Saudi Woman Leaves Islam for Christianity After Buying a Bible in Rome

My name is Sarah and this Bible verse changed my heart forever. Proverbs 31:25.

She is clothed with strength and dignity. She can laugh at the days to come.

When I first read these words, sitting on the cold marble floor of my bedroom in Riyad at 2:00 in the morning, my hands were shaking so much I could barely hold the book.

The Bible. A book I never thought I would touch. A book that was changing everything I thought I knew about myself, about God, about what it means to truly live.

I am 25 years old now. But my story, it begins long before that night.

Let me take you back to my childhood in Riyad, to the tall white walls of our family home, where the jasmine flowers climbed up the gates and filled the evening air with their sweet perfume.

Our house is beautiful. Three floors of marble and some gold fixtures with a small fountain in the courtyard that my mother loves.

She would sit there in the evenings after mag prayer, watching the water flow while she prepared kabsa for dinner.

The smell of cardamom and saffron would drift through the windows, mixing with the jasmine, creating this perfect memory that even now makes my heart ache with homesickness.

My father, he is a successful businessman, oil and construction. You know, the things that built modern Saudi Arabia, he provided everything for us.

My brother and I, we went to the best schools. We had drivers, maids, tutors for English and French.

During summer, we traveled to Dubai, to London, to Istanbul. From outside, our life looked perfect.

And maybe it was in many ways. But inside my heart, there was this emptiness that I could not name, could not understand.

Growing up, religion was everywhere in our life. Not just in our life, it was our life.

Five times every day, the call to prayer would sound through our neighborhood and we would stop whatever we were doing.

I remember being 7 years old, learning to pray next to my mother in the women’s section of our home.

She taught me how to wash for woodoo, how to cover my hair properly, how to recite the words just right.

Sarah habibi, she would say in her gentle voice, you must be perfect in your prayers.

Allah sees everything. Perfect. That word followed me everywhere. Perfect daughter, perfect Muslim, perfect Saudi woman.

I tried so hard to be all these things. During Ramadan, I fasted from sunrise to sunset.

Even when I was just 12 years old and the summer days were so long and hot that I thought I might faint.

I memorized suras from the Quran. My Arabic pronunciation precise and beautiful. My teacher said I wore my abaya without complaint.

Even though sometimes in the summer heat, it felt like I was wrapped in a black oven.

But you know what? Even doing everything right, I felt nothing. When I prayed, I was speaking words into emptiness.

When I fasted, I was just hungry. When I read the Quran, they were just words on a page.

Beautiful words, yes, but they did not touch my heart. Would watch my mother pray, see tears on her face sometimes, and I wondered what she felt that I could not feel.

Was something wrong with me? Was my heart broken somehow? I remember one time I was maybe 18 years old sitting with my cousins at a family gathering.

We were in my aunt’s majus, the women’s sitting room. All of us dressed in our finest abayas, jewelry sparkling under the crystal chandelier.

My cousin Nura was talking about her upcoming wedding. How blessed she felt, how Allah had provided the perfect husband for her.

All the women were nodding, praising God. And I sat there with a smile frozen on my face, feeling like a stranger in my own family.

They all seemed to feel something I could not feel. This connection, this warmth, this presence of God that I only pretended to experience.

University made things worse, not better. I studied business administration at Princess Nora University, the largest women’s university in the world.

Can you imagine? Thousands and thousands of young women, all in black abayas, walking through those modern corridors.

We learned about international business, about economics, about management theories from America and Europe, but always always within the framework of what was acceptable, what was allowed.

We could dream of careers, but only certain kinds. We could think freely, but only within boundaries.

I had friends there, good friends. We would sit together during lunch sharing shawarma and falafil from the cafeteria gossiping about our professors complaining about assignments.

But even with them I could not share this growing emptiness inside me. How do you tell your best friend that when you pray you feel nothing?

How do you explain that you go through all the motions of faith but your heart stays cold?

In Saudi Arabia you do not say these things. You cannot say these things. Then came 2023, the year everything changed, though I did not know it at the time.

My father announced he was taking my brother and me to Italy for 2 weeks.

Business mixed with pleasure, he said. He had meetings in Milan, but we would also see Rome, Florence, Venice.

I was excited, of course. Who would not be excited to see Italy, but it was just another trip, I thought.

Another stamp in my passport, another set of photos for my private Instagram that only my female friends could see.

The flight to Rome was long, and I spent most of it looking out the window at the clouds below, thinking about nothing and everything.

My brother sat across from me, playing games on his phone, occasionally showing me funny videos.

My father was in business class, probably working, even on the plane. That is how he is.

Always working, always providing, always making sure we have the best of everything. Rome hit me like a wave of sensation.

The moment we stepped out of the airport, everything was different. The air smelled different, like coffee and cigarettes and something green and growing.

The light was different, golden and soft, not like the harsh white sun of Riyad.

And the sounds, Italian voices rising and falling like music, scooters zipping through a narrow streets, church bells ringing in the distance, our hotel was near the Spanish steps.

This beautiful old building with shuttered windows and a tiny elevator that made me nervous every time.

My room had a view of terracotta rooftops stretching to the horizon. And I spent that first evening just standing at the window watching the sunset over this ancient city.

Rome was old in a way that Riyad for all its history is not.

You could feel the centuries in the stones in the worn steps in the faces of statues that had watched empires rise and fall.

The next day my father had meetings and my brother wanted to go to the football stadium to see where Roma played.

Football, always football with him. So I had the day to myself with just our driver, an elderly Italian man named Joseeppe, who spoke broken English and smiled a lot.

I told him I wanted to see the Vatican. I do not know why I said that.

Maybe because it was famous. Maybe because I was curious about this tiny country inside a city.

This place that was the heart of Christianity. Joseeppe dropped me off near St.

Peter Square telling me in his mixed English and hand gestures to meet him back there in 3 hours.

3 hours to explore on my own. In Riyad, I never went anywhere truly alone.

There was always a driver, a maid, a family member. But here in this foreign city, I was just another tourist with a camera and comfortable shoes.

The square was overwhelming. So many people from all over the world speaking languages I could not identify, taking photos, buying souvenirs from street vendors, and in the center of it all, this massive church, the Basilica of St.

Peter, rising up like a mountain made of marble and faith. I stood there for a long moment just looking at it.

In Saudi Arabia, we do not have churches. I had never seen one except in movies or photos.

But this was not just a church. This was something else entirely. I walked slowly toward the entrance, joining a river of tourists and pilgrims.

Nobody looked at me strangely. Without my abaya in my jeans and modest long-sleeved shirt, I was just another visitor.

The freedom of being anonymous, of being nobody special, was intoxicating. No one cared who my father was, what family I came from, whether I was praying correctly or not.

And then I entered the basilica. How do I describe that moment to you?

How do I make you understand what I felt when I stepped through those massive doors into that space?

