Today I am 47 years old.

13 years have passed since that night in Thyron when Jesus pulled me back from the edge of death and gave me a new life.

I pastor a church of 300 people, refugees and immigrants and seekers from a dozen countries.

All of them hungry for the same truth that saved me.

I travel several times a year to speak at events and conferences, sharing my testimony with anyone who will listen.

I continue to reach out to security forces in closed countries.

And every month I receive reports of conversions of men and women who have laid down their weapons and picked up their crosses.

The work is slow.

The progress is measured in individual souls, not in mass movements.

But I have learned that this is how the kingdom of God advances, one heart at a time, one surrender at a time, one small light kindled in the darkness until the darkness can no longer prevail.

My mother was right.

There was a light inside me that had not been extinguished.

A light that was not from this world and could not be destroyed by this world.

I did not understand her words when she spoke them on that balcony in Tyrron, watching the sun set over a city that would eventually try to destroy us both.

But I understand them now.

The light was Jesus, waiting patiently in the depths of my soul, hidden beneath layers of ideology and cruelty and fear, waiting for the moment when I would be broken enough to finally let him shine.

He was there in my childhood when my mother hummed her secret songs and planted seeds she would not live to see bloom.

He was there in my training when I hardened myself against feeling and called it strength.

He was there in every interrogation room watching me through the eyes of the prisoners I tortured.

Speaking to me through words I was too deaf to hear.

He was there when I stood over my mother in chains and wept for the first time in 20 years.

He was there when I knelt with a knife in my hand, ready to end a life that he was determined to redeem.

He has been there every moment since, guiding my steps, healing my wounds, using my story for purposes I am only beginning to glimpse.

If you are listening to this and you feel that you are beyond redemption, I want you to hear me clearly.

You are not.

If God can save a man who sent innocent people to torture and death, who helped execute his own mother, who stood in the service of evil and called it righteousness, he can save you.

There is no sin too great for his forgiveness.

There is no darkness too deep for his light.

There is no story too broken for him to rewrite.

He is not a distant judge waiting to condemn you.

He is a father who has been searching for you, calling to you, preparing a place for you at his table.

All you have to do is turn around.

All you have to do is say yes.

My mother’s last words to me in that letter I burned to protect myself were an invitation.

Open the door, my son.

Jesus is waiting on the other side.

For years, I kept that door locked and barred, terrified of what lay beyond it.

Certain that I was unworthy to enter.

But Jesus does not wait for us to be worthy.

He makes us worthy.

He takes the broken pieces of our lives and transforms them into mosaics of grace that reflect his glory.

He takes the worst things we have done and turns them into testimonies of his power to redeem.

He takes our deaths and makes them resurrections.

This is what he did for my mother.

This is what he did for me and this is what he wants to do for you.

Whatever you are carrying today, whatever shame or guilt or fear has been weighing you down, I want you to know that you do not have to carry it alone.

Jesus is reaching out his wounded hand to you.

The same hand that touched my face on that night in Thyron.

The same hand that bears the scars of a love so great that it willingly suffered death to set you free.

Will you take his hand? Will you let him lead you out of the desert and into the green hills? Will you let him give you rest? My name is Darush Mohammad.

I was a monster and now I am a minister.

I was a persecutor and now I am a pastor.

I was dead and now I am alive.

Not because of anything I did, but because of everything he did.

Jesus found me in the darkest pit of my existence and lifted me into the light.

He is still performing miracles.

He is still transforming lives.

He is still calling the lost and the broken and the hopeless to come home.

And if you are hearing my voice right now, if the story has stirred something in your heart that you cannot explain, then perhaps he is calling you.

Perhaps this is your moment.

Perhaps the door is open and all you have to do is walk through.

Do not wait another day.

Do not let fear or pride or the lies of the enemy keep you from the love that has been pursuing you since before you were born.

Cry out to him.

Tell him everything.

He already knows and he loves you anyway.

He loves you more than you can possibly imagine.

He proved it on a cross 2,000 years ago.

And he is proving it again right now in this moment through this testimony of a broken man who was made whole.

My mother is waiting for me in eternity.

One day I will see her again and we will embrace and there will be no more tears, no more pain, no more separation.

