My name is Samuel Okungquo.

I am 42 years old and for the past 17 years, I have served as a Christian missionary in the most dangerous regions of northern Nigeria.

But what I’m about to tell you today changed not only my life, but my entire understanding of who God is and the extent of his power.

Just 18 months ago, in a small village in Boro State called Guoa, 70 armed extremists surrounded me and 34 other believers while we were holding a clandestine service.

They tied our hands, blindfolded us, and took us to their camp in the Mandara Mountains.

For 3 days, they tortured us mercilessly.

They deprived us of food and water under a scorching 45° sun.

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Two brothers in our congregation had their fingers broken one by one with rusty pliers for refusing to renounce their faith.

On the night of the third day, their leader, a man with ritual scars on both cheeks, stood before us and announced that at dawn we would all be publicly executed as an example to any infidel who dares to defile sacred lands.

They lined us all up, kneeling, hands tied behind our backs.

They placed their machetes and weapons a few meters apart, ready for dawn.

As the first light of dawn began to peak over the mountains as the leader raised his arms, signaling for the slaughter to begin.

What happened at that precise moment defies all human explanation.

What those extremists experienced, what we all witnessed is something that neither science nor meteorology nor any earthly logic can justify.

And I swear by the blood of Christ that every word you are about to hear is completely true.

Every detail I’m about to tell you is etched in my memory as if it happened yesterday.

Are you ready to hear how God sent his power from heaven to save 35 of his children from certain death? Like this video if you want me to continue sharing these testimonies of faith in the midst of persecution.

It was January 2023 as the world celebrated the new year.

I was at home in Jaws in central Nigeria where I ran a small Bible school.

My wife Grace and our three children had just returned from visiting their grandparents.

We had a comfortable life, a loving congregation, and a ministry that was constantly growing.

That night, January 2nd, as I was praying in my study, something happened that would change the course of my life forever.

I was reading the book of Isaiah when suddenly the words of chapter 68 leaped off the page as if they were on fire.

Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, “Whom shall I send? Who will go for us?” Then I said, “Here I am.

Send me.

” At that moment, a vision as clear as a highdefinition movie appeared before me.

I saw faces of starving children, crying women, men with blank stairs.

I saw small churches burned, charred Bibles, toppled crosses, and all these faces and scenes clearly belong to northern Nigeria, to Boro State, the epicenter of extremist violence in my country.

I heard a voice inside my heart saying,”Samuel, my sheep are being persecuted and slaughtered.

They need a shepherd willing to give his life for them.

Will you go?” When I told Grace about this vision, her reaction was devastating.

I will never forget her face transforming from astonishment to disbelief and finally to terror.

“Boro state, have you lost your mind, Samuel?” They are systematically eliminating Christians there.

Christian villages are attacked every week.

We have three children.

How can you even consider taking us to that hell? It wasn’t an exaggeration.

In recent years, more than 30,000 people have lost their lives in northeastern Nigeria due to extremist violence.

Hundreds of churches have been burned, pastors beheaded, entire congregations massacred during Sunday services.

I’m not saying the whole family should go, I explained.

I’ll go alone first.

I’ll establish contacts with the underground believers, assess the situation, and return in a few weeks.

Grace cried for days.

My children, while not fully understanding the situation, sensed the tension.

Emmanuel, my oldest son, 15, confronted me one night.

Dad, why do you want to go to a place where you could be killed? My response was simple.

Son, do you remember the story of Jesus and the lost sheep? Sometimes a shepherd must risk his life for the sheep who are in greatest danger.

My fellow pastors and Jo organized an emergency meeting when they learned of my plans.

Pastor Ibraim, my lifelong mentor, took me by the shoulders with tears in his eyes.

Samuel, I’ve lost 17 seminary students we sent north in the last 5 years, burned alive, crucified.

Are you absolutely sure this is God and not your own reckless zeal? It was a valid question.

Sometimes we mistake our own desires for heroism for the divine call.

So for three weeks I fasted, prayed, consulted the scriptures and sought confirmation.

The answer came in the most unexpected way.

One morning while I was having breakfast with my family, the phone rang.

It was a call from an unknown number.

The voice on the other end was barely audible, speaking in a whisper.

Pastor Samuel Okono.

Yes, it’s me.

My name is Caleb.

I’m a believer from Guoa in Boro State.

Our underground church has been praying for a pastor to help us.

Last night at our prayer meeting, a sister had a vision of a man named Samuel coming from Jo to strengthen us.

Are you that Samuel? A chill ran through me.

I had never shared my plans with anyone outside my immediate circle in Jo.

This call was the divine confirmation I had been waiting for.

Three days later, I was on a bus headed north with a small suitcase, my Bible, and my heart torn between fear and the certainty of being at the center of God’s will.

The journey, which normally takes 12 hours stretched to almost 30 due to the countless military checkpoints and restricted areas we had to navigate.

If this testimony is resonating in your heart, share it right now with someone who needs to be reminded that God continues to work miracles in the darkest places in the world.