It was like stepping into the heart of God. The ceiling soared above me, painted with scenes I did not understand, but that made my eyes fill with tears.

Light poured through windows high above, creating pillars of gold in the air. And the space, so much space, not empty space, but space filled with something I could not name.

In the mosques, I knew there was always separation. Women here, men there, barriers and walls and different entrances.

But in this church, everyone was together. Men and women, young and old, rich and poor by the looks of their clothes, all together in this same space, looking up at the same beauty, breathing the same incense scented air.

An old woman in black was kneeling in a pew, her lips moving in silent prayer.

A young couple stood before a statue holding hands. A priest in flowing robes walked past, his face peaceful.

I walked slowly through the basilica, my footsteps echoing on the marble floor. Everything was art.

Every surface was decorated with such love, such devotion. Statues of saints I did not know.

Paintings of stories I had never heard. gold and silver and precious stones offered up to God.

But it was not the wealth that moved me. It was the feeling in that place.

Peace. That is the only word for it. Peace like I had never felt before.

I found myself in a small side chapel quieter than the main space. There were candles flickering, hundreds of them, each one lit by someone with a prayer, a hope, a grief.

I sat down in a wooden pew, the wood smooth from countless hands over countless years.

And I just sat there, not praying, not thinking, just being. And for the first time in my life, I felt something, a presence, a warmth, like someone was sitting beside me, holding my hand, telling me without words that I was loved.

I do not know how long I sat there. Time seemed to stop in that place.

When I finally stood up to leave, my legs were stiff and my eyes were wet with tears.

I did not remember crying. I walked back through the basilica, looking at everything with new eyes.

There was a painting of a woman holding a baby, both of them with golden circles around their heads.

The woman’s face was so gentle, so sad, so full of love. Later, I learned this was Mary and Jesus.

But at that moment, I did not know. I just knew that looking at them made my heart hurt in a way that was somehow good.

Outside the basilica, the sun was bright and the world was loud again. Vendors were selling rosaries and pope keychains and plastic statues.

I walked past most of them, but one caught my eye. An old man with a weathered face and kind eyes sitting behind a table of books.

And among those books I saw Bibles, different sizes, different languages, one in English with a soft leather cover the color of cream.

I do not know what made me stop. I do not know what made me pick up that Bible, feel its weight in my hands.

The old man smiled at me and said something in Italian. I shook my head and he switched to English.

Beautiful book, he said simply. Changes hearts. Changes hearts. Those two words echoed in my mind.

My heart needed changing. My heart needed something. Anything. To fill this emptiness that had been growing for so long.

Before I could think too much, I bought the Bible. €15. The old man wrapped it in brown paper like it was something precious, something secret.

I tucked it into my bag, my heart pounding like I had committed a crime.

Joseeppe was waiting for me at the meeting point, his face creased with smiles. “You like the Vatican?”

He asked. I nodded, not trusting my voice. On the drive back to the hotel, I held my bag close, feeling the weight of the book inside.

What had I done? Why had I bought it? I was not Christian. I was Muslim, Saudi.

This was not rebellion, I told myself. This was just curiosity. Just wanting to understand what made that place feel so different, so peaceful.

That night, after dinner with my father and my brother at a restaurant near the Trevy Fountain, I locked myself in my hotel room.

My family was used to me needing time alone, so they did not question it.

I unwrapped the Bible with shaking hands, running my fingers over the soft leather cover.

It smelled like paper and possibility. I opened it randomly somewhere in the middle.

The words were in English, and my English was good, but not perfect. I had to read slowly, sometimes looking up words on my phone.

But even with the language barrier, something in those words spoke to me. I read about love that never fails, about peace that passes understanding, about a God who knows every hair on your head and loves you anyway.

Growing up, I had been taught that Allah was mighty, that Allah was to be feared, that Allah would judge every deed and thought.

But this book spoke of a God who was close, who was gentle, who called himself father, father.

The word made me cry. My own father loved me. I knew that. But his love came with expectations, with conditions.

Be a good daughter, bring honor to the family, marry well, have children. But this God, this father in the Bible seemed to love without conditions.

Just love. I read until my eyes hurt until the words blurred on the page.

Then I closed the book and held it to my chest, feeling my heart beat against its cover.

Something was happening to me. Something I could not explain or understand. But I knew my life was changing.

Had already changed in that basilica with this book. The rest of the trip to Italy passed in a blur.

We saw the coliseum, the forum, the pantheon. We went to Florence and saw David, that perfect marble man reaching toward heaven.

We went to Venice and rode in gondolas through canals that smelled of salt and age.

My brother bought football jerseys and ate too much gelato. My father closed whatever business deals he had come to close.

And I carried that Bible with me everywhere, hidden in my bag, reading it in stolen moments when I was alone.

On the flight back to Riyad, I felt like I was carrying a secret that was too big for my body.

The Bible was buried deep in my suitcase, wrapped in dirty clothes, so no one would find it if my bag was searched.

But even hidden away, I felt its presence, its weight, its promise of something I was only beginning to understand.

Home felt different when we returned. The same white walls, the same jasmine flowers, the same fountain in the IG courtyard.

But I was not the same. I went through the motions of my old life, helping my mother prepare meals, visiting relatives, shopping with friends at the Kingdom Mall.

But inside, I was changing cell by cell, thought by thought. I hid the Bible in my room in a box of old university textbooks that no one would ever look through.

Every night after everyone was asleep, I would take it out and read by the light of my phone.

I started from the beginning this time with Genesis, the creation of the world.

Some stories I recognized from the Quran, but they were different somehow, told from a different angle with different emphasis.

But it was when I got to the New Testament that my heart really started to race.

Jesus, we knew about Jesus in Islam called him Isa, a prophet, a good man.

But this Jesus in the Bible was different. He was God becoming human, walking among us, touching lepers, eating with tax, tax collectors and sinners.

He spoke in parables about lost sheep and prodigal sons and seeds falling on different soils.

And his words about love. Oh, his words about love changed everything. Love your enemies, he said.

Pray for those who persecute you. In my world, we talked about honor and revenge and protecting family reputation.

But Jesus said to forgive 70 times, seven times. He said to turn the other cheek.

He said, “The last shall be first and the first shall be last.” Everything was upside down from what I had been taught.

And yet it felt right in a way that made my chest ache. I started to notice that my Tik Tok algorithm was changing.

You know how these apps learn what you like? Suddenly, instead of makeup tutorials and Saudi influencers, I was seeing Christian content.

Sermons from American churches with titles like finding peace in the storm, testimonies from people who had found faith in the darkest moments of their lives.

And most shocking of all, testimonies from ex-Muslims who had converted to Christianity. I would watch these videos late at night with my headphones on, my heart pounding with fear and excitement.

These people looked like me, sounded like me, came from backgrounds like mine. They talked about the same emptiness I had felt, the same searching, the same moment when Jesus became real to them.