Until that day, I will continue to share her story and mine.

I will continue to proclaim the name of Jesus to anyone who will listen.

I will continue to be a witness to the power of a God who can take the worst sinner and make him a saint, who can take the deepest grief and turn it into the greatest joy.

If my story has touched your heart, if you are ready to begin your own journey with Jesus, pray with me now.

Say these words out loud or whisper them in your heart and mean them with everything you are.

Lord Jesus, I believe that you are the son of God.

I believe that you died for my sins and rose again from the dead.

I am sorry for the things I have done that have separated me from you.

I surrender my life to you completely.

Come into my heart.

Forgive me.

Transform me.

Make me new.

I receive your love.

I receive your grace.

I receive your life.

From this day forward, I am yours.

Amen.

If you prayed that prayer, you are now my brother or my sister.

You are part of a family that stretches across every nation and every generation.

A family of the redeemed, a family of the rescued.

Welcome home.

Find a community of believers who can support you and teach you and walk with you on this journey.

Read the Bible starting with the Gospel of John.

Talk to God every day, not with formal words, but with honest words, as you would talk to a loving father who delights in hearing your voice.

And when the doubts come, because they will come, remember my story.

Remember my mother.

Remember the night Jesus appeared in a room in Tehran and saved a man who did not deserve to be saved.

He saved me.

He can save anyone.

He can save you.

And he will never let you go.

 

 

 

 

2 Woman Soldiers Vanished Without a Trace — 5 Years Later, a SEAL Team Uncovered the Truth…

In October 2019, Specialist Emma Hawkins and Specialist Tara Mitchell departed forward operating base Chapman on what their unit was told was a routine supply run to coast.

Never made it.

Convoy found burned, blood on the seats, bodies gone.

Army said KIA, insurgent ambush, case closed.

5 years later, a SEAL team raided a compound in the mountains.

Wasn’t even their target.

Bad intel sent them to the wrong grid.

In a hidden cellar, they found US Army uniforms.

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Female name tapes still readable.

Hawkins Mitchell.

Dog tags wrapped in plastic.

A bundle of letters never sent.

Fresh scratches on the walls.

Counting days.

Master Sergeant Curtis Boyd got the call at 0300.

His soldier’s gear found in some hellhole cave.

The guilt that had eaten him since that October morning turned to ice in his chest.

5 years.

5 years they’d been somewhere out there.

The SEAL team commander’s words echoed.

Boyd, you need to get here.

There’s more.

Someone was in that cellar recently.

Very recently.

Master Sergeant Curtis Boyd stood in the rain outside Fort Campbell’s administrative building.

The evidence box heavy in his jacket pocket.

Three weeks since the seal team’s discovery.

Three weeks of doors slammed in his face.

Three weeks of Let It Go, Sergeant.

His hands shook as he lit another cigarette.

Not from the cold.

Inside that box, two uniforms bloodstained but folded neat.

Dog tags that should have been around their necks when they died.

Letters in Terara’s handwriting.

And something that made his throat close up every time.

Scratch marks on a piece of concrete they’d cut from the wall.

Hundreds of tiny lines.

Days, months, years.

The door opened behind him.

Lieutenant Colonel Patricia Sharp, military intelligence.

The fourth officer he’d tried to see this week.

Sergeant Boyd.

Her voice carried that tone he’d heard too often lately.

Exhaustion mixed with pity.

We’ve been over this, ma’am, with respect.

We haven’t been over anything.

Boyd turned, rain dripping from his patrol cap.

Those scratches were fresh.

Someone was counting days in that cellar two weeks ago.

My soldiers.

Your soldiers died 5 years ago.

Then who was counting days? Sharp’s jaw tightened.

Could have been anyone.

Insurgents use those caves.

Insurgents who wear US Army uniforms with name tapes.

Boyd pulled out his phone, swiped to the photos he’d been sent.

Insurgents who write letters to Diane Mitchell in perfect English.

insurgents who scratch 1,826 lines on a wall.

That’s five years exactly, Colonel.

Five years.

Sharp looked at the photos longer than she should have if she really believed they meant nothing.

Her fingers drumed against her leg, a nervous tell Boyd had noticed in their previous meetings.

The SEAL team did a full sweep, she said finally.

