Muslim Woman Spits on Cross and What Happened 2 Seconds Later Will Leave You Speechless

I’m 27 years old. And on September 22nd, 2020, I stood on a sidewalk in Toronto, Canada, and spat at a Christian cross displayed in a church courtyard. Two seconds later, lightning struck a tree less than three meters from where I was standing, and I felt the hand of God physically pull me backward. What happened in those two seconds changed my understanding of God forever.

I was born in Cairo, Egypt into a deeply religious Sunni Muslim family. My father, Ahmed, worked as a successful architect that gave us a comfortable upper-middle-class lifestyle. My mother, Fatima, was a devoted homemaker who ensured our household operated according to strict Islamic principles. From my earliest memories, I was taught that Islam was the final and perfect revelation from Allah and that all other religions were either corrupted versions of truth or complete fabrications designed to lead people astray. My childhood was structured entirely around Islamic education and practice. I attended a madrasa four days a week after regular school where I memorized large portions of the Quran in Arabic, even though I didn’t fully understand the meaning of every word. By age 13, I could recite the entire Surah Al-Imran, one of the longest chapters in the Quran, without a single mistake. My teachers praised me as one of their most dedicated students.

But I wasn’t just religious; I was actively hostile toward other faiths, particularly Christianity. My madrasa teachers had taught us that Christians committed the ultimate sin of shirk by worshipping Jesus as God alongside Allah. They told us that the Trinity was a ridiculous concept invented by corrupt leaders, that the Bible had been hopelessly corrupted and changed over centuries, and that Christians were destined for hellfire unless they accepted Islam. I absorbed these teachings completely and without question. Ask yourself this question: Have you ever been taught to view people of other faiths as enemies rather than fellow human beings searching for truth? That was my entire worldview for the first 24 years of my life.

During my teenage years, I became increasingly involved in Islamic activism—not terrorism or violence, but aggressive dawah, which means invitation or calling others to Islam. I would spend hours online in forums and social media debating Christians, Jews, and atheists, trying to prove that Islam was the only true faith. I developed a reputation in our community as someone who could effectively argue against Christian beliefs and make Muslims feel intellectually superior. I took particular pleasure in pointing out what I saw as contradictions in the Bible. I would quote verses out of context to make Christianity look foolish. I memorized standard Islamic apologetics arguments about the Trinity, the crucifixion, and the divinity of Christ. I genuinely believed I was doing Allah’s work by defending Islam and attacking other religions, especially Christianity.

My father was proud of my religious knowledge and zeal. He would invite me to speak at community gatherings where I would give presentations about the superiority of Islam over Christianity. I would explain how Islam corrected the errors of Christianity, how Muhammad was the final prophet who came to fix what Christians had gotten wrong about Jesus, and how the Quran was the only unchanged and pure word of God.

In 2017, when I was 21, my family made the decision to immigrate to Canada. My father wanted to expand his architectural firm into North American markets, and he believed Toronto offered excellent opportunities due to its large Muslim community and growing construction industry. I was accepted into a master’s program in civil engineering at the University of Toronto, which gave us a legitimate path to residency. The move to Toronto was both exciting and challenging. I loved the economic opportunities and the freedom of Western society, but I was deeply troubled by what I saw as moral decay: the casual attitude toward alcohol, the immodest clothing, the open relationships between unmarried men and women. All of it offended my Islamic sensibilities. I saw Canada as a nation that had abandoned God and embraced sinfulness.

What bothered me most was the visible presence of Christianity everywhere: churches on every corner, crosses displayed in public spaces, and Christian symbols on jewelry and clothing. To me, these weren’t just religious symbols; they were representations of shirk, the unforgivable sin of associating partners with Allah. Every time I saw a cross, I felt a mixture of disgust and anger that such blatant idolatry was not just permitted but celebrated in Western society. I connected with the Egyptian Muslim community in Toronto almost immediately. We would gather at the mosque on Dundas Street five times daily for prayers. After Friday Juma prayers, groups of us would often stay for hours discussing Islamic theology and complaining about Western culture. We saw ourselves as faithful Muslims trying to maintain our identity and values in a hostile secular environment.