I arrived in Maiduguri, the capital of Boro state, on a sweltering January afternoon.

The heat was so intense that the asphalt seemed to melt beneath my feet.

Caleb had sent a young man named Timothy to greet me at the bus station, a barely 19-year-old with eyes that had seen too much for his age.

“Welcome to Borneo, Pastor Samuel,” he whispered to me as we walked through the crowd.

Don’t mention that you’re a pastor or that you’re a Christian while we’re in public.

The walls have ears here.

Timothy led me through a maze of narrow alleys to a small room on the second floor of an anonymous house.

It would be my home for the next few months.

No air conditioning, a thin mattress on the floor, a fan that worked only when there was electricity, which was rare, and a small window overlooking an interior courtyard.

“Tonight you’ll meet some brothers,” Timothy told me before leaving.

be prepared to walk a lot.

We never met in the same place twice.

I remember that first clandestine meeting like it was yesterday.

12 believers gathered in the basement of a motorcycle repair shop.

Candles as their only lighting, worn Bibles, some with missing pages, others reconstructed by hand, faces marked by trauma and fear, but with a light in their eyes that can only come from the Holy Spirit.

Caleb, a man in his 50s with a scar across his left cheek, introduced me, “Brothers and sisters, God has heard our prayers.

He has sent Pastor Samuel from Jo to strengthen us.

” An older woman began to weep quietly.

“Thank you, Jesus,” she whispered.

“It’s been 3 years since we last heard a sermon from an ordained pastor.

They told me their stories that night.

Esther had lost her husband and two sons in an attack on their village.

Joseph had been tortured for 17 days for refusing to renounce Christ.

The scars on his back were a testament to his faith.

Deborah, a 22-year-old woman, had escaped after being kidnapped and forced to marry an extremist.

She was now living in hiding, knowing that if found, she would be publicly executed for apostasy.

What could I possibly teach these saints who had already tasted the true cost of disciplehip? I felt completely inadequate.

“Pastor, we need your knowledge of the Bible,” Caleb said as if reading my thoughts.

Many of us had no theological training.

Some barely knew how to read.

We need solid foundations to avoid getting lost in this darkness.

Thus began my ministry in Boro.

During the day, I presented myself as a merchant from Jos who had come to explore business opportunities.

At night, I taught the Bible in various locations, basements, backrooms, occasionally in the open field under the stars, whispering the words of life.

We developed a basic but effective Bible study system.

Each believer memorized an entire chapter of scripture, becoming a living Bible.

If anyone was captured and their Bible destroyed, God’s words would live on in their memory.

After 6 weeks, Caleb proposed something that would change the course of my ministry.

Pastor, there is a village called Guoa, 4 hours from here in the mountains.

We have brothers there who are completely isolated.

They have lost their leaders and are on the verge of renouncing their faith.

Would you be willing to visit them? The route to Guoa was notoriously dangerous.

Three extremist checkpoints, mind roads, constant patrols.

But how could I refuse? Wasn’t this precisely why God had sent me? I’ll go, I replied without hesitation.

The first trip to Goa was terrifying.

We traveled at night on motorcycles along back roads, turning off the engines and pushing the bikes whenever we heard vehicles or voices in the distance.

But the reception we received was worth every second of terror.

27 believers were waiting for us in an abandoned house on the outskirts of the village.

When I entered, I saw something I’ll never forget.

They had drawn a cross on the ground with ash, and everyone was kneeling around it, praying in low voices.

A woman named Ruth approached trembling.

Pastor, my 12-year-old son was captured three months ago.

They forced him to join them.

Every night I dream he returns home.

Do you believe God can bring him back? That night, we prayed specifically for Ruth’s son and for all the children who had been kidnapped.

I had no easy answers to give him, only the promise that God had not forgotten them.

For the next two months, I traveled to Guoa every 2 weeks.

We established a small underground school where we taught the children both basic education and biblical foundations.

We created a support system for widows and orphans.

We trained young men like Timothy so they could teach when I wasn’t present.

The first fruits began to appear.

Aisha, a young Muslim woman who had been rejected by her family for becoming pregnant out of wedlock, found refuge among our believers.

The love she received led her to inquire about Jesus and three weeks later she asked to be baptized.

Ibraim, a former extremist who had defected due to disenchantment with violence, began attending our meetings, first out of curiosity, then with genuine hunger.

His knowledge of the inner workings of armed groups proved invaluable to our safety.

Little by little, the small congregation in Guoza grew, not only in number, but in spiritual depth.

I saw them transform from terrified victims to courageous disciples willing to risk everything for their faith.

Let us know here if you think no persecution can extinguish the flame of the gospel.

As our ministry grew in Gua, so did the danger.

It wasn’t possible for 40 people to meet regularly, even secretly, without raising suspicion in a small community where everyone knew each other.

The first signs of trouble came subtly.

One day, as I walked through the Guoza market, I noticed several merchants stopped talking when I passed, following me with their eyes.

An elderly Muslim woman who always greeted me kindly, now avoided my gaze.