Some of them had lost everything, family, home, country. But they all said it was worth it.

They all said they had found something worth more than anything they had lost.

One video in particular stayed with me. A young woman from Jordan, her face blurred for protection, talking about reading Matthew 11:28.

“Come to me all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”

She cried as she quoted it, and I cried with her, alone in my room at 3:00 in the morning, my hand over my mouth so no one would hear.

Rest. That word penetrated my soul. I was so tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of performing, tired of carrying the weight of being perfect.

And Jesus was offering rest, not more rules, not more requirements, just rest. I started praying differently.

Not the formal prayers I had learned as a child, facing Mecca, reciting Arabic words in perfect order, but simple, desperate prayers in my broken English and private Arabic.

Jesus, I would whisper into my pillow, “Help me understand you. Show me who you are.

If you are real, if you are God, please reveal yourself to me.” And slowly he did.

Not in visions or dreams or dramatic signs, but in small moments of peace and verses that seemed written just for me.

In a growing certainty that I was loved, truly loved, not for what I did or who I was in society, but just because I existed.

This love was different from anything I had known. It did not demand. It just gave.

But with this new understanding came terror. I could not be Christian in Saudi Arabia.

It was not just forbidden. It was dangerous. People had been imprisoned for less.

Families had disowned children for less. And yet I could not unknow what I now knew.

I could not unveil what I now felt. I was caught between two worlds.

And I belonged fully to neither. I became careful. So careful. I deleted my Tik Tok history every day.

I used private browsers for any Christian content. I never spoke about my thoughts to anyone, not even my closest friends.

When we gathered for coffee and dates at someone’s house, gossiping about engagements and new designer Abayas, I smiled and laughed and felt like I was watching myself from outside my body.

My mother started to notice something was different. “You seem distant, Habibi,” she said.

One afternoon while we were preparing dinner together, we were making kabsa, my favorite dish.

The rice golden with saffron, the chicken tender and fragrant with spices. The familiar ritual of cooking together, which had always bonded us, now felt like a wall between us.

How could I tell her that her daughter was drifting away from everything she held dear?

I am just tired from university, I lied, focusing on chopping the tomatoes into perfect small pieces.

She watched me for a moment, her dark eyes concerned, then reached over and adjusted my hijab where it had slipped back from my forehead.

“You are a good daughter, Sarah,” she said softly. “Always remember who you are and where you come from.”

Her words were meant to comfort, but they cut deep. “Who was I now?

Was I still a good daughter if my heart had turned to Jesus? Was I still Saudi if I no longer believed what Saudis were supposed to believe?

I wanted to cry, to confess everything, to ask for her help. But I knew I could not.

This burden was mine to carry alone. Months passed this way. Reading the Bible at night, living my normal life during the day.

I became an expert at hiding, at pretending, at being two people at once.

But something was building inside me. A pressure that needed release. I was not fully Muslim anymore.

I knew that. But was I Christian? Could I be Christian without being baptized? Without going to church, without telling anyone?

I started researching online, always careful to hide my tracks. What did baptism mean?

Was it necessary for salvation? Some websites said yes. It was commanded by Jesus.

Others said it was symbolic, an outward sign of an inward change. I read about early Christians being baptized in rivers, in homes, in secret.

I read about Christians in Muslim countries who were baptized in bathtubs, in swimming pools, in the sea at night.

The more I read, the more I felt pulled toward baptism. It was like something was calling me, drawing me toward this act of declaration.

But how? Where it was impossible in Saudi Arabia. There were no churches, no priests, no way to be baptized without exposing myself to tremendous danger.

I started looking at other countries, which places allowed Saudi citizens to visit, which had churches that would baptize adults.

Italy came up again and again, Greece, Cyprus, Spain, the United Kingdom. All of these places had ancient Christian communities, churches that had stood for centuries, places where someone like me could potentially find help.

But it was not just about finding a place. It was about understanding what I would be doing.

Baptism was not just getting wet. It was dying to your old self and being reborn.

It was declaring publicly that you belonged to Jesus. In my culture, it was also saying goodbye to everything you had known, potentially forever.

I remember one particularly difficult night. I had been reading the book of Acts about the early church, about Paul, who had been Saul who had persecuted Christians before Jesus appeared to him on the road to Damascus.

If someone like Paul could change so completely, maybe there was hope for me, too.

But Paul had the other apostles. He had a community. I had no one. That night I wrote in my journal the one I kept hidden with my Bible.

I wrote in English in case anyone found it, hoping they would not understand. Lord, I am not ready, but I want to know you.

Show me when it is time. Give me courage when I have none. Help me to trust you with my future when I cannot see past tomorrow.

The two verses that had become my anchors were Proverbs 31:25 and Isaiah 41:10.

I had memorized them in English and Arabic, turning them over in my mind like precious stones.

She is clothed with strength and dignity. She can laugh at the days to come.

This verse from Proverbs gave me hope that one day I would be that woman strong and dignified, able to face the future without fear.

And Isaiah, do not fear, for I am with you. Do not be dismayed, for I am your God.

I will strengthen you and help you. I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.

I am with you.” These four words meant everything to me. In my loneliest moments, when the weight of my secret felt like it would crush me, I whispered them to myself.

I am with you. When I sat through Friday prayers at the mosque with my family, feeling like a hypocrite, I held on to those words you with.

When my friends talked about their marriage prospects and I wondered if I would ever find someone who could accept who I was becoming, those words sustained me.

I am with you. It was around this time that my father found my Bible.

I still do not know how it happened. Maybe I had not hidden it well enough.

Maybe he had been looking for something else. All I know is that I came home from a cousin’s wedding one evening, exhausted from hours of pretending to be happy and found him sitting on my bed with the Bible in his hands.

My heart stopped, literally stopped, I think, for a moment. Then it started racing so fast I thought it would explode from my chest.

He looked up at me, his face unreadable. My father is not a man who shows emotion easily.

He is businessman, used to keeping his thoughts hidden, used to negotiating from a position of strength.

But in that moment, I saw something in his eyes I had never seen before.

Fear. Close the door, he said quietly. I closed it and stood there, unable to move further into the room.

The Bible looked so small in his large hands, but it might as well have been a bomb for the damage it could do to our family if anyone knew about it.

“How long?” He asked, still in that same quiet voice. “Since Italy,” I whispered.

He nodded slowly as if he had expected that answer. “And do you believe?”

I could not lie to him. Not with him holding that Bible. Not with a truth written all over my face.

I do not know what I believe anymore, Baba. But I know I cannot go back to how things were before.

He was quiet for a long time, looking down at the Bible, running his thumb over its soft cover.

Then he said something that shocked me more than anger would have. I will not stop you.

I stared at him, unable to process his words. He looked up at me and now I could see the full weight of his fear and love battling in his face.

