He has come to kill me for my mockery.

I waited for the strike.

I waited for the fire to consume me.

But instead of death, I felt something else.

As I lay there trembling, unable to move, a wave of warmth washed over me.

But it wasn’t the burning heat from before.

It was love.

It was a liquid, overwhelming love that penetrated every dark corner of my heart.

It washed away the hatred.

It washed away the pride.

It washed away the loneliness I had felt in my Ferrari.

For the first time in 28 years, I felt seen.

I felt known.

And I felt forgiven.

Started to weep.

I couldn’t stop.

I was a prince of Saudi Arabia, a man who never showed weakness.

And I was sobbing on the floor like a child.

The wind stopped.

The light faded.

The heat dissipated.

The room returned to normal silence, broken only by the sound of my own crying and the terrified breathing of my family under the table.

I realized I could move again.

I slowly sat up.

The Bible was still in my lap.

I looked at it.

It wasn’t an enemy anymore.

It was a lifeline.

But as I looked up, I saw my father standing in the doorway.

He had heard the commotion.

He looked at the overturned chairs.

He looked at his other sons, hiding in fear.

Okay? And then he looked at me, holding the Christian book, tears streaming down my face.

The look in his eyes was not confusion.

K.

It was cold, hard rage.

And in that moment, I knew I had found the truth, but I was about to lose everything else.

The miracle was over.

The nightmare was about to begin.

The silence that followed my father’s entrance was heavier than the supernatural atmosphere that had just left the room.

My brothers scrambled out from under the table, dusting off their robes, trying to regain their dignity.

But my father didn’t move.

He stood there looking at the overturned chairs, the broken glass, and finally at me.

I was still on my knees, clutching the Bible to my chest.

I wiped the tears from my face and stood up to face him.

I expected him to shout.

I expected him to strike me.

But what he did was worse.

He looked at me with cold absolute detachment.

He asked me simply, “What have you done?” I tried to explain.

I tried to tell him about the light, the voice, the love I had just felt.

I said, “Father, Issa dot dot dot.

Jesus, he is real.

He is here.

” But the moment I spoke the name of Jesus, his face twisted in disgust.

He spat on the floor in front of me.

He told me that I was possessed by a jin.

Tell me that I had brought shame upon our bloodline.

He turned to my brothers and ordered them to take me to my room.

Lock him up, he said.

A key.

Do not let him speak to anyone.

Do not give him a phone.

He is sick.

We will deal with him in the morning.

I was dragged out of that dining room by the same brothers I had been laughing with an hour earlier.

They didn’t look at me as a brother anymore.

They looked at me as a contagion.

They shoved me into my bedroom and I heard the heavy click of the lock turning from the outside.

For the first time in my life, I was a prisoner in my own palace.

That night were the longest of my life.

I sat on my bed, still holding the Bible.

The adrenaline of the miracle had faded.

And now the reality of my situation was setting in.

I knew what happened to people who left Islam in my country.

It wasn’t just a social taboo.

It was a capital crime.

The penalty for apostasy is death.

And my father was a man of the law.

He would not hesitate to execute justice even if it meant sacrificing his own son.

Fact.

In our culture, killing an apostate son is seen as an act of honor.

It washes the shame away.

I could hear my mother crying in the hallway.

It was a low, mournful whale that tore my heart apart.

She wasn’t crying because I was dead.

She was crying because to her I was worse than dead.

I was lost.

Wanted to bang on the door to tell her I was okay, that I had found the truth.

But I knew it wouldn’t matter.

To them, I had betrayed everything.

If you’re watching this and you have been rejected by your family because of your faith, I want you to know that I understand your pain.

In that locked room, in the dark, I was not alone.

I opened the Bible again.

For the first time, the words weren’t just text.

They were food.

They were water.

I read until the sun came up.

K read about Jesus telling his disciples that they would be hated for his name’s sake.

He said, “Do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul.

” Those words became my anchor.

I realized that my father could take my title.

He could take my money.

He could even take my life, but he could not take the presence of God that was now living inside me.

Three days passed.

I was given only water and bread.

No one spoke to me.

On the third night, the lock turned.