The children who used to run to meet me were reprimanded by their parents when they tried to get close.

Ibraim, our former extremist convert, was the first to confirm my fears.

Pastor Ibrahim told me one evening after our meeting that there are rumors.

They say a foreign preacher is contaminating the village.

They’ve started monitoring.

They know someone is coming regularly from my duguri.

We debated whether I should stop visiting Guoa for a while, but the decision was unanimous.

The congregation needed support more than ever.

Nevertheless, we changed our tactics.

Never more than 10 people would gather at a time.

We would change locations not only every week, but several times during the same evening.

Believers would memorize the teachings to share with those who couldn’t attend.

In April, 3 months after my first visit to Guoza, the first serious incident occurred.

We were gathered in an abandoned barn on the outskirts of the village.

I had been teaching on Psalm 23 when we heard motorcycles approaching.

We quickly extinguished the only lamp we had and scattered into the darkness.

From my hiding place among sacks of grain, I watched as three armed men entered the barn.

One of them found the Bible we had left behind in our haste to hide.

Over here,” he shouted.

“The infidels were here.

The Bible is still warm.

” They searched the barn for 20 minutes, but miraculously found no one.

They eventually left, but not before pouring gasoline around the barn and setting it on fire.

We waited until we were sure they had left before emerging from our hiding places to put out the fire.

That night, as I drove back to my Duguri, my heart still racing with fear, I prayed like never before.

Lord, if it is your will that I lay down my life here, I am willing.

But please protect these precious brothers and sisters.

Upon returning to my room in my dugi, I found a disturbing message.

My wife Grace had been desperately trying to reach me.

When I finally managed to speak to her, her voice was shaking with fear.

Samuel, three men came to our house in Jo asking for you.

They said they knew you were in Boro.

They threatened to return if I didn’t tell them exactly where you were.

My blood ran cold.

Until that moment, the danger had been something abstract, a possibility.

Now it had become terrifyingly concrete and had reached my family.

Grace, take the children and go to your parents’ house in Abuja right now.

Don’t tell anyone where you’re going.

Samuel, please come home.

Grace sobbed.

You’ve done enough.

We need you alive.

I didn’t sleep that night.

Should I return to Jo? Was I needlessly endangering my family? Or was this the cross Jesus said we must bear? The next morning, I received a call from Caleb.

His voice was barely a whisper.

Pastor Ruth’s home in Guoa was attacked last night.

They asked for the pastor in Jos.

When she denied knowing him, they brutally beat her.

She’s alive, but barely.

The weight of guilt fell upon me like an avalanche.

Ruth, the woman who prayed every night for her son’s return, was now suffering because of me.

I made a decision.

I would visit Guoza one last time to say goodbye and then return to Jo with my family.

I couldn’t justify the suffering I was causing.

Caleb tried to dissuade me from going to Guoza.

It’s too dangerous now, pastor.

They’re specifically looking for him.

But I needed to see Ruth.

Ask for her forgiveness.

Pray for her one last time.

I’ll go a different route, I insisted.

I’ll only be there for a few hours and then I’ll leave for good.

With a sigh of resignation, Caleb agreed to send Timothy to guide me along an alternative route through the Mandara Mountains.

It would be a longer and more tiring journey, but theoretically safer.

2 days later, Timothy and I set off before dawn.

Instead of motorcycles, which would make too much noise, we traveled on foot and by donkey whenever possible.

The mountainous terrain was treacherous with narrow paths bordering precipitous cliffs.

The heat was stifling even in the early hours of the morning.

After nearly 8 hours of walking, Timothy pointed toward a valley.

There’s Guoza.

We’ll arrive when it gets dark.

It’s safer to enter the village at night.

We took shelter in a cave to rest during the hottest hours of the day.

While Timothy slept, I prayed, trying to discern if I was making the right decision in leaving Boro.

That’s when I heard a voice, not audible, but deep in my spirit, crystal clear.

Samuel, do you love me more than these? The same words Jesus asked Peter after his resurrection.

Tears began to run down my cheeks.

Yes, Lord.

You know that I love you.

At that moment, I knew I couldn’t leave Guoza, no matter the personal cost.

These people needed a pastor willing to give his life for them, just as Christ had given his life for all of us.

When Timothy awoke, I told him my decision.

Not only would I visit Gua this time, but I would stay for at least another month, strengthening the congregation so they could continue without me afterward.

Timothy looked at me with a mixture of admiration and concern.

Pastor, your family? My family is in God’s hands, I replied.

And you are my family now, too.

We arrived in Guoza after dark.

Following our new security protocol, Timothy took me directly to the house where Ruth was recovering from her injuries.

Nothing had prepared me for what I saw.

Her face was so swollen she could barely open her eyes.

Her arms showed cigarette burns.

Two of her fingernails had been torn off.

And yet when she saw me, she tried to smile.

“Pastor,” she whispered with difficulty.

She knew I would come.

I knelt beside her bed, unable to hold back my tears.

“Ruth, I’m so sorry.

This is my fault.

