You raised the dead.

This girl is dying and we have no medicine.

We have no doctors.

But we have you.

Please show these women your power.

Touch her.

Heal her.

Bring the fever down in your holy name.

I kept my hand on her head.

The cell was silent.

Everyone was watching.

Waiting for a few minutes.

Nothing happened.

Then I felt something.

A sensation of heat flowed through my arm and into my hand.

It was not the heat of the fever.

It was a different kind of heat.

It was like electricity, but gentle.

It flowed out of me and into Fatima.

Suddenly, her shivering stopped.

Her breathing, which had been jagged and loud, smoothed out into a deep rhythmic sleep.

I moved my hand.

Her forehead was cool.

The heat was gone.

The fever had broken instantly.

A collective gasp went through the cell.

The women reached out to touch her.

They touched her face, her arms.

She is cool, they whispered.

She is sleeping.

She is healed.

They looked at me with wide eyes.

Fear had been replaced by awe.

That night, no one mocked me.

That night they asked me to tell them about the man who heals in the darkest place on earth, the light of Christ had just broken through.

And if you are watching this right now and you feel like you are in a prison of sickness or despair, I want you to know that the same Jesus who visited that cell is with you right now.

He has not changed.

His power is not limited by iron bars or hospital walls.

If this story is touching your faith, I invite you to join our community by subscribing to this channel because we share these testimonies to remind you that you are never alone.

From that day on, I was no longer the outcast.

I became the counselor.

The gods noticed the change.

They noticed that our cell, which used to be the loudest and most violent, had become quiet and peaceful.

They started calling me the woman of light.

They would come to the bars and ask me for advice on their own lives.

But even though my spirit was free, my body was still trapped.

I had been there for 3 years.

3 years of darkness.

I had accepted that I might die there.

I was content to serve God in chains.

But God had other plans.

He was about to stage a jailbreak that would defy every law of physics and security.

It was a Tuesday night, the same day of the week, I had received my first Bible.

3 years earlier, the prison was settled into its usual restless silence.

You could hear the distant coughing of inmates, the heavy boots of the guards patrolling the upper walkways, and the occasional clanging of metal.

I was asleep on my mat.

Suddenly, I was wide awake.

It wasn’t a noise that woke me.

It was a presence.

The air in the cell felt charged like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm.

I sat up.

The other women were fast asleep.

Then I heard it.

A voice.

It was not a loud voice thundering from the heavens.

It was a still small voice, but it resonated in the very marrow of my bones.

It was the same voice I had heard in my spirit the night I first believed.

[snorts] Amina, the voice said, stander.

I looked around.

No one was there.

I thought I was dreaming.

I stayed seated again.

The voice came clearer this time.

Amina, stand up and put on your shoes.

My heart began to hammer against my ribs.

I knew this voice.

It was the voice of the shepherd calling his sheep.

Trembling, I stood up.

I put on my worn out sandals.

I stood there in the darkness waiting.

I did not know what to do.

[snorts] The cell door was a solid slab of steel with a small barred window.

It was double locked.

From the outside, a guard sat at the end of the corridor with a rifle across his lap.

There was no way out.

Then I heard a sound that I will never forget as long as I live.

It was the sound of heavy metal tumblers clicking into place.

Click, click, click.

It sounded loud in the silence, like a gunshot.

I froze, waiting for the guards to come running, but silence returned.

Then slowly, impossibly, the heavy steel door began to creek.

It swung open inward just a few inches.

My breath caught in my throat.

This was impossible.

The keys were with the warden.

The guards were posted.

Yet the door was open.

The voice spoke a third time.

Go.

Walk out.

I stepped toward the door.

Every instinct in my body screamed that this was a trap, that the gods were waiting to shoot me as soon as I stepped out.

Escaping prisoner was the perfect excuse for an execution.

But the pull of the spirit was stronger than my fear.

I pushed the door gently.

It moved silently on its rusty hinges.

I stepped out into the corridor.

The air was colder here.

I looked to my left.

The guard was sitting in his chair facing my direction.

His eyes were open.