No one was there because they weren’t looking for anyone.

Wrong grid coordinates, remember? They stumbled onto this by accident.

Boyd stepped closer.

Close enough to see the rain collecting on her eyelashes.

What if they’re still alive? What if Emma and Terra are out there somewhere and we’re sitting here? Stop.

Sharp’s voice cracked.

Just stop.

You think you’re the only one who wants them to be alive? I knew Mitchell.

She was She was a good soldier.

But the blood in that convoy, the amount They never found bodies in that region.

Animals, weather, insurgents taking them for propaganda.

There are a dozen explanations.

Boyd reached into the evidence box, pulled out a small plastic bag.

Inside a St.

Christopher medallion on a silver chain.

Emma never took this off ever.

Her grandmother gave it to her before basic training.

Said it would keep her safe.

Sharp stared at the medallion.

It was in the cellar, Boyd continued.

Along with this, another bag, a wedding ring, inscription visible through the plastic.

Tara’s husband gave her this two weeks before deployment.

She’d spin it when she was nervous, made this little clicking sound against her rifle.

Items can be taken from bodies.

The blood on Terra’s uniform.

Boyd’s voice dropped.

It’s not 5 years old.

Lab Tech owed me a favor.

ran a test.

That blood is maybe 6 months old.

Type a positive.

Terara’s blood type.

Sharp went very still.

Someone’s been keeping them.

Boyd said moving them.

Maybe using them for Christ.

I don’t even want to think about what for, but one of them was bleeding 6 months ago.

One of them was counting days 2 weeks ago.

And we’re going to stand here and pretend I can’t authorize anything based on scratches and blood stains.

Sharp’s words came out rehearsed, but her eyes said something different.

You know that chain of command, intelligence protocols, [ __ ] protocols.

The words exploded out of him.

Those are my soldiers.

Were were your soldiers, and you weren’t even supposed to be shown that evidence.

The SEAL team commander broke about 15 regulations sending you those photos.

Boyd laughed, bitter and sharp.

Jake Morrison.

Yeah, he broke regulations because he knew I’d been looking for them because he found their gear in a cave that wasn’t supposed to exist in an area we were told was cleared 5 years ago.

Something shifted in Sharp’s expression.

Morrison.

The SEAL team commander was Jake Morrison.

Yeah.

So Sharp pulled out her phone, typed something quickly.

Her face went pale as she read.

Jake Morrison, married to Tara Mitchell in 2019, divorced in absentia after she was declared KIA.

The rain seemed to get louder.

Boyd felt his chest go tight.

He never said he wouldn’t.

Sharp looked up from her phone.

Jesus Christ.

He found his wife’s things in that cave and didn’t say anything.

Maybe he did.

Maybe that’s why I got the photos.

Maybe.

Boyd stopped, thought about Morrison’s voice on the phone, controlled but strange.

The way he’d said to come alone, the way he’d emphasized that the official report would say the cellar was empty.

Sharp was already walking toward the building.

Get in the car.

What? Get in the goddamn car, Sergeant.

We’re going to see Morrison.

If Tara Mitchell’s husband found evidence she was alive and didn’t report it through proper channels, then either he knows something or she paused at the door or he’s planning something.

Boyd followed her, his mind racing, the scratches on the wall.

1,826 days.

But some scratches looked different, newer.

The last 50 or so scratched with something else, something sharper.

Colonel, he said as they reached her vehicle.

Those letters in the evidence, the ones in Terara’s handwriting.

What about them? They were all addressed to her mother.

All dated within the last year, but one.

He pulled out his phone, found the photo.

One was addressed to Jake.

No date, just said, “If you find this.

” Sharp started the engine.

What did it say? Boyd read from the photo, his voice catching.

Jake, if you find this, know I never stopped loving you.

No, I fought.

No, Emma is stronger than any of us thought.

And know that what they’re planning, we tried to stop it.

We tried.

Look for the water station at grid 247.

3.

October 20th.

They think we don’t understand, but we do.

Please forgive me.

Forever.

T-sharp slammed on the brakes before they’d even left the parking lot.

October 20th.

That’s 3 days from now.

Boyd gripped the door handle.

Whatever Tara was trying to warn about, it’s happening in 3 days.