” She took my hand with what little strength she had left.

No, pastor.

It’s the fault of the darkness that fears the light, and you have brought light to Guoa.

That night, as I prayed for Ruth, I made a decision that would alter the course of our ministry and our lives.

We would temporarily cancel all large gatherings and focus on strengthening individual believers, preparing them for a time when they might not have a pastor physically present.

For the next two weeks, I visited each believing family individually, teaching them, praying with them, answering their questions.

I gave them small slips of paper with key verses to memorize which could be easily swallowed or destroyed if discovered.

The situation in Guoa grew more tense.

Residents were randomly interrogated.

A reward had been announced for information about their out of town preacher.

Despite the growing danger, we planned one last general meeting before I returned to Meduguri.

It would be on May 12th, a Sunday evening in an abandoned farmhouse 2 km from the village.

We wanted to fellowship together one last time to share bread and wine in memory of Christ.

If your faith is being tested right now, if you feel the winds of adversity blowing strongly against you, tell us what those trials are so we know you are determined to remain faithful despite the circumstances.

Sunday, May 12th, dawned with an unusually cloudy sky for that time of year.

In Boro, the sky is usually a merciless blue with a sun that punishes without mercy.

But that day, heavy gray clouds hung over Guoa like a harbinger of what was to come.

I spent the morning in prayer, preparing my heart for what would be our last communion together for a while.

I had chosen Hebrews 10:23:25 as my text.

Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who promised is faithful.

And let us consider how to stir up one another toward love and good works, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and so much the more as you see the day approaching.

Appropriate words for a congregation that would soon have to sustain itself without the physical presence of a pastor.

At 6 p.

m.

, as the sun began to set, Timothy came to find me.

Everything is ready, pastor.

The brothers are already arriving one or two at a time so as not to arouse suspicion.

We walked in silence along untraveled paths, avoiding the main road.

The air was unusually humid and heavy, making it difficult to breathe.

In the distance, occasional rumbles of thunder could be heard, heralding a possible storm.

“Strange weather for May,” Timothy commented.

“Normally, the rains don’t start until June.

When we arrived at the abandoned farmhouse, my heart swelled with emotion to see that almost everyone had come.

34 believers, from children to the elderly, were gathered in the main barn, sitting on the dirt floor with a single kerosene lamp providing a dim light.

Ruth was there, still bruised, but recovered enough to sit up on her own.

Ibrahim stood watch from the doorway, alert for any signs of danger.

Caleb had come from Maiduguri, especially for this final gathering.

We began with soft singing, barely audible outside the barn.

Great is your faithfulness.

We inoned in whispers, tears rolling down many cheeks.

Then I shared my message about standing firm in times of trial, about how the early church had flourished under the severest persecution.

When it was time for communion, I took out the small package I had brought, flatbread wrapped in a clean cloth and a small bottle of grape juice.

It wasn’t real wine, but it would serve as a reminder of our Lord’s sacrifice.

“This is my body which is broken for you,” I said as I broke the bread.

“Do this in memory of me.

” I was about to continue with the cup when Ibrahim abruptly raised his hand from the doorway, signaling silence.

We all froze, holding our breath, and then we heard it.

Engines! Many engines approaching quickly.

“Quick, turn off the lamp! Everyone, hide!” Ibrahim whispered urgently, but it was too late.

Before we could move, the barn was surrounded by bright headlights.

Voices shouted orders in House and Canori.

Gunshots in the air pierced the night.

“We know they’re in there.

Come out with your hands up or we’ll burn the place down with all of you inside.

” Ibrahim looked at me in terror.

There are at least 50 men, heavily armed.

There’s no escape.

At that moment, I made the hardest decision of my life.

I’ll go out first, I told them.

I’m the one they’re looking for.

Maybe if I give myself up, they’ll let you go.

Ruth grabbed my arm.

No, pastor.

If you go out, they’ll eliminate you immediately.

There’s no mercy for leaders.

Last warning, shouted the voice from outside.

You have 30 seconds or we open fire.

I looked at the terrified faces around me.

Elderly people trembling.

Mothers hugging their children.

Young people like Timothy with eyes filled with determination and fear at the same time.

Let’s pray, I said, taking the hands of those closest to me.

Father, into your hands we commend our spirits.

If today is the day to come into your presence, we ask for courage.

If you have another plan, we ask for a miracle.

When we finished praying, we stood together.

We will leave with dignity.

I said like the Christians in the Roman coliseum.

Without shouting, without pleading, with our heads held high, knowing who we serve.

Caleb opened the barn door.

The light from dozens of flashlights and headlamps momentarily blinded us.

When my eyes adjusted, I saw the circle of death surrounding us.

Approximately 70 men armed with rifles, machetes, and grenade launchers forming a tight perimeter around the barn.

Their leader, a tall man with ritual scars on both cheeks and a black turban, stepped forward.

“So these are the infidel dogs polluting our sacred land,” he said in house, which Caleb translated for me in a whisper.

The leader pointed directly at me.

and you must be the pastor from Joss.