By 2020, I had completed my master’s degree and was working as a structural engineer for a major construction firm. My job was stable and well-paying, allowing me to support my family and save money. I was engaged to my cousin Omar back in Egypt, and we were planning a wedding for late 2021. Everything in my life was proceeding exactly according to plan. But beneath my outward success, I was becoming increasingly arrogant about my faith. I saw Christians as intellectually inferior people who believed in obvious contradictions. I viewed their worship of Jesus as pathetic and misguided. I genuinely believed that if they had even basic intelligence and honesty, they would recognize Islam as the clear truth and convert immediately.

This arrogance manifested in subtle and not-so-subtle ways. I would scoff when passing churches. I would make dismissive comments about Christianity to my Muslim friends. I would refuse to enter buildings that displayed Christian symbols prominently. I saw myself as maintaining religious purity by avoiding anything connected to what I considered false worship. Look inside your own heart right now. Have you ever felt spiritually superior to others because of your religious knowledge or practice? That was exactly where I was in September 2020. I was educated, successful, religiously devoted, and completely convinced that I had all the answers about God. While Christians were stumbling in darkness and error, I had no idea that God was about to shatter my arrogance with a display of power so undeniable that it would force me to question everything I thought I knew about him.

The events of September 22nd, 2020, would prove that the God I thought I understood was far more powerful and far more surprising than anything I had imagined. Have you ever been so certain about your religious beliefs that you couldn’t imagine being wrong about anything? That was me just hours before lightning struck. September 22nd, 2020, started as a completely ordinary Tuesday. I had attended morning prayers at the mosque as usual, then gone to work at my office downtown. The weather forecast had mentioned possible thunderstorms later in the evening, but the afternoon was warm and clear, so I wasn’t concerned.

I left work around 5:30 p.m., planning to meet with two friends, Zainab and Mariam, both Egyptian Muslims around my age whom I had become close with since moving to Toronto. We decided to grab dinner at an Egyptian restaurant in the Little Arabia neighborhood. We spent over an hour at the restaurant eating koshari and discussing an upcoming fundraiser at the mosque. Around 7:00 p.m., we left the restaurant and started walking toward Queen Street West, a trendy area of Toronto with boutiques, cafes, and galleries. Zainab wanted to look at a jewelry store and the rest of us had nothing better to do, so we agreed to spend the evening exploring the area.

As we walked through the neighborhood, I noticed the sky beginning to darken. Heavy gray clouds were rolling in from Lake Ontario, and the temperature had dropped noticeably. The warm sunshine from earlier had been replaced by an ominous purplish tint to the air that often precedes severe storms. A few drops of rain began to fall and distant thunder rumbled somewhere over the city skyline. We were walking along King Street when I spotted a small historic church I had passed many times before but always ignored. It was a beautiful old stone building with a small courtyard surrounded by an iron fence. In the center of the courtyard stood a large stone cross, easily four feet tall, weathered by decades of Canadian winters but still standing proudly.

I stopped walking and stared at the cross with the same disgust I had felt countless times before when seeing Christian symbols. But this time, something inside me felt compelled to make my disdain public rather than just thinking it privately. Maybe it was the confidence I had built up over years of online debates. Maybe it was wanting to impress my friends with my boldness in rejecting shirk. Maybe it was just pure arrogance. Whatever the reason, I felt an overwhelming urge to demonstrate what I saw as righteous rejection of idolatry.

My friends had continued walking a few steps ahead before they realized I had stopped. They turned back to see what had caught my attention. When they saw me staring at the church courtyard, Mariam laughed and said, “Don’t waste your time looking at that nonsense, sister. Let’s keep moving.” But instead of following them, I pointed at the cross in the courtyard and said loudly enough for people on the street to hear, “Look at this foolishness. Christians actually worship a dead man on a piece of wood. How ignorant can people be?”

My friends looked uncomfortable—not because they disagreed with my sentiment, but because public mockery wasn’t typical of our group’s behavior. Zainab quietly said, “Leila, let’s just go. We don’t need to cause problems.” But I was emboldened now, feeling justified by what I perceived as righteous anger against false worship. I walked toward the iron fence surrounding the courtyard, standing directly in front of the gate, and raised my voice even more. “This is shirk. This is the ultimate sin. Christians are so blind they can’t even see they’re worshipping creation instead of the Creator.”

Several pedestrians had stopped to watch this spectacle, some looking annoyed, others just curious about what was happening. The rain was beginning to fall more steadily now, and another rumble of thunder echoed through the city streets, noticeably closer than before. Mariam grabbed my arm, trying to pull me away. “Sister, please, this isn’t necessary. Let’s leave before someone calls the police or we get into trouble.” But I shrugged off her hand, completely absorbed in my moment of religious superiority. I was going to make sure everyone on this street knew that Islam rejected this false worship.