Sharp grabbed her secure phone, started dialing.

We need to find Morrison now and Boyd.

She looked at him as the phone rang.

If your soldiers are alive, if they’ve been held for 5 years and managed to get a warning out, then someone on our side has been lying about a lot more than just their deaths.

The phone connected.

Sharp started talking fast using code words Boyd didn’t recognize, but he wasn’t listening anymore.

He was thinking about Emma and Tara out there somewhere.

Thinking about scratches on a wall.

Thinking about fresh blood on old uniforms.

Thinking about how Jake Morrison, Navy Seal, had found his wife’s wedding ring and letters in a cave and instead of reporting it, had sent the evidence to Boyd secretly, urgently, like he was planning a rescue, like he knew exactly where to look.

like maybe those wrong grid coordinates weren’t wrong at all.

The drive to Morrison’s off base apartment took 40 minutes.

Boyd spent them staring at the photos on his phone, zooming in on details.

The scratches bothered him.

Different tools, different depths.

The first thousand or so were uniform, fingernail, maybe a small rock.

Then they changed.

Sharper, desperate.

Sharp had been on her secure phone the entire drive, voice low and tense.

When she finally hung up, her knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

Morrison took emergency leave yesterday, she said.

Told his command he had a family emergency.

Terra was his family.

Was past tense.

That’s what has me worried.

Sharp took a turn too fast, tires squealing.

He’s been running unauthorized searches for 2 years.

satellite time he shouldn’t have access to.

Drone footage from grids that were supposed to be clear.

Someone in NSA caught it last month but hadn’t filed the report yet.

Boyd felt something cold settle in his stomach.

He knew.

He knew they were alive before he found that seller.

Maybe.

Or maybe he just never stopped looking.

Sharp pulled into an apartment complex.

All identical buildings and dead lawns.

Building C.

Apartment 314.

Morrison’s door was unlocked.

Not broken, not forced, just unlocked.

The apartment looked like someone had left in the middle of breakfast.

Coffee still in the pot now cold.

Bowl of cereal on the counter.

Milk curdled.

But the walls, Christ, the walls, maps everywhere.

Afghanistan, Pakistan border regions.

Red pins, blue pins, string connecting them like a conspiracy theorist’s fever dream.

Photos printed from satellites, grainy but marked with careful annotations.

And in the center, two official Army photos, Emma Hawkins and Tara Mitchell in their class A uniforms, smiling.

Jesus, Sharp whispered.

Boyd moved closer to the maps.

Each pin had a date.

Sighting reports, maybe rumors.

One cluster near the original ambush site spreading out like an infection over months, years.

The trail led north into the mountains.

Look at this.

Sharp stood by Morrison’s desk holding a notebook.

He’s been tracking someone.

Multiple someone’s she read aloud.

October 2019.

Initial capture.

Moved north.

November 2019.

Safe house coast mountains.

December 2019.

split.

Two locations reported.

Emma East, Tara West.

Can’t confirm.

Boyd found another notebook.

This one more recent.

Morrison’s handwriting got worse as the pages went on.

Like he’d been writing faster, more desperate.

July 2024.

Source says two American women still alive.

Healing camp.

Translation unclear.

August 2024.

Tara sick.

Emma taking care of her.

Guard talked about the one who fights and the one who prays.

September 2024.

Movement detected.

Grid 247.

3.

Water station confirmed.

Grid 247.

3.

Boyd looked up.

That’s from Terara’s letter.

Sharp was already on her phone again pulling up classified maps.

That’s [ __ ] That’s outside any area we patrol.

Completely dark territory.

No oversight, no surveillance, no.

She stopped.

It’s perfect.

You could hide an army there.

Something else caught Boyd’s eye.

A medical report half hidden under other papers.

Not official, just handwritten notes.

He recognized the terminology from combat lifesaver training.

Subject one, malnutrition, various stages healing.

Broken ribs aged approximately 6 months.

Scarring consistent with repeated trauma.

Subject two, advanced infection, possibly tuberculosis.

Kidney failure likely without treatment.

Estimate 3 to 6 month survival.

The date on the notes 2 months ago.

Tara’s dying, Boyd said quietly.

Continue reading….
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