We’ve been searching for you for months.

I was surprised that he spoke perfect English.

I would later discover he had studied in London before becoming radicalized.

Yes, it’s me, I replied with a calmness I didn’t feel.

These people are only here because I invited them.

If anyone should be punished, it’s me.

The leader laughed a cold, humorless sound.

Oh, everyone will be punished but you.

You will have the honor of being the last to die after watching us eliminate each of your followers.

So you will learn that your foreign god has no power here.

With a wave of his hand, his men moved toward us.

They tied our hands behind our backs with rough ropes that cut into the skin.

They blindfolded us and shoved us toward waiting vehicles.

I could hear the quiet cries of children, the whispered prayers of women.

Silence, shouted one of the captives, beating anyone who dared to make a sound.

The journey was an endless nightmare.

The rough terrain hurled us against the metal walls of the vehicle.

The heat was stifling.

Without water, our lips cracked and bled.

I don’t know how long we traveled, maybe four or 5 hours.

But finally, the vehicle stopped.

They brutally dragged us out and marched us down what seemed to be a steep, rocky road.

I could feel ourselves ascending, probably toward the Mandara Mountains, known for harboring extremist camps.

When the blindfolds were finally removed, we were in a clearing surrounded by stunted trees.

Military tents formed an organized encampment.

Armed men patrolled the perimeter.

In the center was an open area with a wooden post stained with what was clearly dried blood.

We were forced to kneel in a row, our hands still tied.

The sun was already rising.

We had spent the entire night in transit.

The leader walked in front of us, examining us like merchandise.

He stopped in front of Timothy.

You are young, he said.

You can still choose the right path.

Renounce your false religion now, and we will spare your life.

Timothy, barely 19 years old, but with the faith of a giant, looked directly into the leader’s eyes.

My life is hidden in Christ.

You can only take my body, but my soul is already safe.

” The leader slapped him so hard that Timothy fell sideways on the dusty ground.

“Idiot, we’ll give you time to reconsider your folly.

” One by one, they interrogated us.

The women were taken to a separate tent.

I’m still tormented by the thought of what they may have suffered there.

They systematically beat the men seeking information about other Christian cells, about foreign missionaries, about any connection to the government or the army.

Throughout that first day, they gave us no food or water.

The Mason was relentless, burning our exposed skin.

At night, they left us tied to stakes driven into the ground with no protection from the mosquitoes that buzzed incessantly around us.

Ruth, sitting to my left, whispered psalms in the darkness.

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.

Caleb, to my right, had been beaten so severely that he could barely speak.

His breathing was shallow and labored, suggesting broken ribs.

“Pastor,” he whispered with difficulty.

“If I don’t survive, tell my wife and children that I love them and that I’ll see them in glory.

” “You’ll survive, brother,” I replied, though my heart doubted my own words.

The second day was even worse.

They began what they called the repentance game.

They brought each believer to the front of the group and offered them water, something our dehydrated bodies desperately cried out for if they would publicly renounce Christ.

An old man named Joshua was the first.

They stood him up in front of us, showing him a picture of fresh water.

Just say Jesus is a false prophet, they told him, “And you can drink.

” Joshua, 67, his lips so cracked they were bleeding, looked at the picture of water and then back at us.

I followed Christ for 40 years, he said horsely.

I won’t deny it for a few sips of water.

My Lord suffered thirst on the cross for me.

They bashed his head in with a rifle butt and dragged him unconscious back to the line.

One after another, our brothers and sisters were subjected to the same ordeal.

Some wept at the sight of the water, but none renounced their faith.

Each rejection further enraged our captives.

When my turn came, the leader personally held the jug in front of me.

You are the shepherd, he said with contempt, the leader of these stupid sheep.

If you renounce your god, they will follow you.

You will save many lives today.

And the temptation wasn’t just for the water, but for the possibility of saving my flock.

Wouldn’t it be the most loving thing to give in to say the words they wanted to hear so that these precious believers could live? But I remembered Jesus words.

Whoever denies me before men, I will also deny before my father who is in heaven.

I looked the leader in the eye.

Christ died for me.

The least I can do is be willing to die for him.

His face contorted with rage.

He threw the water onto the ground in front of me where the thirsty earth absorbed it in seconds.

Then he hit me repeatedly until the world went black.

When I regained consciousness, it was nighttime again.

I could feel my left eye swollen shut.

Several teeth felt loose.

The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth.

Despite the pain, I felt a strange peace.

I had passed the test.

I had not denied my lord.

Timothy, who had somehow managed to move to my side, whispered, “Pastor, are you awake?” “Yes, son,” I replied weekly.

I heard the guards talking.

“Tomorrow at dawn, the executions will begin.

They’ll start with the children, then the women, then the men.

They want you to see everything before you’re the last.

” The horror of his words hit me like a physical fist.

children.

Would they even execute the little ones? Are you sure? I asked desperately hoping I’d heard wrong.

Completely sure.

They were arguing about the order, laughing about how it would be more painful for you.

I felt sick.