I stood up, expecting the guards to come in and drag me to the courtyard for execution.

But it wasn’t a guard.

It was one of my uncles.

He was a stern man, but he had always had a soft spot for me.

He stepped inside and closed the door quickly.

He looked at me with sad eyes, he whispered.

Ape, you have to leave.

Now your father has made the decision.

Tomorrow morning, you will be handed over to the religious police.

You know what that means? I nodded.

I knew exactly what it meant.

It meant a public trial, a forced recontation, and if I refused, a sword to the neck in the public square.

My uncle handed me a small bag.

Inside was a stack of cash and a fake passport that he had managed to procure.

He said, “Go.

Don’t take anything.

Just go.

The back gate is open.

The guard has been paid.

Do not look back.

” And Abit, “Do not ever contact us again.

You are dead to us.

” He turned and left.

I stood there for a moment looking at my room, my silk shirts, my gold watches, my life of luxury.

I had to make a choice in that second.

Stay and die as a prince or leave and live as a popper with Jesus.

I looked at the Bible on my bed.

I picked it up.

It was the only thing I took.

I didn’t take a change of clothes.

I didn’t take a photo of my mother, just the book.

I opened the window, climbed down the trellis, and ran into the darkness.

I was running away from my kingdom, but I was running toward my king.

The drive to the airport was a blur of terror.

I held a taxi on the main road, keeping my head down, wearing a simple th I had grabbed from the laundry pile.

Every police car that passed made my heart hammer against my ribs.

I kept touching the fake passport in my pocket, praying that it would work.

I kept touching the Bible hidden under my clothes, praying that they wouldn’t search me.

When I got to the airport, it was crowded.

I walked toward the security checkpoint.

My hands were shaking so bad I had to clench them into fists.

This was the moment of truth.

The scanner picked up the Bible or if the officer recognized my face.

It was over.

I stepped up to the booth.

The officer looked at my passport.

He looked at me.

He frowned.

He typed something into his computer.

My breath stopped.

I started praying silently.

Jesus, if you saved me in that dining room, save me now.

Get me out of here.

The officer looked up again.

He narrowed his eyes.

Then he did something strange.

He blinked, shook his head as if he was confused, and stamped the passport.

“Go,” he said.

“K.

” I didn’t wait.

I walked through the gate, forcing myself not to run.

I boarded the first flight, leaving the country.

It was going to London.

As the plane took off, I looked out the window.

I saw the lights of Riad fading below me.

I saw the palaces, the mosques, the oil fields.

I saw my inheritance, my future, my home disappearing into the night.

Tears ran down my face.

I knew I would never see my mother again.

I knew I would never drive my Ferrari again.

I was leaving as a fugitive with nothing to my name but the clothes on my back and a stolen Bible.

But as the plane climbed higher, piercing through the clouds, I felt that same warmth I had felt on the floor of the dining room.

I felt free.

I was poor.

Yes, t but I was free.

Now I want to take you forward in time.

Fast forward 10 years.

I want to show you where I am today.

Cuz a lot of people ask me, “Abe, was it worth it? You gave up billions, gave up power.

Do you regret it?” Let me answer that by taking you into my kitchen this morning.

I live in a small apartment in a city in the west.

It is not a palace.

The floors are wood, not marble.

I don’t have servants.

When I wake up, I walk to the kitchen and I boil my own water.

I spoon cheap instant coffee into a mug.

I stir it myself.

This morning, as I stood there smelling the coffee, looking out at a gray street, I smiled.

Okay.

10 years ago, if I wanted coffee, I snapped my fingers and it appeared on a silver tray.

But I drank it with a heart full of hatred and fear.

Today, I make my own coffee.

It costs pennies, but I drink it with a heart full of peace.

I work a regular job.

I take the bus.

Nobody knows I was a prince.

To my neighbors, I am just Abit, the quiet guy who always smiles.

But they don’t know that I am richer now than I ever was in Saudi Arabia.

You see, the kingdom I was born into was made of sand.

It was built on oil and pride.

It could be taken away in a second.

But the kingdom I belong to now, the kingdom of God, it cannot be shaken.

I lost my earthly father.

Yes.

K.