I will not stop you, he repeated. But you must be careful. More careful than you have been.

If people know, if anyone outside this room knows, we will lose everything. Not just money or reputation.

Everything. Do you understand? I nodded, tears streaming down my face. He stood up and walked to me, putting the Bible in my hands.

“Your mother cannot know,” he said. “It would break her heart. And your brother is young.

He might say something without meaning to. This is between you and me.” And he gestured at the Bible.

Whatever you find in there. Then he did something he had not done since I was a little girl.

He pulled me into a hug, holding me tight against his chest. I could smell his cologne, the same one he had worn my whole life.

And I sobbed into his shirt like a child. You are my daughter, he said into my hair.

Nothing will change that. But please, Habibi, be careful. Be smart. Do not let this destroy you.

After he left my room, I sat on my bed holding the Bible, shaking with relief and terror.

My father knew. My father knew and had not disowned me, had not threatened.

Me had not taken the Bible away. But his fear was now my fear multiplied.

If he was this afraid, how dangerous was my path? I became even more careful after that.

I read the Bible only in my bathroom with the door locked, the water running to cover any sound of turning pages.

I stopped watching Christian content on my phone, instead reading downloaded PDFs of sermons and testimonies that I deleted immediately after.

I prayed silently, moving my lips without sound, imagining Jesus sitting beside me, listening to my wordless prayers.

My father and I developed a strange new relationship. We never spoke directly about my faith, but sometimes he would look at me across the dinner table with a question in his eyes, and I would give a tiny nod to let him know I was okay.

Sometimes he would bring me books from his business trips, innocent looking English novels that happened to have Christian themes buried in their stories.

Once he brought me a necklace from Dubai, a simple gold chain with a small star pendant.

Not a cross, he said quietly when he gave it to me. But if you want to see it more than a star, that is your choice.

The loneliness was the hardest part. I had this incredible secret, this transformation happening inside me and no one to share it with.

I watched YouTube videos of churches in America where people raised their hands in worship, singing songs that made them cry with joy.

And I achd to be part of something like that. I read about small groups and Bible studies where believers gathered in homes to pray and learn together.

And my chest felt hollow with longing. Sometimes I would go up to our roof at night when everyone was asleep and look at the stars.

The same stars that Abraham saw, that David sang about, that Jesus looked at when he prayed in the garden.

Those stars made me feel less alone, connected to something ancient and eternal. I would whisper my prayers to those stars, imagining them carrying my words to heaven.

Jesus, I would say I want to follow you completely, but I am afraid. I am so afraid of losing my family, my home, everything I know.

Give me strength. Show me the way. Help me know when it is time to take the next step.

I started having dreams, not visions or anything dramatic, just peaceful dreams where I was walking through a garden with someone I could not quite see, but whose presence filled me with joy.

Sometimes I dreamed of water, clear blue water that I walked into fully clothed, emerging clean and new.

I knew these dreams were about baptism, about the step I longed to take, but could not yet imagine how to achieve.

The research continued. I learned about Christian tourism. How thousands of people travel to the Holy Land, to Rome, to other sacred sites.

Could I convince my family to let me travel again? Could I find a way to be baptized secretly during such a trip?

But every plan I made fell apart under scrutiny. How would I explain wanting to travel alone?

How would I find a church that would baptize me without questions, without documentation, without putting me in danger?

I also researched what it meant to be a Christian in hiding. I learned about cryptochristians in Japan who practiced in secret for centuries.

I read about underground churches in China, house churches in Iran, secret believers in North Korea.

These stories gave me hope and broke my heart at the same time. I was not alone in my hiddenness, but that did not make the hiding easier.

My 25th birthday came and went. My mother started talking more seriously about marriage, showing me photos of suitable men, sons of family, friends, successful and religious and completely wrong for who I was becoming.

How could I marry a man who expected a devout Muslim wife when I was secretly reading the Bible and praying to Jesus?

How could I start a life built on such a fundamental lie? I am not ready, I told my mother repeatedly.

I want to focus on my career first. She would frown but accept it for now.

But I knew time was running out. In my culture, an unmarried woman at 25 was already concerning.

By 27 or 28, it would be a crisis. The pressure would become unbearable.

Work became my escape and my excuse. I threw myself into my job at my father’s company, working long hours that gave me reason to be alone in my office.

I would close the door and read Bible verses on my computer screen, quickly switching to spreadsheets if anyone knocked.

My colleagues thought I was ambitious, driven. They did not know I was just trying to fill the hours to avoid the marriage conversations to find moments to feed this new faith that was growing inside me like a secret garden.

One day a new employee joined our team. Her name was Miriam, a Lebanese Christian who had moved to Saudi for work.

She wore a cross necklace tucked under her clothes, but I saw it once when it slipped out as she reached for something.

Our eyes met and she quickly tucked it back, fear flashing across her face.

I wanted so badly to tell her, to whisper, “I understand. I believe too.”

But I could not. The risk was too great for both of us. Still, we became friends of a sort.

Careful friends who talked about safe things, work, food, travel. But sometimes she would say something, quote something that I recognized from my secret reading, and our eyes would meet with understanding.

Once during a particularly stressful project, she said quietly, “His grace is sufficient,” and I had to turn away to hide the tears that sprang to my eyes.

She knew. Somehow she knew, but we never spoke of it directly. The months passed in this strange suspension, this in between state where I was neither fully one thing nor another.

I was like a plant that had been uprooted but not yet replanted, surviving but not thriving, waiting for the right soil, the right conditions to grow again.

I continued to study, to learn, to pray. I discovered online courses about Christianity carefully accessed through encrypted connections.

I learned about church history, about theology, about the differences between denominations. It was overwhelming and beautiful.

This rich tradition that stretched back 2,000 years, so different from what I had been taught about Christianity being a corrupted religion, a distortion of true monotheism.

The more I learned, the more I saw how little I had really known. The Trinity confused me at first.

How could God be three in one? It seemed impossible, contradictory. But slowly through reading and prayer, it began to make a strange kind of sense.

God the Father, the creator, the source, God the Son, Jesus, divinity entering humanity to save us.

God, the Holy Spirit, the presence that I felt in those quiet moments, the comforter Jesus promised to send.

Not three gods, but one God in three persons, a relationship of perfect love that we were invited to join.

Love always. It came back to love. The God of the Bible was defined by love in a way that Allah never was in my understanding.

Yes, Allah was called the merciful, the compassionate, but it always felt conditional based on performance on submission.

But the God I was discovering through Jesus loved first, loved completely, loved sacrificially.

While we were still sinners, Christ died for us. This verse from Romans stunned me.

While we were still sinners, not after we cleaned ourselves up, not after we proved ourselves worthy, but while we were still broken and rebellious and lost.

I thought about my own unworthiness. Here I was living a double life, lying to everyone around me, too afraid to stand up for what I believed.