He was looking straight down the hallway.

Straight at me.

I froze.

I waited for the shout.

I waited for the alarm.

I waited for the bullet, but he did not move.

He did not blink.

It was as if he was looking right through me, as if I were made of glass.

I took a step, my sandal scraped against the concrete.

The sound echoed.

[snorts] Still, he did not move.

I took another step, then another.

[snorts] I walked right past him.

I was so close.

I could smell the tobacco smoke on his uniform.

I could see the rise and fall of his chest.

He was awake.

He was alert, but he could not see me.

God had blinded his eyes.

Just as he had blinded the soldiers in the story of Elisha, I reached the end of the cell block.

There was another gate, a heavy iron grate that separated the cells from the administrative wing.

As I approached, I saw that it was slightly a jar, just enough for a person to slip through.

I squeezed through the gap, my heart pounding so hard I felt dizzy.

I was now in the main hallway.

This was the most dangerous part.

There were cameras here.

There were patrols.

I kept walking, guided by an invisible hand.

I passed the warden’s office.

The light was on.

I could hear voices inside.

I walked past the interrogation room where I had been beaten 3 years ago.

I walked past the guard station at the main entrance.

Two guards were standing there talking and laughing.

They were facing the door I needed to exit.

I [snorts] stopped.

There was no way to pass them without being seen.

They were blocking the exit.

I pressed myself against the wall, praying, “Lord, you brought me this far.

Do not let me die here.

” Just then the phone and the desk rang.

It rang loudly, piercing the air.

Both guards turned away from the door to look at the phone.

One of them moved to answer it.

In that split second of distraction, I slipped past them.

I pushed the small side door next to the main gate.

It was unlocked.

I stepped out into the night air.

The shock of it hit me like a physical blow.

It was fresh and cold and smelled of dust and freedom.

I was outside.

I was standing on the street.

The massive walls of the prison loomed behind me, towering and formidable.

But I was on the other side.

I looked at my hands.

They were shaken.

I looked at the sky.

The stars were shining brighter than I had ever seen them.

I had walked out of a maximum security prison without a key, without a weapon, and without a plan.

I had simply walked, but I knew I was not safe yet.

The alarm could sound at any moment.

They would discover my empty cell in the morning.

A manhunt would begin.

I had no money.

I had no identification.

I was wearing a prison uniform.

I was a fugitive in a country that wanted me dead.

But as I looked down the long empty road, stretching into the darkness, I felt a surge of hope.

The God who opens prison doors is also the God who provides in the wilderness.

I started to run.

I ran not with the panic of a fugitive, but with the strength of the redeemed.

I ran into the darkness, trusting that the light of the world was guiding my feet.

I ran until my lungs burned and my legs felt like lead.

I avoided the main roads sticking to the shadows of the alleyways and the dirt paths that winded through the outskirts of the city.

I knew I needed to get as far away as possible before sunrise.

The adrenaline that had carried me out of the prison began to fade, replaced by the crushing reality of my situation.

I was alone.

I had nothing.

No food, no water, no money.

and I was wearing clothes that marked me as a criminal.

If anyone saw me, I would be reported instantly.

As the sun began to rise, painting the horizon in pale gray light, I found myself on the edge of a small village miles away from the city.

I was exhausted.

My throat was parched.

I collapsed behind a cluster of bushes near a small mudbrick house.

I huddled there, shivering, praying for protection.

I watched as an old woman came out of the house.

She was carrying a basket of feed for her chickens.

She was bent over with age.

Her face a map of wrinkles.

She moved slowly.

She fed the chickens and then she stopped.

She looked directly at the bushes where I was hiding.

My heart stopped.

Had she seen me? Would she scream? She stood there for a long moment staring.

Then she turned around and went back into the house.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

I prepared to run again, thinking she had gone to call the police, but a few minutes later, she came back out.

She was holding a bundle of clothes and a small loaf of bread.

She walked over to the bushes.

She did not say a word.

She did not ask who I was.

She did not ask why I was hiding.

She simply placed the clothes and the bread on the ground and backed away.