Then I did something I will regret for the rest of my life. I opened the gate, walked a few steps into the courtyard, stood directly in front of the stone cross, and spat on it. The saliva hit the base of the cross and slowly dripped down the weathered stone. I felt a surge of satisfaction, believing I had struck a blow against idolatry. I turned back toward my friends with a triumphant expression and said, with contempt dripping from my voice, “This is your God, Christians: a piece of stone that can’t even defend itself. Our Allah would never—”

I never finished that sentence. Ask yourself this question: Have you ever been in the middle of speaking when something so shocking happened that the words literally stopped in your throat?

The lightning strike was simultaneous with the loudest thunder I have ever heard in my entire life. The sound wasn’t just heard; it was felt through every cell in my body. The tree less than three meters to my left, a large oak tree standing at the corner of the church property, was hit with what must have been millions of volts of electricity. The trunk erupted in brilliant white and blue light. Bark exploded from the tree like shrapnel. Branches cracked and fell, one landing just inches from where I stood. The smell of burning wood filled the air instantly. The ground beneath my feet seemed to shake from the force of the impact.

But here’s what I remember most clearly, more clearly than any other detail of that moment: I felt something, not just the shock wave from the lightning, but an actual force—like an invisible hand—physically pull me backward away from the tree. I stumbled several steps back, my legs barely able to support my weight, and fell onto the stone pathway of the courtyard. The rain was now pouring down in sheets, but I barely noticed. I was lying on my back on the ground, my heart racing so fast I thought it might explode, my ears ringing from the thunder, my entire body shaking uncontrollably.

The smell of ozone and burned wood filled the air. Smoke was rising from the struck tree, mixing with the rain to create an eerie steam. Zainab and Mariam were standing frozen in shock on the sidewalk just outside the gate, their faces pale with terror. Other pedestrians had scattered, running for cover in nearby shops and doorways. Car alarms were going off up and down the street, triggered by the electromagnetic pulse from the lightning strike. The entire scene was chaos.

But in the middle of all that chaos, I experienced something I had never felt before in my entire life: absolute, undeniable, bone-deep terror that I had just been judged by God himself. Not Allah as I understood him, but the God who was protecting that cross I had just desecrated—the God whose son I had just mocked seconds before lightning struck the exact spot where I was standing. I tried to stand, but my legs wouldn’t support me. I tried to speak, but no words would come. I just lay there in the rain, staring up at the dark sky, knowing with complete certainty that I should be dead. That tree should have been me. The electricity that had struck that trunk should have struck my body. I should have been the one turned into a charred corpse in a Toronto church courtyard.

Look inside your own heart right now. Have you ever experienced a moment so terrifying that it changed your entire understanding of reality? My friends finally rushed through the gate to help me up. Mariam was practically crying, saying over and over, “Leila, are you okay? Are you hurt? Did you get hit?” Zainab was checking my body for burns or injuries, but there was nothing. Not a scratch, not a burn, not even a singed hair. Despite being close enough to the lightning strike to feel its heat and force, I was completely physically unharmed.

But spiritually, I was devastated. Every certainty I had possessed just five minutes earlier was completely shattered. My arrogance, my confidence, my sense of religious superiority—all of it had been obliterated in a single second of divine intervention that I could not explain away or rationalize. We stumbled into a nearby coffee shop to get out of the storm. My clothes were soaked, my body was still shaking, and my mind was reeling with questions I didn’t want to ask but couldn’t avoid. Why had that happened at that exact moment? Why had I been spared when the lightning struck so close to me? And most terrifying of all, why had it happened precisely when I was desecrating a cross and mocking Jesus Christ?

The barista, a young woman with kind eyes, brought us towels and hot drinks without us even asking. She looked at me with genuine concern and said, “Are you all right? That was the closest lightning strike I’ve ever seen in my life. You’re incredibly blessed to be alive.” Blessed. Was that really what this was? Or was this something else entirely? Have you ever experienced something so impossible to ignore that you couldn’t dismiss it as coincidence, no matter how hard you tried?

