He looked directly at me.

“This brave little boy who had every reason to hate me.

” “Are you sorry for what you did?” he asked.

“More than I can ever tell you,” I said, my voice breaking.

“I took your daddy away and nothing can bring him back.

I am so so sorry.

I wish I could undo it.

I would give anything to bring him back to you.

The boy was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, “I forgive you.

Daddy would want me to forgive you, but I am still really sad.

I miss my daddy so much.

” “I know,” I said.

“And you should be sad.

What I did was terrible and wrong.

Your daddy was a good man, a better man than I will ever be, and I took him from you.

I am sorry.

The other two children, younger and not fully understanding, followed their brother’s lead.

They said they forgave me, too.

Though I could see in their eyes they were still afraid of me.

That was right.

They should be cautious.

Trust would have to be earned over time, if it could be earned at all.

The elders stood and addressed everyone gathered.

Brothers and sisters, we are witnessing something extraordinary today.

This is the power of the gospel in action.

God’s grace is so overwhelming that he can save even the worst of sinners.

Even someone who murdered our beloved pastor, he turned to face me directly.

Denise, if this is truly a work of the Holy Spirit, and I believe it is, then you need disciplehip.

You need teaching.

You need community.

You need a family in Christ to help you grow in your new faith and to protect you from those who will try to kill you.

He looked around at the gathered Christians.

I propose we take him in.

We teach him.

We baptize him publicly as a testimony.

We show the world that Jesus’s grace is more powerful than our desire for revenge.

All in favor.

Slowly, hands began to rise around the room.

Not everyone raised their hands.

Some people were not ready.

And I understood completely.

But enough hands went up that the motion passed.

These people whose pastor I had killed were going to take me in, protect me and disciple me.

The grace of it was staggering.

The elder told me that I needed to be baptized publicly as a declaration of my faith.

But you need to understand, he warned, it is dangerous.

Your former group will find out.

Muslims in the surrounding area will be angry.

You could be killed during the baptism itself.

Are you prepared for that? I thought about Jesus’s words to me.

Follow me even if it costs you everything.

Yes, I said without hesitation.

If I die declaring Christ, then I die blessed.

I am not afraid anymore.

They scheduled the baptism for three days later, giving time to prepare and to spread the word.

Those three days were the most intense of my life.

Continue reading….
« Prev Next »