And yet Jesus loved me. The same Jesus who died on the cross, who rose from the dead, who sits at the right hand of the father.

This Jesus knew my name, heard my whispered prayers, was preparing a place for me.

The cross became precious to me in a way I never expected. Growing up, I had been taught that the cross was a symbol of failure, that Allah would never allow his prophet to die such a shameful death.

But now I understood it as the ultimate symbol of love. God himself taking on human flesh, suffering the worst that humanity could inflict.

All to bridge the gap between heaven and earth, between holiness and sinfulness, between God and me.

I wanted to wear a cross to have that reminder with me always, but I knew I could not.

Instead, I would trace tiny crosses with my finger on my leg under my abaya during family gatherings, on my palm when I was nervous, on my heart when I prayed.

Invisible crosses that no one could see, but that reminded me who I belonged to now.

The isolation was eating at me, though. Faith I was learning was not meant to be lived alone.

The Bible talked constantly about community, about the body of Christ, about gathering together.

Where two or three are gathered in my name, there am I among them, Jesus said.

But I was always just one, alone with my secrets and my hidden Bible and my silent prayers.

I started writing letters to Jesus in my journal. Long letters pouring out everything I could not say to anyone else.

I told him about my day, about my fears, about my dreams. I asked him questions like he was sitting across from me, waiting patiently for my confusion to turn to understanding.

Those letters became my lifeline, my way of processing this enormous change happening inside me.

Dear Jesus, I wrote one night. Today, my mother asked me again about marriage.

She showed me a photo of a man who looks kind, successful, everything a good Saudi daughter should want.

But how can I marry someone when I cannot tell him the most important thing about me?

How can I promise to build a life with someone when the foundation would be a lie?

I know you have a plan for me, but I cannot see it. I am walking in darkness with only the smallest light to guide my next step.

Is this what faith means? Trusting when you cannot see. Help me to trust.

Help me to believe that you are working even in this impossible situation. My health started to suffer from the stress.

I was not sleeping well, lying awake for hours thinking, praying, worrying. I lost weight, my clothes hanging loose on my frame.

Dark circles appeared under my eyes that no amount of concealer could fully hide.

My mother worried, bringing me bowls of her special soup full of lamb and vegetables and love that I could barely swallow past the lump in my throat.

“You are working too hard,” she said, sitting on my bed and stroking my hair like when I was small.

“You need to rest, Habibi. Maybe we should go to the spa, have a girl’s day, or visit your aunt in Jeda.

The sea air would do you good.” I wanted to tell her that what I needed was not a spa or sea air but the freedom to worship Jesus openly to be baptized to join a church to sing praises without fear.

But I just smiled weakly and said I would think about it. My father watched me with knowing eyes.

Sometimes he would create opportunities for us to be alone, sending my brother and my mother on errands while he and I stayed home.

We would sit in his study supposedly discussing business but really just being together in silent understanding.

Once he said carefully, “If you ever need to travel for any reason, I can arrange it.

Business trips can take people many places.” My heart leapt at his words. Was he offering to help me?

Did he understand what I needed? But when I looked at his face, I saw the pain there, the fear of losing me.

And I could not ask him to be complicit in something that might take me away forever.

“Thank you, Baba,” was all I said, and he nodded, the offer hanging between us like a bridge I was not yet ready to cross.

I started watching testimonies of people who had been baptized as adults, trying to understand what happened, what changed, what it felt like.

They all described it differently, but with common themes, death and resurrection, cleansing and renewal, a public declaration of private faith.

Some cried, some laughed, some felt nothing in the moment, but everything after. All of them said it was important, necessary, commanded.

But there were also stories of those who waited years for baptism, who lived in countries where it was impossible, who died without ever experiencing that water, but were no less saved for it.

The thief on the cross next to Jesus was never baptized. But Jesus told him, “Today you will be with me in paradise.”

Surely Jesus understood the hearts of those who longed for baptism but could not achieve it safely.

Still the longing remained. I wanted to go under that water as Sarah the Muslim and come up as Sarah the Christian.

I wanted that moment of transformation. That line in the sand of my life before and after.

I wanted to publicly declare, even if only to a small gathering of believers, that I chose Jesus, that I would follow him no matter the cost.

But I was still counting the cost and it seemed too high. My family, my country, my safety, my future, all of it hung in the balance.

Was faith worth losing everything? Jesus said it was. Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me.

He said, “Whoever finds their life will lose it, and whoever loses their life for my sake will find it.”

These verses haunted me, challenged me, called me to a courage I did not possess.

I prayed for a sign, for some clear direction about what to do next.

Should I try to leave Saudi Arabia? Should I continue in secret indefinitely? Should I tell my mother?

Risk everything for the chance of living authentically. But heaven seemed silent on the specifics, offering only the constant presence of peace.

When I prayed, the continued transformation of my heart as I read scripture, the growing certainty that I was loved beyond measure.

The Quran I had memorized as a child began to fade from my memory, replaced by Bible verses that planted themselves deep in my heart.

When faced with difficulties instead of reciting in the name of Allah, the most gracious, the most merciful, I found myself thinking, I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.

When afraid, instead of seeking protection in Islamic prayers, I whispered, “The Lord is my shepherd.

I shall not want.” This internal shift was profound and disorienting. Everything I had built my identity on was crumbling, replaced by something new, but not yet fully formed.

I was like a house being renovated while still being lived in. Functional but chaotic, recognizable but fundamentally changed.

I found particular comfort in the Psalms. David’s raw honesty with God resonated with me.

He was afraid, angry, desperate, joyful, grateful. The full range of human emotion poured out before God without pretense.

How long, oh Lord? Will you forget me forever? He cried in Psalm 13. And I cried with him.

The Lord is my light and my salvation. Whom shall I fear? He declared in Psalm 27.

And I tried to believe it. The Psalms taught me that I could be honest with God about my struggles.

I did not have to pretend to have more faith than I possessed. I could tell Jesus that I was terrified, that I doubted, that some days I wondered if I was crazy for believing any of this.

And somehow in that honesty, faith grew stronger like a plant that needs both sunshine and rain to thrive.

My favorite psalm became Psalm 139. You have searched me, Lord, and you know me.

You know when I sit and when I rise. You perceive my thoughts from afar.

You discern my going out and my lying down. You are familiar with all my ways.

The idea that God knew me completely, not just my actions, but my thoughts, my fears, my secrets, and still loved me was revolutionary.

In Islam, Allah knew everything as a judge knows evidence. But this knowing in Psalm 139 was intimate, personal.

the knowing of a parent who has memorized every expression on their child’s face.

I began to see God’s hand in small things. A verse I needed to hear appearing just when I needed it.

A moment of unexpected joy in the middle of a difficult day. A sunset that reminded me of God’s beauty.

A kind word from a stranger when I was feeling particularly alone. These tiny miracles, these small mercies became evidence of God’s presence in my confined life.