I didn’t sleep at all that night. I lay in my bed in our family’s apartment in North York, staring at the ceiling, replaying the lightning strike over and over in my mind. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the brilliant flash of light, felt the physical force pulling me backward, heard the deafening thunder, and smelled the burned wood and ozone. But more than the sensory memories, I couldn’t escape the timing—the precise, impossible timing. I had been in the middle of desecrating a cross and mocking Jesus Christ when lightning struck within three meters of where I stood. Not five minutes before, not five minutes after, not while I was walking down the street or eating dinner or sleeping in my bed. At the exact moment I was spitting on the cross and ridiculing the Christian God, nature itself had responded with overwhelming force.

My Islamic training immediately tried to rationalize what had happened. Lightning is a natural phenomenon, I told myself. It’s just electricity in the atmosphere. Nothing supernatural about it. The timing was a coincidence. Allah controls all weather, so maybe this was a warning to be more discreet in my criticism of other religions, not to abandon my beliefs entirely. These rationalizations felt hollow even as I thought them.

I reached for my phone and searched for information about lightning strikes. I learned that the odds of being struck by lightning in any given year are approximately 1 in 700,000. The odds of being within three meters of a strike—I couldn’t even find statistics for that because it was so extraordinarily rare. The odds of that happening at the exact second I was desecrating a Christian cross… the mathematical improbability was staggering.

But what bothered me even more than the statistical impossibility was the physical force I had felt pulling me away from the tree. Lightning doesn’t pull people; it travels through them or past them. The electromagnetic pulse might knock someone down, but what I had experienced felt different. It felt personal. It felt like protection, like someone or something had deliberately moved me out of the path of danger. Ask yourself this question: When faced with undeniable evidence that contradicts everything you believe, do you have the courage to follow where that evidence leads?

The next morning, Wednesday, I told my parents I was going to a work site inspection, but instead, I found myself walking back to King Street. I needed to see the scene in daylight to confirm that what I remembered was real and not some fear-induced exaggeration. Maybe the lightning hadn’t struck as close as I thought. Maybe the tree hadn’t been as damaged as I remembered. When I arrived at the location, my stomach dropped. If anything, I had underestimated the damage. The tree was now cordoned off with orange safety barriers and caution tape. A massive section of the trunk was blackened and split open, revealing the raw wood inside. Several large branches had fallen and were scattered across the courtyard. City workers were examining the damage and discussing whether the tree could be saved.

I stood across the street staring at the destroyed tree, then turned to look at the stone cross. It was still standing in the center of the courtyard, completely undamaged, serene, and unchanging. Even the moisture from my saliva had long since been washed away by the rain. The contrast was stark. The tree I had been standing beside was destroyed. The cross I had desecrated was perfectly intact. The message couldn’t have been clearer if it had been written in the sky.

One of the city workers noticed me staring and walked over. “Were you here yesterday when it hit?” he asked. When I nodded, unable to speak, he continued, “You’re incredibly fortunate to be alive. This was one of the most powerful strikes we’ve seen in years. The amount of energy that went through this tree would have killed anyone within a few feet instantly.”

I walked away before he could ask any more questions, my mind spinning. Over the next several days, I tried to return to my normal life, but everything felt different. I went to work, but I couldn’t concentrate on blueprints and structural calculations. I went to the mosque for prayers, but the Arabic words felt empty in my mouth. I talked with Omar on the phone about wedding plans, but I felt like I was acting in a play rather than living my real life.

My friends who had witnessed the incident weren’t helping. Zainab wanted to forget it ever happened and refused to discuss it. But Mariam kept bringing it up, asking if I thought it meant something, suggesting that maybe we shouldn’t be so harsh in our criticism of other religions. This bothered Zainab, who accused Mariam of being weak in her faith and susceptible to doubt.

The tension in our friendship eventually exploded during a gathering at the mosque after Friday prayers, exactly one week after the lightning strike. Mariam made a comment about respecting all faiths, and Zainab responded angrily, saying that Islam didn’t require us to respect false beliefs, only to tolerate them. The argument escalated until Zainab said what everyone was thinking but no one had voiced: “Leila, you’ve been different since that day. Are you starting to doubt Islam because of some weather coincidence? Don’t let Shaitan use a random lightning strike to weaken your faith.”