She looked at me with eyes full of a deep ancient sadness and understanding.

In her eyes, I saw no judgment, only mercy.

She turned and walked back into her house, closing the door softly behind her.

I crawled out and grabbed the bundle.

Inside was a simple long dress and a headscarf, traditional village clothes, perfect for blending in.

I tore into the bread, eating it with ravenous hunger.

It was the best meal I had ever tasted.

I changed into the clothes, burying my prison uniform in the dirt.

I [snorts] was no longer a prisoner.

I was just another woman in the village.

God had provided a table for me in the presence of my enemies.

He had used a stranger who did uneven speak to me to cover my shame and feed my hunger.

I continued my journey moving from village to village.

I learned to be invisible.

I slept in barns, and open fields, in abandoned buildings.

Every day was a miracle of provision.

Sometimes I found fruit on trees.

Sometimes strangers offered me water.

I felt like Elijah being fed by the ravens.

I was heading towards the border.

I knew that if I could cross into the neighboring country, I might find a way to get to Europe, where I could truly be safe.

But the border was heavily guarded.

It was a zone of military patrols and checkpoints.

After weeks of walking, I arrived at the border town.

It was chaotic, filled with refugees, smugglers, and soldiers.

I sat in a tea shop counting the few coins I had begged for trying to figure out a plan.

I overheard men talking about the mountain passes, about how dangerous they were, about the patrols that shot on site.

Despair began to creep in again.

[snorts] I had come so far.

Was this where it ended? A man sat down at my table.

He did not ask for permission.

He was middle-aged with a scar running down his cheek.

He looked rough like a man who had seen too much violence.

I tensed up, ready to flee.

He leaned in close, his voice a low rumble.

You are looking to cross, he said.

It was not a question I didn’t answer.

I stared at my tea.

Do not be afraid, he said.

I saw you praying.

I know who you serve.

I looked up at him in shock.

How could he know? He smiled and pulled a small wooden cross from inside his shirt.

It was hidden quickly, but I saw it.

I am a believer too, he whispered.

The Lord told me you were coming.

He told me to wait for a sister with sadness in her eyes and the light of God in her spirit.

I have been waiting here for 2 days.

Tears welled up in my eyes.

God had sent a guide, a brother.

That night he led me through the mountains.

We walked in silence, navigating paths that were barely visible in the moonlight.

We slipped past military checkpoints, huddled in ravines as search lights swept over our heads.

It was a treacherous journey.

[snorts] One slip could mean death.

But I felt safe.

I felt that I was being escorted not just by this man, but by a legion of angels.

Just as dawn broke, we reached the other side.

We were in a different country.

The air felt different here, lighter.

The man stopped and pointed to a road in the distance.

That road leads to the city.

He said, “There is a church there.

Ask for Pastor John.

[snorts] He will help you.

” I turned to thank him, but he was already turning back towards the mountains.

I never knew his name.

I never saw him again.

He was another link in the chain of miracles that God was forging.

I walked down that road towards the city.

My body was broken.

My feet were bleeding.

I had nothing to my name, but I was free.

And I carried with me a story that was burning in my bones.

A story of a God who sees the prisoner who heals the sick, who blinds the gods and who sends guides in the wilderness.

But the greatest miracle was yet to come.

The miracle that would prove to the world that my God has power not just over physical chains but over the very systems of this world.

The miracle of the empty file.

Freedom is a strange thing.

When you have craved it for years, you imagine it will feel like a burst of fireworks or a choir of angels singing.

But for me, freedom felt like a heavy coat of anxiety.

I was in a new country.

I was breathing new air.

I was walking on streets where no one knew my name.

But I was still a fugitive in the eyes of the law.

I was an escaped convict serving a life sentence for high treason and apostasy.

My face was likely unwanted posters back home.

My name was certainly flagged in the international databases.

The border I crossed was porous, but bureaucracy is a net that catches everyone eventually.

I spent my first few weeks in the city, hiding in the shadows of the church that had taken me in.

Pastor John was kind.

He gave me a small room at the back of the church hall and shared his meals with me.