It was one thing to face my own death, but to see innocent people, especially children, being slaughtered for my sake, it was unbearable.

We have to try to escape, Timothy whispered.

It’s impossible, I replied, looking at the armed guards surrounding us, the restraints on our wrists, the unfamiliar mountainous terrain around us.

Nothing is impossible with God, Timothy replied with a conviction that shamed me.

Here I was, the seasoned pastor, losing hope while this young man kept his faith intact.

We spent that night in silent prayer, preparing for what would come at dawn.

I mentally recited scripture passages I had memorized over the years, clinging to them like a shipwrecked man to the wreckage of a ship.

For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain.

I am convinced that neither death nor life will be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints.

Around midnight, a storm began to gather.

Lightning occasionally illuminated the camp, followed by the rumble of distant thunder.

The guards grew restless, seeking shelter in their tents, leaving us exposed to the impending rain.

At 3 a.

m.

, according to my estimate based on the position of the moon, the leader emerged from his tent, he walked directly to where we were tied up and stopped in front of me.

Pastor, he said, using the word as if it were an insult.

I have decided I will not wait until dawn.

The execution will begin in an hour.

I want you fully awake so you don’t miss a moment of your followers suffering.

He knelt so his face was level with mine.

Do you know why I hate you so much? Because men like you come to our land pretending to bring peace, but they only bring division.

They separate families.

They convert our young people.

They destroy our traditions.

Your religion is a virus we are trying to eradicate and you are the carrier.

Surprisingly, I felt no hatred toward this man, only a deep sadness.

I forgive you, I told him gently.

His eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed with renewed fury.

“I don’t need your forgiveness, you infidel dog.

You will soon discover that your God does not exist when you cry out to him, and he does not respond while your precious believers are eliminated one by one.

” He stood up and shouted orders to his men.

They began to gather machetes, knives, and a rifle.

The instruments of our execution.

Ruth, who had remained remarkably strong despite everything, began to sing softly.

At first, I could barely hear her cracking voice, but gradually others joined in.

Great is your faithfulness, oh God, my father.

There is no shadow of turning in you.

The song spread throughout our line of captive believers.

Even those two wounded to sing moved their lips with the words.

It was our final declaration of faith, our testimony before our executioners.

The gods shouted, threatened, even struck some to silence us, but the song continued.

Each blow seemed to strengthen our resolve.

The sky above us darkened even further.

The storm was approaching with lightning illuminating the clouds now directly above the camp.

The wind increased, shaking the tents and raising dust around us.

If you are passing through a dark valley, if it seems there is no way out, share your petition to remind yourself and others that the same God who intervened in our darkest moment can intervene in yours.

It was approximately 4:15 a.

m.

when the leader gave the order to begin the executions.

The sky was completely black, not from night, but from the dense storm clouds that had gathered over the camp.

The lightning was now so frequent that it provided a constant strobe lighting, giving the entire scene a surreal apocalyptic quality.

Two guards dragged a seven-year-old girl named Mercy to the center of the clearing.

She was the daughter of one of our widows, a brighteyed little girl who always insisted on helping distribute himnels at our secret meetings.

Her mother screamed and struggled against her bonds until blood began to run from her wrists.

Take me, please.

Take me instead.

The leader smiled cruy.

Patience, woman.

Your turn will come soon.

Mercy was visibly trembling, but she didn’t cry.

One of the men held a machete, waiting for his leader’s final order.

Through the tears welling in my eyes, I saw something extraordinary.

Mercy’s lips moving in prayer.

This little girl, facing a horrific death, was speaking to her heavenly father.

The leader raised his hand, ready to give the signal that would end Mercy’s life.

34 believers held their breath in collective horror, powerless to stop what was about to happen.

And that’s when it happened.

A flash of lightning so bright it seemed to turn night into day struck a tree next to the clearing, splitting it in half with a deafening crash.

The burning half of the tree fell directly between Mercy and her executioner, forcing the man to jump back to avoid being crushed.

Seconds later, the rain began.

But it wasn’t an ordinary rain.

It was as if the heavens themselves had opened up.

I have never seen before or since such intense and sudden rainfall.

In a matter of seconds, we were soaked to the bone, and the ground beneath us turned to mud.

The leader shouted orders, trying to restore order as his men ran in all directions for shelter.

Another bolt of lightning struck, this time closer, illuminating the chaos that had erupted in the camp.

The intensity of the rain was such that we could barely see a few meters ahead.

The water fell in a solid curtain, hitting the ground with such force that it bounced up to our knees.

And then we heard something above the roar of the storm, a sound that chilled the blood of even our captors.

The roar of approaching water.

“Flash flood!” someone shouted in house.

“The Mandara Mountains are known for their deadly flash floods.

When it rains heavily, the water rushes down the ravines and gorges with devastating force, sweeping away everything in its path.

and our camp was located right at the base of one of those gorges.

Panic gripped the extremists.

Forgetting their prisoners, they began running for higher ground, abandoning weapons, equipment, and vehicles.