The question hung in the air, and everyone at our table turned to look at me, waiting for my response. I wanted to give them the answer they expected, to affirm that my faith in Islam was as strong as ever, that I had no doubts about Allah or Muhammad or the Quran. But the words wouldn’t come. For the first time in my life, I couldn’t confidently assert my Islamic beliefs because I genuinely wasn’t sure anymore. My silence was answer enough. The disappointment on my friends’ faces was obvious. Within minutes, the gathering dispersed awkwardly, and I found myself walking home alone, cut off from the community that had been my support system since arriving in Toronto.

That night, I did something I had never done before: I searched online for information about Christian beliefs—not to find ammunition for arguments against Christianity, but to genuinely understand what Christians actually believed about God, Jesus, and salvation. Not the caricatures and distortions I had been taught in the madrasa, but what Christians themselves taught about their faith.

I discovered that Christians didn’t worship a dead man on a piece of wood, as I had mocked. They worshipped Jesus Christ as God incarnate, who had voluntarily died on a cross to pay the penalty for human sin, then rose from the dead three days later, demonstrating his power over death itself. The cross wasn’t a symbol of weakness or defeat; it was a symbol of sacrificial love and ultimate victory. This was completely different from what I had been taught about Christianity. I had been told Christians believed in three separate gods who sometimes worked together. But actual Christian theology taught one God existing eternally in three persons: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. I had been told the Bible was hopelessly corrupted, but historical evidence showed remarkable textual consistency across thousands of manuscripts spanning centuries.

Look inside your own heart right now. Have you ever realized that what you believed about something was based on misinformation rather than truth? The more I read, the more questions I had. If Christians were as foolish and deceived as I had been taught, why had God seemingly protected their symbol when I desecrated it? If the Christian God was false or powerless, why had I experienced what felt like supernatural intervention the moment I spat on the cross? If Islam had all the answers, why was I feeling more doubt and confusion than I ever had in my entire life?

I started having recurring dreams about the lightning strike. But in these dreams, I wasn’t pulled away from the tree. Instead, I was struck by the lightning and killed instantly. I would wake up gasping, my heart pounding, feeling overwhelming gratitude to be alive but also terror at how close I had come to death. Each dream left me with the same haunting question: Why had I been spared?

My behavior at home became noticeably different. My mother commented that I seemed distracted and troubled. My father suggested I might be working too hard and needed more time for prayer and Quran reading. But prayer had become the most difficult thing I tried to do. Every time I prostrated myself toward Mecca, I would think about the cross, the lightning, and the question I couldn’t escape: What if I had been wrong about God all along?

The crisis reached its peak three weeks after the incident when I found myself standing outside that same church at midnight, unable to sleep, drawn to the place where my worldview had been shattered. The church was closed and dark, but I could still see the cross in the courtyard illuminated by streetlights. I stood there for over an hour in the cold autumn air staring at that cross. And for the first time in my life, I didn’t feel disgust or anger. I felt curiosity and something else I couldn’t quite identify. Could it have been hope?

Have you ever reached a point where you realized you couldn’t go back to believing what you used to believe, but you weren’t yet ready to move forward to something new?

On October 15th, 2020, exactly 23 days after the lightning strike, I did something that would have been unthinkable just four weeks earlier: I walked into that church on King Street. My hands were shaking as I pushed open the door, and I half-expected to be struck down again for entering a place I had spent my entire life viewing as a center of false worship. The church was quiet and peaceful with soft organ music playing in the background. The sanctuary was beautiful, with stained-glass windows filtering colored light across the wooden pews. A middle-aged woman was arranging flowers near the altar, and she looked up with a warm smile as I entered.

“Hello, dear. Welcome. Is there anything I can help you with?” I stood there unable to speak, not knowing how to explain what I was looking for because I didn’t fully understand it myself. Finally, I managed to say, “I want to know about Jesus—not what Muslims say about him, but what Christians believe.”

The woman’s expression changed from casual friendliness to something deeper, more intent. She set down the flowers and walked toward me. “That’s a significant question. May I ask what brought you to want to know?” And then, for the first time, I told the whole story to someone outside my Muslim circle. I described spitting on the cross, the lightning strike, the physical force that pulled me away, the sleepless nights, and the questions I couldn’t escape.

The woman, whose name I learned was Margaret, listened without interrupting, and when I finished, her eyes were filled with tears. “Dear child,” she said softly, “that wasn’t luck or coincidence. That was Jesus Christ himself protecting you because he has plans for your life. He could have let that lightning strike you and been completely justified, given how you were treating his symbol. But he showed you mercy instead. He saved your life when you were in the act of desecrating his cross. That’s the heart of the gospel right there.”