But still the question remained, what next? I could not stay in this in between place forever.

Either I would have to fully suppress this new faith and return to my old life or I would have to take steps toward living as a Christian, whatever that might cost.

The thought of suppressing it seemed impossible now. How could I unknow what I knew?

How could I unfeill what I felt? It would be like trying to forget how to breathe.

So, I continued to research, to plan, to dream of a way forward. I looked into studying abroad, perhaps doing a master’s degree in another country where I could attend church freely.

But getting family approval for that would be nearly impossible. I researched jobs with international companies that might transfer me overseas, but most required experience I did not have or were not suitable for a Saudi woman in my family’s eyes.

I even researched asylum, what it meant, how it worked, whether religious conversion was grounds for protection in other countries.

The information I found was both hopeful and terrifying. Yes, some countries offered protection to converts who faced persecution.

But the process was long, uncertain, and would mean cutting all ties with my family, probably forever.

The thought of never seeing my mother again, never hearing my father’s voice, never teasing my brother about his football obsession.

It was too much to bear. Round and round my thoughts went like a bird trapped in a room.

Frantically seeking an exit that did not exist. Every option seemed impossible. Every path blocked by circumstances beyond my control.

And yet the faith inside me continued to grow, demanding expression, demanding authenticity, demanding freedom.

It was during this time of confusion and seeking that I discovered the concept of the already but not yet of God’s kingdom.

Already I was saved, loved, adopted as God’s child. But not yet was I living in the fullness of that reality.

Already I belonged to Jesus, but not yet could I publicly claim that belonging. This theological concept became my lifeline, helping me understand that my current hiddenness did not invalidate my faith, that God was working even in the waiting.

I learned to find moments of worship in unexpected places. Washing dishes became a time to pray for cleansing.

Cooking meals became a meditation on Jesus as the bread of life. Walking through the market became an opportunity to silently bless the people around me.

My whole life became a secret liturgy. Ordinary actions infused with sacred meaning that no one else could see.

The call to prayer that echoed through our neighborhood five times a day took on new meaning for me.

When I heard it, instead of performing the Islamic prayers, I would take a moment to silently pray to Jesus.

The call became my reminder to connect with God, just not in the way the moan intended.

This felt subversive and sacred at the same time, like I was reclaiming something for a different purpose.

I discovered that there were other secret believers in Saudi Arabia, though I had no way to connect with them safely.

Online forums, heavily encrypted and carefully hidden spoke of small gatherings in homes, of baptisms in swimming pools, of communion shared with dates and water instead of bread and wine.

These stories gave me hope that I was not alone, that God was working even in the most restrictive places, that his church existed even where church buildings could not.

But I also read stories that terrified me. Believers discovered and arrested. Families torn apart.

Honor killings that were never called that officially, but everyone knew what they were. The price of faith in my country was high, sometimes ultimate.

Was I prepared to pay it? Jesus said to count the cost before building a tower.

I counted and counted, and the sum was always more than I had to give.

And yet, I could not turn back. Every day that passed, every verse I read, every prayer I prayed drew me deeper into this new life.

I was like someone falling in love, unable to think of anything else, seeing the beloved’s face in every crowd, hearing their voice in every sound.

Jesus was becoming more real to me than the people I could see and touch.

His presence was more constant than the walls around me. I started to understand what Paul meant when he said, “For me to live is Christ and to die is gain.”

Life had meaning only in relation to Jesus. Everything else, family approval, social standing, career success, even personal safety was secondary to knowing him and being known by him.

This was terrifying and liberating at the same time. If Christ was everything, then losing everything else was survivable.

But that if was doing a lot of heavy lifting in my faith. My journal from this period is full of questions, full of anguish, full of hope.

I wrote prayers that were really arguments with God, demanding answers he did not seem ready to give.

I wrote love letters to Jesus that would have seemed blasphemous to my former self.

I wrote plans and crossed them out. Wrote new plans and crossed those out, too.

The pages are stained with tears, filled with verses copied in both English and Arabic, decorated with tiny crosses in the margins that I drew without thinking.

One entry from this time reads, “I am like Nicodemus coming to Jesus at night, afraid to be seen in the daylight.

But at least Nicodemus could physically go to Jesus, could hear his voice, could ask his questions directly.

I have only this book, these stolen moments, this faith that feels too big for my body.

How long, Lord? How long must I hide? How long before I can worship you in freedom?

How long before I can say your name without looking over my shoulder? I know you are with me in this darkness, but I long for the light.

I long to sing your praises out loud to take communion with other believers.

To be baptized in water instead of just tears. Give me patience. Give me strength.

Give me faith to believe that you are working even when I cannot see it.

Looking back now, I can see that God was preparing me during this time. Though I did not understand it then, the isolation was teaching me to depend on him alone.

The secrecy was teaching me the value of faith that exists regardless of external validation.

The waiting was teaching me that God’s timing is not our timing, that his ways are not our ways, that the journey is as important as the destination.

But in the middle of it, all I felt was stuck. Stuck between two worlds, two identities, two futures that could not coexist.

The Sarah who was a beautiful Saudi daughter could not be the Sarah who loved Jesus.

The Sarah who loved Jesus could not be the Sarah her family expected her to be.

I was being torn in half and some days I wondered if I would survive the tearing.

It was my grandmother who unknowingly gave me the perspective I needed. She was visiting from her home outside the city.

An elderly woman who had lived through the transformation of Saudi Arabia from desert kingdom to oilrich nation.

She had seen everything change in her lifetime. Roads where there had been sand, skyscrapers where there had been tents, smartphones where there had been isolation.

We were sitting together one afternoon, just the two of us, her weathered hands working on embroidery while I pretended to read a magazine.

Out of nowhere, she said, “You know, Habipi, life is long and full of surprises.

When I was your age, I could never have imagined the world you live in now.

And you cannot imagine the world that is coming. But God sees it all, the beginning and the end.

and he guides our steps even when we think we are lost. She was talking about Allah of course but her words struck me deeply.

She was right. I could not see the future. Could not imagine how God would resolve this impossible situation.

But he could see. He knew how my story would unfold. Had known since before I was born.

My job was not to figure everything out but to trust the one who already knew.

That night I prayed differently. Instead of my usual desperate pleas for guidance, for signs, for immediate resolution, I simply prayed, “Jesus, I trust you.

I do not understand. I cannot see the way, but I trust you. Lead me step by step.

Give me faith for today, just today. Tomorrow’s faith can come tomorrow.” And somehow in that surrender, peace came.

Not answers, not solutions, but peace. The peace that passes understanding. As Philippians says, “The peace Jesus promised his disciples before his crucifixion.

The peace that told me I was held, loved, guided even in my blindness.”

The days continued to pass. Ramadan came again, and I fasted with my family, but for different reasons.

My fasting became a meditation on Jesus’s 40 days in the wilderness, on his hunger and temptation and victory.