And I pray for him every day.

K.

But I gained a heavenly father who will never disown me.

I lost my inheritance of money.

But I gained an inheritance of eternal life.

I lost the respect of my peers, but I gained the friendship of the creator of the universe.

Sometimes late at night, I miss my mother.

I miss the smell of her perfume.

The pain of that separation is real.

I won’t lie to you and say it’s easy.

Following Jesus has cost me everything.

But if you were to put a contract in front of me right now, a contract that said, “Abit, sign here and you can have it all back.

The palace, the cars, the power, it’s all you have to do is deny Jesus.

I would tear that contract into a thousand pieces cuz I have found the pearl of great price.

I have found the treasure hidden in the field and I have sold everything I have to buy it.

Okay? and I would do it again thousand times over.

So I ask you today to look at your own heart right now.

You might not be a Saudi prince.

You might not have oil fields or private jets, but are you harboring the same kind of pride that I carried for 28 years? Do you think your intelligence, your success, your religious background, or your cultural identity makes you immune to God’s call on your life? I thought I was untouchable.

I thought I was unreachable.

Okay.

I thought I was too sophisticated and too important for the simple message of Christianity.

But God met me exactly where I was.

He met me in my arrogance.

He met me in my mockery.

And he transformed my heart in a single moment.

I want you to really think about the person in your life who seems the furthest from God.

Maybe it is a stubborn father, a rebellious son, or a boss who hates religion.

Maybe it is you.

You look at them and you think there is no way Kade that heart is stone.

That mind is closed.

Okay.

But I am living proof that no heart is too hard for the Holy Spirit.

If God can walk into a dining room in Riad and bring a prince to his knees without a single human preacher being present, he can walk into your living room.

He can walk into that prison cell.

He can walk into that office.

God is not limited by borders.

He is not limited by strict laws.

and he is certainly not intimidated by human pride.

I know that hearing a story like this can be overwhelming challenges everything we think we know about how the world works.

But we are building a community here of people who are searching for the truth no matter the cost.

If my story has touched you or if it has given you hope for someone you love, I want to invite you to join us.

Click that subscribe button right now.

Not for me, but because we are going to continue sharing these powerful testimonies of God’s work in the darkest places of the earth.

I don’t want you to miss the next evidence of his power.

And I want to hear from you.

Leave a comment below.

Tell me what is the palace that is keeping you from Jesus.

What is the thing you are afraid to lose? Okay.

Or if you are a believer, tell me who you are praying for so we can stand with you in faith.

Looking back now, I realize that the trade I made was the best business decision of my life.

I may have lost my earthly kingdom, but I gained a heavenly one.

The palaces and servants and bank accounts that once defined my identity now seem like toys compared to the relationship I have with Jesus Christ.

The family approval and social status that I sacrificed for my faith were temporary treasures that would have turned to dust eventually anyway.

with the eternal life I received in exchange will never fade or diminish.

That night in May 2012, I learned that God’s grace is not limited by human expectations.

His love reaches the unreachable.

His power breaks the unbreakable.

Okay? And his mercy is available to everyone from the beggar on the street to the prince on the throne.

My name is Abid.

I was once a slave to my own pride, disguised as a master of men.

Today I am a servant of the most high God and for the first time in my life I am truly free.

Thank you for listening to my story.

Okay.

And may the God of all peace who broke into my world with wind and fire break into yours with his overwhelming love.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Pay attention to the woman in the white pharmacist coat walking through the staff entrance of Hammad Medical Corporation at 10:55 p.

m.

Her name is Haraya Ezekiel.

She is 29 years old.

A licensed pharmacist from Cebu, Philippines, newlywed, married 11 months ago in a ceremony her mother still talks about.

Her husband Marco dropped her off at the metro station 3 hours ago.

He kissed her on the cheek.

She didn’t look back.

Now watch the man entering through the side corridor at 11:10 p.

m.

Dr.

Khaled Mansor, senior cardiotheric surgeon, 44 years old.

They do not acknowledge each other in the corridor.

They don’t need to.

They’ve done this before.

Three blocks away, a white Toyota Camry idols beneath a broken street lamp.