Margaret spent the next three hours explaining Christian theology to me. She showed me passages from the Bible about God’s love, mercy, and desire for a relationship with humanity. She explained that Christianity wasn’t about following rules to earn God’s approval, but about accepting the gift of salvation that Jesus had already purchased through his death and resurrection. She described how Jesus, though divine, had humbled himself to become human, to suffer, to die, and to rise again—all to reconcile humanity to God.

Ask yourself this question: Have you ever heard truth that resonated so deeply it felt like something you had always known but never recognized? Everything Margaret explained made sense in a way that Islamic theology never fully had. Islam had always felt like a contract: you do these things correctly, Allah rewards you; you fail, Allah punishes you. But Christianity presented a relationship based on grace: God pursuing humanity with love, even when they rejected him, even when they desecrated his symbols, even when they deserved judgment.

Margaret gave me a Bible and several books about Christianity written specifically for Muslim seekers. I spent the next week reading constantly, barely sleeping, consuming information like I was starving. I read the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. I read about Jesus healing the sick, forgiving sinners, challenging religious hypocrites, and ultimately laying down his life for those who hated him. The contrast with Muhammad couldn’t have been starker. Muhammad had been a military leader who spread Islam through conquest; Jesus had been a servant who spread love through sacrifice. Muhammad had taken revenge on his enemies; Jesus had forgiven his enemies while dying on the cross. Muhammad pointed people toward Allah; Jesus claimed to be God himself, saying, “I and the Father are one.”

But accepting these truths meant abandoning everything I had built my identity on for 27 years. It meant betraying my family, my community, and my heritage. It meant potentially putting my life in danger, as Islamic law prescribes death for apostasy. It meant losing Omar, my career prospects within the Egyptian community, and my sense of belonging to something larger than myself. Look inside your own heart right now. What would you sacrifice to follow truth, even if it cost you everything?

The turning point came on October 25th, 2020, when I attended a Sunday morning service at that church. Margaret had invited me, and after much internal debate, I decided to go. I sat in the back row, terrified someone from the Muslim community would see me and report back to my family. The service was completely different from anything I had experienced at the mosque. Where mosque prayers were about ritual and perfect recitation, this church service was about worship and genuine connection with God. Where Islamic teaching emphasized God’s transcendence and distance from humanity, these Christians sang about God’s closeness and personal love. Where I had always felt pressure to perform correctly, these people seemed to be experiencing actual joy in their relationship with God.

The pastor preached about the Woman at the Well, a story Jesus told about meeting a Samaritan woman who had made many mistakes in her life. Instead of condemning her, Jesus offered her living water and eternal life. The message was about God’s heart toward those who had sinned against him—how he was always ready to forgive and restore rather than punish. As I listened, I felt something breaking inside my chest, like ice that had been frozen for decades suddenly melting.

When the service ended and people were praying, I found myself kneeling at my seat, tears streaming down my face. I prayed the simplest, most honest prayer of my life: “Jesus, if you are who these people say you are, if you are truly God, I need you to reveal yourself to me clearly. I’m willing to lose everything to follow truth. But I need to know it’s really you.”

The response was immediate and overwhelming. I felt the same presence I had felt when I was pulled away from that tree. But this time, it wasn’t pulling me away from danger; it was drawing me close with a love so powerful it was almost unbearable. In that moment, the last of my doubts vanished. I knew with absolute certainty that Jesus Christ was alive, that he loved me despite everything I had done, and that he was calling me to follow him.

The journey since that day has not been easy. When I told my parents about my conversion, the reaction was as painful as I had feared. My father disowned me, my mother was devastated, and I had to move out of our family apartment for my own safety. My engagement to Omar was broken, and I lost many friends who could not understand or accept my decision. But through all the loss and challenges, I have never once regretted that day in the church courtyard.

The God who pulled me away from the lightning strike is the same God who pulled me out of a life of arrogance and hatred. He showed me that true power is found in love, not in condemnation. He showed me that the cross I once spat upon is actually the source of my life and my hope. Every time I see a cross now, I don’t feel disgust. I feel a deep, overwhelming gratitude for the mercy of a God who saves even those who mock him. My name is Leila Hassan, and I am no longer a servant of a distant judge. I am a child of a loving Father, saved by the very Jesus I once tried to destroy.