When we broke our fast each evening with dates and water, I thought of communion, of Jesus’s body broken for me, his blood shed for me.

Everything Islamic was being transformed in my mind into something that pointed to Christ.

Eid arrived with its celebrations and new clothes and family gatherings. I wore the dress my mother had bought for me, smiled for the photos, distributed gifts to the younger cousins, but inside I was celebrating something else.

The resurrection life that was growing stronger in me every day. The new creation I was becoming, even if no one could see it yet.

It was after aid that something shifted. I cannot explain it exactly, but I woke up one morning with a strange certainty that change was coming.

Not immediately, but soon. It was like feeling the wind shift before a storm.

Sensing movement in the spiritual realm that would eventually manifest in the physical. I started preparing without knowing what I was preparing for.

I organized my journal entries, typing them into encrypted files in case I ever needed to leave quickly.

I researched practical things, what documents I would need to travel, how much money I could access independently, what belongings truly mattered to me.

I was not planning to run away, not exactly, but I felt compelled to be ready for whatever God might ask of me.

I also started writing letters to my family that I might never send. Letters explaining my faith, my love for them, my sorrow at any pain I might cause.

I wanted them to know that becoming Christian did not mean I loved them less.

If anything, I loved them more with the love Christ had taught me. But I also needed them to understand that I could not be less than who God had called me to be.

To my mother, I wrote, “Mama, you taught me to love God above all else.

You taught me to pray, to seek, to submit to the divine will. I am still doing all of these things, just in a different way than you expected.

The God I serve now is the God who calls himself love, who died for me, who rose again to give me eternal life.

I know this breaks your heart and that breaks mine. But I cannot deny what I have found to be true.

I hope one day you can forgive me even if you cannot understand. To my brother, I wrote, “Little brother, you will always be my little brother even though you are taller than me now.

I want you to know that your sister is happy, happier than she has ever been.

Even in the middle of difficulty, I have found something worth more than all the football trophies in the world, worth more than family honor or social acceptance.

I have found perfect love that casts out fear. I pray that one day you will find it too.

To my father, I wrote, “Baba, you have protected me my whole life and you are still protecting me even in this.

Your love that transcends understanding gives me a glimpse of God’s love. Thank you for not turning away from me when you discovered my secret.

Thank you for choosing your daughter over your religion, even if you could never say it that way.

I know the position I have put you in is impossible, and I am sorry, but I am also grateful, more grateful than words can express.

These letters sat in a hidden folder on my computer waiting for a moment that might never come.

But writing them freed something in me. It was like saying goodbye without leaving.

Like releasing my family from the responsibility of my choices. They had not failed me.

Society had not failed me. Islam had not failed me. I had simply found something else.

Something that completed me in a way nothing else could. The dreams about water continued, becoming more vivid, sometimes I was in a river, sometimes an ocean, sometimes a simple bathtub.

But always I was going under and coming up new. I started to believe these dreams were prophetic, that baptism was in my future, even if I could not see how God was preparing me for something I did not yet understand.

I began to feel drawn to certain countries in my research. Greece particularly, there was something about the ancient churches there, the connection to Paul’s journeys, the idea of being baptized in the same waters where early Christians had been baptized.

I found myself looking at photos of Greek islands, blue water and white churches, imagining myself there, free to worship openly.

But I was also drawn to places I had never considered before. South Korea with its vibrant Christian community.

Kenya where the church was growing rapidly. Brazil where faith and culture mixed in beautiful ways.

The world suddenly seemed full of possibilities, full of places where I could be both Sarah and Christian without hiding.

Yet, I could not imagine actually leaving. Every scenario I played out ended with either capture at the airport or a lifetime of regret.

For abandoning my family. I was Abraham being called to leave. But I was not Abraham.

I did not have his faith, his courage, his direct line to God’s voice.

I was just Sarah from Riad, trembling and small and desperately in need of grace.

The online sermons I watched talked about God’s grace constantly. Grace greater than our sin.

Grace sufficient for our weakness. Grace upon grace upon grace. I drank in these messages like someone dying of thirst.

In Islam, there was mercy, but it had to be earned through submission, through good deeds outweighing bad ones.

But this grace was free, unearned, undeserved. It was gift, pure gift. I remember one sermon in particular about the woman at the well in John chapter 4.

She was a Samaritan, an outsider, a woman with a complicated past. But Jesus sought her out, spoke to her directly, offered her living water.

The preacher said, “Jesus specializes in reaching the unreachable, in loving the unlovable, in saving those who think they are too far gone.”

I wept through the entire sermon, feeling like it was preached just for me.

A woman drawing water in secret from a well she was not supposed to approach.

The preacher talked about how the woman left her water jar behind when she ran to tell others about Jesus.

She came to draw physical water but found spiritual water and forgot all about her original purpose.

What water jars do you need to leave behind? The preacher asked, “What are you clinging to that is keeping you from running free in the joy of salvation?”

I knew what my water jars were, family approval, cultural identity, physical safety, financial security, the comfortable life I had always known.

These were not bad things in themselves, but they were keeping me from fully embracing the new life Jesus offered.

Could I leave them behind? Could I run into town like that Samaritan woman proclaiming, “Come see a man who told me everything I ever did.”

Not yet. Not yet. But maybe someday. The urgency was building though. Every day that passed in hiddenness felt like a day stolen from my true life.

I was 25 years old, but I felt ancient, carrying secrets that aged me beyond my years.

I wanted to be young and free and joyful in my faith. I wanted to make mistakes and learn from them in community with other believers.

I wanted to serve God with my whole life, not just the hidden corners of it.

I started praying more boldly, asking God to make a way where there seemed to be no way.

Like the Israelites at the Red Sea, I was trapped between an impossible situation and an impossible barrier.

But the same God who parted the waters for Moses could part them for me.

I had to believe that. Had to hold on to that hope even when it seemed absurd.

Lord, I prayed. I am ready to follow you wherever you lead. If you want me to stay in Saudi Arabia and be a secret light in the darkness, I will stay.

If you want me to leave everything and everyone I know, I will leave.

If you want me to declare my faith publicly and face whatever consequences come, I will declare it.

Just make your will clear to me. Give me a sign that cannot be misunderstood.

open a door that only you can open. And I waited and waited and waited.

But even in the waiting, things were happening. My heart was being prepared like soil being tilled for planting.

My faith was growing deeper roots strong enough to withstand the storms that might come.

My understanding of scripture was expanding, giving me a foundation that could not be shaken.

The waiting was not wasted time. It was preparation time. I learned during this time about the persecuted church throughout history and around the world today.

I read about believers in Rome hiding in catacombs, about Christians in Japan practicing in secret for centuries, about underground churches in China and Iran and North Korea.

I was not alone in my hiddenness. I was part of a great cloud of witnesses who had kept the faith in impossible circumstances.