Timothy, whose hands were the smallest among us, had been discreetly working on his bonds for hours.

Amid the chaos, he finally managed to free himself.

Without wasting a second, he began untying those closest to him.

“Quick!” he shouted over the roar of the storm.

“We have to get to high ground.

” The sound of the approaching water grew louder and louder like a speeding freight train.

We had no more than a minute before the flood reached us.

With newly freed but numb hands, we worked frantically to untie everyone.

The ropes, now soaked, were paradoxically harder to undo.

Some had to be dragged, ropes and all, as there was no time to fully free them.

Caleb, with his ribs broken, could barely move.

Ibraim and I lifted him between us, supporting his weight as we climbed the slippery slope.

Ruth took mercy in her arms, ignoring her own injuries to save the child.

Just as the last of us reached a high ledge about 20 m above the camp floor, the wall of water arrived.

It was a terrifying sight, a liquid wall at least 3 m high, carrying rocks, trees, and everything in its path.

The roar was deafening, as if the earth itself was screaming.

The tents disappeared in seconds.

Vehicles were overturned like toys and swept away by the current.

The screams of the men who hadn’t managed to escape in time were quickly drowned out by the relentless force of the water.

From our elevated position, we watched as the entire camp was wiped off the face of the earth in a matter of minutes.

Everything they had used to torture us.

the ropes, the whips, the weapons was all swept away by the flood, as if God himself had decided to cleanse the place of his wickedness.

The rain continued to fall relentlessly for another hour.

We huddled together on the rocky ledge, soaked and shivering, but alive.

Alive when all odds indicated we should have been dead.

Timothy was the first to speak.

“It was God,” he said simply.

He sent the storm exactly when we needed it.

There was no other possible explanation.

The storm had come at just the right time with supernatural intensity, causing a flood that specifically swept away our captor’s camp while giving us exactly the time we needed to escape.

Ruth, still holding mercy, began to cry.

But they weren’t tears of fear or trauma.

They were tears of gratitude.

“The Lord has fought for us,” she said between sobbs.

like with the Israelites at the Red Sea.

One by one, despite the cold pain and exhaustion, we began to praise God right there on that mountain ledge.

Some sang, others simply raised their hands to the sky.

It was a sight I will never forget.

35 beaten, hungry, and soaked believers praising God for his miraculous deliverance.

When dawn finally broke, the rain had slowed to a gentle drizzle.

Below us, where the camp had been, there was now only mud, rocks, and scattered debris.

Nothing recognizable remained.

It was as if the place had never existed.

In the daylight, we could see that we were about 8 km from Guaza, visible in the distance.

But between us and the village lay treacherous terrain, and many of our brothers and sisters were too injured to walk.

We’ll form teams, I suggested.

The strongest will help the wounded.

No one is left behind.

Ibrahim, with his knowledge of the terrain, would guide us.

Timothy, despite his own injuries, insisted on helping carry Caleb, whose broken ribs made every breath agony.

We began our careful descent.

The path was slippery due to the rain, and several times someone nearly fell off a cliff.

But we stayed together, encouraging one another, taking frequent breaks so the weaker ones could catch their breath.

As we moved slowly forward, I shared something that had been on my mind since our liberation.

Remember what the leader said? that God wouldn’t answer when we cried out to him, that our God didn’t exist.

At the exact moment those words left his mouth, God responded with thunder and lightning, just like on Mount Si.

Ruth nodded, “As it is written, they will know that I am the Lord when I execute judgments on them.

” Halfway to Gua, we encountered something that took our breath away.

It was the leader of the extremists sitting alone on a rock, staring into the distance.

His clothes were in tatters, his face covered in cuts and scrapes.

He had lost one of his shoes.

He looked like a man who had seen a ghost.

When he saw us approaching, he made no move to escape or attack.

He simply stared at us with blank eyes.

My immediate instinct was fear, then anger.

This man had ordered our torture, had nearly executed an innocent girl.

He deserved justice.

But as I approached him, I felt something completely unexpected.

Compassion.

This terrified man was no longer the arrogant monster who had threatened to destroy us.

He was just a broken human being who had witnessed the power of the living God.

I knelt in front of him.

“Are you hurt?” I asked.

He seemed surprised by the question.

“Why do you care?” he rasped.

“I was going to kill them all.

” “Because my God taught me to love my enemies,” I answered simply.

Tears began to form in his eyes.

I saw I saw the water carry my men away.

I heard their screams as they died.

I tried to save some, but the current was too strong.

Of 70 men, I think only I survived.

He was silent for a moment, then continued, “All my life I’ve been taught that our God is the most powerful, that you are infidels who deserve to die.

But last night, what I saw last night, he couldn’t finish the sentence.

He covered his face with his hands and began to weep openly.

I turned to our group.

Some looked at the man with understandable suspicion.

others like Ruth with a mixture of pity and awe.

“What do we do with him?” asked Ibrahim, whose family had been wiped out by extremists years before.

“We’re taking him with us,” I replied without hesitation.