But he told me the truth, “Amina,” he said gently, “You cannot live here as a ghost.

You need legal status.

You need to register as an asylum seeker.

If you do not, the police here will eventually find you and they will deport you back to Morocco.

And if you go back, he didn’t need to finish the sentence.

If I went back, I would be executed.

The prison guards who had let me slip past them would need a scapegoat.

My escape was an embarrassment to the state.

My return would be their revenge.

So the day came when I had to walk into the lion’s den.

I had to go to the central police station to turn myself in and request asylum.

It was a gray Tuesday morning.

The sky hung low and heavy over the city, matching the weight in my stomach.

Pastor John offered to come with me, but I refused.

This was a battle I had to face alone.

It was between me, my God, and the systems of this world.

The police station was a large imposing concrete building that smelled of stale cigarette smoke, old coffee, and fear.

It was crowded with people.

Desperate people, refugees with hollow eyes holding, clutching their children, petty criminals shouting their innocence, tired officers barking orders.

I took a number and sat on a hard wooden bench.

Every time the door opened, every time an officer looked in my direction, my heart hammered against my ribs.

I kept my head down, clutching my small bag.

Inside it, I had nothing but the clothes on my back and the invisible weight of my history.

Hours passed.

Finally, my number was called.

Number 42.

I stood up.

My legs felt like they were made of lead.

I walked toward the desk where a senior officer sat.

He was a large man with a thick mustache and tired, cynical eyes.

He did not look up as I approached.

He was typing slowly on a computer keyboard, the rhythmic clacking sound echoing like gunshots in my ears.

Name? He granted without stopping his typing.

Amina, I whispered, giving him my full legal name.

The name that was written on my birth certificate.

The name that was written on the court documents that sentenced me to life.

Dates of birth.

I gave it to him.

Country of origin, Morocco.

He stopped typing.

He looked up at me for the first time.

His eyes narrowed slightly.

He looked at my worn clothes, my dusty sandals, and the fear that I was trying so hard to hide.

He reached for a glass of tea on his desk, took a sip, and then leaned back in his chair.

“Wait here,” he said.

He picked up a phone and dialed a number.

He spoke in low tones, but I caught a few words.

“Check the database.

” International warrant priority.

My blood ran cold.

He knew he must have seen something on his screen.

The alert, the red flag.

The fugitive notice.

I closed my eyes and began to pray.

Lord, you did not bring me out of the iron furnace to let me die in the waiting room.

You blinded the eyes of the gods in the hallway.

Blind the eyes of this computer system.

Cover me with your blood.

The officer hung up the phone.

He turned back to the computer.

He started typing again faster this time.

He hit the enter key.

He frowned.

He typed something else.

He hit enter again harder.

The frown deepened into a scowl.

He leaned closer to the monitor, squinting as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

He refreshed the page.

He opened a different program.

I watched the reflection of the screen in his glasses.

Blue light flickering.

He picked up the phone again.

This time his voice was louder.

frustrated.

No, I entered it correctly.

Yes, the spelling is right.

I have her right here in front of me.

What do you mean there is nothing? Check the interpole link.

Check the regional sharing server.

A life sentence doesn’t just disappear.

My heart skipped a beat.

A life sentence doesn’t just disappear.

He was looking for it.

He expected to find it, but he couldn’t.

He slammed the phone down.

He looked at me with a mixture of confusion and suspicion.

He stood up and walked over to a filing cabinet, pulling out a thick binder of wanted lists.

He flipped through the pages, licking his finger to turn them quickly.

He went to the section for my country.

[snorts] He ran his finger down the list of names.

He flipped back and forth.

He muttered a curse word under his breath.

Then he came back to the desk and sat down heavily.

He swiveled the monitor around so I could see it.

“Look at this,” he said, his voice demanding.

I looked.

The screen showed a standard police database search form.

“My name was in the top field.

my date of birth, my city.

But below that, in the section where my criminal history, my mugsh shot, my fingerprints, and my sentence should have been, there was only a single word blinking in green letters.

Nu, it meant nothing.

Continue reading….
« Prev Next »