These stories gave me strength but also challenged me. Some of these believers had risked everything, lost everything for their faith.

Was I willing to do the same or was I a fair weather Christian believing only as long as it cost me nothing?

These questions haunted me, pushed me to examine the depth of my commitment. I came to realize that I might never have the dramatic testimony I had watched on YouTube, the clear before and after moment of public baptism and family rejection and brave new life.

My testimony might be quieter, longer, more complex, but that did not make it less valid, less precious to God.

He knew every secret prayer, every hidden tear, every moment of faith in the darkness.

That was enough. Still, the longing for baptism remained. It had become more than just a desire.

It was an ache in my bones, a hunger in my soul. I understood now why Philip baptized the Ethiopian unic immediately on the side of the road when he believed.

Why wait when your heart has already crossed over? But my road had no water, no Phillip, no opportunity for immediate obedience.

So I researched more. I found stories of believers who had baptized themselves in bathtubs, in hotel pools, in the ocean at night with no witnesses but God.

Were these baptisms valid? Different denominations had different opinions. But the consensus seemed to be that God honored the heart more than the method.

But still, I wanted to do it right. Wanted the full experience of going under the water at someone else’s hands, dying to self, and being raised by another’s strength.

I discovered that some churches offered online baptism preparation classes. I could learn what baptism meant, what words were traditionally spoken, what scriptures were read.

I enrolled in one secretly using a fake name and temporary email address. The classes were beautiful, walking through the biblical basis for baptism, the symbolism of water throughout scripture, the meaning of dying and rising with Christ.

One lesson talked about baptism as adoption, being brought into God’s family with all the rights and privileges of a beloved child.

This wrecked me. In my culture, family was everything. To be disowned by family was worse than death.

But God was offering me adoption into an eternal family that could never disown me, never reject me, never stop loving me.

The trade-off was still terrifying, but at least I understood what I was being offered in exchange for what I might lose.

Another lesson discussed the role of the Holy Spirit in baptism. How the same spirit that hovered over the waters at creation, that descended on Jesus at his baptism would descend on me.

I was already experiencing the Holy Spirit’s presence. I realized that peace that came when I prayed, that understanding that opened up when I read scripture, that conviction that pointed me towards truth.

This was the Holy Spirit already at work in my life. Baptism would not bring the spirit.

It would celebrate what the spirit had already done. The final lesson was about counting the cost.

The instructor, an elderly pastor with kind eyes, spoke gently but firmly about the reality that baptism might cost everything.

In some parts of the world, he said, baptism was a death sentence, literally or figuratively.

Family members might consider you dead. Communities might exile you. Governments might imprison you, but he said with tears in his eyes, Jesus is worth it.

He is worth everything you might lose and more. And he promises that everyone who has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or wife or children or fields for zeds for his sake will receive a 100 times as much and will inherit eternal life.

100 times as much. I tried to imagine what that might mean. 100 times the love I had known from my family.

100 times the sense of belonging. It seemed impossible like one of those math problems that yields infinity.

But with God, all things were possible, even this. As I write this now, I am still in Riyad.

I am still living with my family. I am still hiding my Bible. still praying in secret, still waiting for God to open a door.

But I am not the same Sarah who bought that Bible in Rome two years ago.

That Sarah was empty, searching, hopeless. The Sarah is full, found, hopefilled. That Sarah was an orphan in the universe.

The Sarah is a daughter of the king. I do not know what tomorrow holds.

I do not know if I will ever be baptized in water, though I have been baptized in tears a thousand times.

I do not know if I will ever worship in a church building, though my room has become a sanctuary.

I do not know if I will ever meet another believer face to face, though I have met Jesus in the pages of his word.

What I do know is this. I am clothed with strength and dignity, and I can laugh at the days to come.

Not because I am strong in myself, but because the God who created the universe lives in me.

Not because I am dignified in myself, but because I bear the image of the king.

Not because the future is certain, but because the one who holds the future holds me.

I am not afraid anymore. Oh, I have moments of fear. Times when the weight of what I am doing crashes over me like a wave.

But underneath the fear is a foundation of rock that cannot be moved. Jesus Christ, the same yesterday, today, and forever.

My anchor, my hope, my salvation. To anyone who might read this someday, anyone who finds themselves where I am now, caught between worlds, hiding their faith, wondering if God sees them in their isolation, let me tell you, he sees.

He knows. He loves. He is working even when you cannot perceive it. He is faithful even when you are faithless.

He is strong when you are weak. He is enough. Your journey might not look like anyone else’s.

Your testimony might not fit the pattern you have seen others share. Your path to freedom might be long and winding and unclear.

But if you have given your heart to Jesus, if you have accepted his love and lordship, you are already free.

The external circumstances will catch up eventually. God will make a way. He always does.

Until then, we wait. We pray. We read his word. We grow in faith.

We love others as best we can. We shine whatever light we are able to shine, even if it is just a candle flame in a dark room.

We trust that God is using our hidden faith for purposes we cannot see. Touching hearts we do not know about.

Preparing a harvest we might never reap but others will. This is my testimony incomplete as it is.

I am Sarah from Riyad and I love Jesus Christ. He has changed my heart, transformed my mind, given me hope, filled me with love.

He has taken a religious girl going through the motions and turned her into a beloved daughter who knows she is cherished.

He has taken my fear and replaced it with faith, my emptiness, and filled it with himself.

The story is not over. In many ways, it is just beginning. There are chapters yet to be written, adventures yet to unfold, miracles yet to manifest.

But already, already I am saved. Already I am loved. Already I am his.

And that is enough. More than enough. It is everything. Proverbs 31:25. She’s clothed with strength and dignity.

She can laugh at the days to come. I claim this verse for myself and for every hidden believer reading this.

We are clothed with Christ’s strength, not our own. We are dignified because we are children of God.

And we can laugh at the days to come because we know who holds tomorrow.

Isaiah 41:10, “Do not fear, for I am with you. Do not be dismayed, for I am your God.

I will strengthen you and help you. I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

This is God’s promise to us, the secret believers, the hidden church, the ones who worship in whispers.

He is with us. He is our God. He will strengthen us. He will help us.

He will uphold us. We are not alone. We are never alone. Even in our rooms at night with our hidden Bibles and silent prayers, we are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses.

The saints who have gone before us, the angels who minister to us, the Holy Spirit who lives in us, and Jesus who intercedes for us at the right hand of the father.

This is my story, my song, my testimony. It is not finished, but it is real.

It is not perfect, but it is true. It is not what I expected, but it is what God has given me, and I would not trade it for anything in this world.

My name is Sarah, and Jesus Christ changed my heart forever, and he is still changing it every day, making me more like him, preparing me for whatever comes next.

Whether I stay or go, whether I am discovered or remain hidden, whether I am baptized in water or only in spirit, I am his and he is mine.

And that is the greatest love story ever