Inside it, Marco Ezekiel has been watching the staff entrance for 15 minutes.

He is an engineer.

He is systematic.

He is recording everything in his mind the way a man records things when he already knows the answer, but cannot yet say it out loud.

His phone last pings a cell tower at 11:47 p.

m.

300 m from the hospital’s east parking structure.

He is never seen again.

Not that night.

Not the following morning.

not for the 38 hours it takes his wife to report him missing after finishing her shift after taking the metro home after showering after sleeping after eating breakfast.

This is not a story about infidelity.

It is a story about what happened after someone decided that a husband who knew too much was a problem that required a solution and about the single maintenance worker who saw something in a parking structure at 12:15 a.

m.

and said nothing for 14 days and what those 14 days cost.

Pay attention to the woman in the white pharmacist coat walking through the staff entrance of Hammad Medical Corporation at 10:55 p.

m.

Her name is Haraya Ezekiel.

She is 29 years old, a licensed pharmacist from Cebu, Philippines, newlywed, married 11 months ago in a ceremony her mother still talks about.

Her husband Marco dropped her off at the metro station 3 hours ago.

He kissed her on the cheek.

She didn’t look back.

Now watch the man entering through the side corridor at 11:10 p.

m.

Dr.

Khaled Mansor, senior cardiotheric surgeon, 44 years old.

They do not acknowledge each other in the corridor.

They don’t need to.

They’ve done this before.

Three blocks away, a white Toyota Camry idles beneath a broken street lamp.

Inside it, Marco Ezekiel has been watching the staff in trance for 15 minutes.

He is an engineer.

He is systematic.

He is recording everything in his mind the way a man records things when he already knows the answer but cannot yet say it out loud.

His phone last pings a cell tower at 11:47 p.

m.

300 m from the hospital’s east parking structure.

He is never seen again.

Not that night.

Not the following morning.

Not for the 38 hours it takes his wife to report him missing.

After finishing her shift, after taking the metro home, after showering.

After sleeping.

after eating breakfast.

This is not a story about infidelity.

It is a story about what happened after someone decided that a husband who knew too much was a problem that required a solution.

And about the single maintenance worker who saw something in a parking structure at 12:15 a.

m.

and said nothing for 14 days and what those 14 days cost.

Pay attention to the wedding photograph on Marco Ezekiel’s desk.

Mahogany frame, the kind you buy to last.

In it, Marco wears a Barang Tagalog, hand embroidered, commissioned by his mother months before the ceremony.

Heriah stands beside him in an ivory gown, her smile wide enough to compress her eyes into half moons.

The photo was taken at 6:47 p.

m.

on a Saturday in April at the Manila Diamond Hotel at a reception attended by 210 guests.

It has not moved from that desk in 11 months.

Marco Aurelio Ezekiel is 37 years old.

He was born in Batanga City, the only son of a school teacher mother and a retired seaman father.

He studied civil engineering at the University of Sto.

Tomtomas in Manila, graduated with academic distinction and moved to Qatar in 2016 on a project contract he expected to last 18 months.

He never left.

The Gulf has a way of doing that to Filipino men in their late 20s.

It offers salaries that restructure the entire geography of a person’s ambitions.

By the time Marco had been in Doha 3 years, he was a senior project engineer at Al-Naser Engineering Consultants, managing the structural design phase of a highway interchange system outside Luzel City.

He supervised a team of 11.

He sent money home every month.

He called his mother every Sunday.

He was building in the quiet and methodical way of a man who plans for the long term a life that could hold the weight he intended to place on it.

Hariah Santos was born in Cebu City, the eldest of four siblings.

Her father worked in the merchant marine.

Her mother sold dried fish near the carbon market.

She studied pharmacy at the Cebu Institute of Technology, passed the lenture examination on her first attempt, worked three years at a private hospital in Cebu, and applied through a recruitment agency to a position at Hammad Medical Corporation.

She arrived in Qatar in March 2021.

16 months later, she met Marco at a Filipino expat gathering in West Bay.

She was holding a plate of pancet and laughing at something someone had said.

He noticed her.

The way people notice things they’ve been waiting to see without knowing it.

Continue reading….
« Prev Next »