There were murmurss of surprise and a few objections, but Timothy intervened.

“If God saved our lives to show his power, couldn’t he have saved this man for the same reason?” We helped the leader to his feet.

We offered him water from a bottle we had found in the rubble.

We told him his name, Abdul.

“Why are you helping me?” Abdul asked as we started walking back toward Goa.

“After everything I did to you.

” “Because we believe in a god of second chances,” Ruth replied, surprising us all.

“This woman, who had been brutally beaten for refusing to reveal my whereabouts, was now extending mercy to the leader of her tormentors.

” As we approached Goa, we began to see figures in the distance running toward us.

News of our miraculous deliverance had somehow spread and the entire village had turned out to greet us.

Families gathered with tears and hugs.

Mothers found their children.

Husbands found their wives.

It was a scene of indescribable joy, a tangible reminder of God’s faithfulness.

When they saw Abdul among us, there was confusion and tension.

Many recognized him as the infamous extremist leader who had terrorized the region for years.

“It’s him, the killer,” someone shouted.

The crowd began to move menacingly toward Abdul, who cowed behind me, trembling.

I raised my hands.

Stop.

This man is under our protection.

He has witnessed the power of God and deserves the opportunity to respond to that power with repentance.

A village elder stepped forward.

Pastor Samuel, with all due respect, this man has killed dozens of our people.

He has burned churches.

He has kidnapped our children.

Justice demands that he pay for his crimes.

Justice has already been served,” I replied.

“His men have been eliminated, his camp destroyed.

He has lost everything, and now he has the opportunity to find the only thing that truly matters, the truth.

” The crowd was unconvinced, but they respected my request that Abdul not be harmed.

We took him to the village clinic where our wounded also received care.

That night, as the entire village gathered to hear the story of our miraculous deliverance, Abdul sat in the back, listening intently to every word.

When I described how the storm had come at exactly the right moment to save us, I saw tears running down his cheeks.

After the meeting ended, Abdul approached me.

Pastor, he said quietly, I have killed many people.

I have done terrible things in the name of my religion.

Do you really think your God could forgive someone like me? Christ died precisely for people like you and me, I replied.

His blood is enough to wash even the most stained hands.

That night, under the same stars that had witnessed our near execution the night before, Abdul knelt and surrendered his life to Christ.

The man who had been willing to massacre us for our faith now join that same faith.

It was the first miracle of many God would perform in the days and weeks to come.

If you have experienced God’s deliverance in your own life, share your testimony of faith so that others may know that you too have seen his power manifest.

The days following our miraculous deliverance were a time of healing, both physical and spiritual.

External wounds began to heal.

Cuts closed.

Broken bones were splints.

Bruises turned from black to yellow.

But the deepest transformations were taking place within in our hearts and souls.

What we had experienced was not just a physical deliverance.

It was a direct encounter with the supernatural power of God.

And as with all genuine encounters with the divine, no one was left unchanged.

News of what had happened quickly spread throughout the region.

Despite efforts by authorities to restrict travel and communications in Boro state, stories of our miraculous deliverance traveled by word of mouth from village to village, even reaching cities as far away as Maiduguri and Ko.

2 weeks after our release, visitors began arriving in Gua.

First in small groups of two or three, then in larger numbers, they came to hear firsthand what had happened, to see with their own eyes the people God had saved in such an extraordinary way.

Among these visitors were many curious Muslims, some secret Christians who had never had the courage to openly declare their faith, and even several confused extremists who wanted to understand what kind of God could intervene so powerfully to save his followers.

Our small congregation, which before my arrival had barely 27 members and had grown to 34 before the kidnapping, suddenly found itself hosting 150, then 200, and finally more than 300 people every Sunday.

We no longer met in secret.

What was the point of hiding when God had so dramatically declared his presence? We held our services outdoors under the same skies that had poured down that liberating rain.

But the most striking transformation was Abdul’s.

The former extremist leader whose hands had been stained with the blood of countless Christians was now one of the most powerful witnesses to the transforming power of Christ.

Abdul was thoroughly familiar with the Islamic scriptures and had a brilliant analytical mind.

Once he gave his heart to Christ, he immersed himself in Bible study with a passion that surprised even the most dedicated believers.

He spent hours each day reading, praying, asking questions, connecting passages from the Old and New Testaments.

I had never experienced this freedom before.

He told me one day as we studied together.

All my life I had been chained by fear.

Fear of not being good enough.

Fear of Allah punishing me.

Fear of doubting.

Now for the first time, I feel I can ask questions.

I can explore.

I can relate to God as a beloved child, not as a terrified slave.

Abdul began sharing his testimony with other extremists.

Using his old contacts, he arranged secret meetings where he explained why he had renounced violence and found peace in Christ.

Some immediately rejected him, calling him a traitor, but others listened with curiosity.

For years, we’ve been taught that Christians are our enemies, he told them.

But when I was about to execute them, they treated me with more compassion than my own brothers.

And when their god intervened, it wasn’t to destroy us all, but to give us all, including me, their persecutor, a second chance.

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