J. Warner reviews evidence from ancient non-Christian historians and sources—including Thallus, Tacitus, Mara bar Serapion, Phlegon, and Pliny the Younger—that confirm the historical existence, crucifixion, and remarkable influence of Jesus. He demonstrates how these unfriendly witnesses provide valuable corroboration for key biblical claims about Jesus, supporting the reliability of the Gospel accounts. https://coldcasechristianity.com/videos/historians-that-vouched-for-jesus-video/ #EvidentialFaith #ChristianApologetics #ReasonableFaith #ColdCaseChristianity #JWarnerWallace #ForensicFaith #ChristianWorldview #InvestigateChristianity #EvidenceForGod #FaithAndReason

Many times it is not easy to raise a child especially,if the parent has nothing to provide for the child. If it happens that you visited some towns in our country, you must come across the street children, why? we have no idea how they came to be street children. At Vision complex orphanage we pray to continue handling these children with care not to be like others in the streets of Bunda Town Mara Region Tanzania Africa. Please pray for these children and you can support them with what you have, clothes, shoes , medical and food. May God bless you

TOPIC OF THE WEEK; DOMESTIC VIOLENCE MARA'S STORY Mara had prayed for seven years for her husband to change. She prayed when he yelled over a misplaced grocery bag, when he gripped her wrist hard enough to bruise, when he told her she was worthless and no one else would ever love her. She prayed through the apologies, the flowers, the promises that it would never happen again. She prayed because she believed God could soften any heart. And she prayed because pastors, well-meaning and nervous, had quoted Ephesians 5 and told her to trust God's timing. But timing without truth becomes a cage. The turning point came on a Tuesday morning. He had broken a plate, then a mirror, then her spirit. Mara backed into the corner of the kitchen, hands trembling over her stomach to shield herself, and realized she was not submitting anymore she was surviving. In that moment, something shifted inside her. It wasn't rebellion. It was recognition: she was made in the image of God, and God does not tolerate the defacing of His image. "The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves the those who are crushed in spirit." (Psalm 34:18) She didn't leave that night. Deliverance rarely happens in a single moment. It usually begins with a crack of light. The next day, Mara called a woman from church she trusted and said three words that changed everything: "I need help." That woman didn't quote submission at her. She didn't tell her to pray harder. She showed up with a duffel bag, a phone number for a safe house, and a pastor who knew the difference between marriage and captivity. The church mobilized: meals arranged, legal counsel secured, a place for Mara and her children to stay. Prayer didn't keep her in danger prayer moved her toward safety. Her husband claimed God was bringing discipline. He claimed she was breaking covenant. But covenant is not a contract that requires the willing participation of both parties in sin. Abuse breaks covenant long before the victim leaves the house. God's design for marriage is mutual self-giving love. When one spouse weaponizes authority, fear, or violence, they have already abandoned the covenant. Mara's decision to protect herself and her children was not a failure of faith. It was an act of stewardship over the life God had entrusted to her. Deliverance came in waves. First, physical safety secured through wise action and the courage of a praying community. Then, spiritual clarity Mara finally stopped believing the lies that she deserved it, that God wanted her silenced, that enduring cruelty made her more holy. God doesn't demand suffering as proof of piety. Christ suffered so His people wouldn't have to. Last came the slow, steady work of healing. There were nightmares. There were days she couldn't walk into a church without panic rising in her chest. But there were also mornings when she woke up and realized no one was watching her every move, waiting for an excuse. There were evenings of peace. There was prayer that no longer sounded like begging but like communion. "For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways." Psalm 91:11 Mara's story isn't unique. Too many women and men pray in locked rooms for deliverance they already need permission to pursue. The truth is this: God delivers through means. Through counselors who name abuse for what it is. Through brothers and sisters who open doors instead of closing them. Through practical steps that honor both safety and the hope of redemption. Abuse is sin. Repentance is necessary. But repentance that only comes after consequences is still repentance, and safety is not negotiable. If you are walking through something like this, or praying with someone who is: do not confuse endurance for holiness. Do not let twisted theology keep you in danger. God sees. God hates violence. And God builds bridges to freedom. Call out. Seek help. Pray boldly and let your prayers lead you, not keep you trapped. If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic abuse, contact the National Domestic Violence Hotline: of your country. You are not alone, and God's deliverance often comes through the courage to reach out.

If you pray remember to pray for our ongoing project at Vision complex orphanage located at Bunda town Mara Region Tanzania.

Dear Father, There is something notable about the story of Naomi. First, her husband, herself, and their two sons relocated to Moab because of the famine in Bethlehem. But unfortunately, she lost all of them to the unpredictable hands of death. “Then she arose with her daughters-in-law, that she might return from the country of Moab.” I have chosen to call this “the emptiness of desolation.” There comes a time in the life of a man when he wrestles with both regret and sorrow, yet still experiences the difficulty of defining why pain can leave such a void--unseen, yet palpable. And the difficulty is not so much in the void itself as it is in his inability to explain its depth. For Naomi said, “Call me not Naomi; call me Mara…” and Mara means bitter. In expressing the depth of her pain, she chose to make herself a symbol of bitterness. How deep, then, must her sorrow have been? How unexplainable is the pain we carry within us--pain that transcends the borders of words? Words, though powerful, sometimes fail, as though they were only symbols attempting to capture the struggle of a man, yet never fully containing it. The difficulty in communicating emotional struggles often becomes the difficulty in healing. But Father, do You not see beyond the unspeakable? Do You not understand what words fail to carry? We come to You, then, not because we can fully express our hurt, but because You fully understand it. Please, make us whole again. Translations; Slide 1: English Slide 2: French Slide 3: Bengali Slide 4: Hindi Slide 5: Urdu #LettertoGod #seasons #pain #sorrow

🌿 Mystical Gardens Tale 🌿 🖲️ The Reset or the Rest Button There was so much going on. Yelling, screaming, fighting that made no sense. Accusing words were thrown that were never meant, but came from a hurt that was felt deep inside. It became too much to bear. Mara stormed out without a destination, just the need to get away. By the time Mara stumbled into the garden, she had no words left. She had used them all. She had shouted them, whispered them, sharpened them into accusations and hurled them like stones. Now her chest ached with the hollow echo of everything that had been said, the things that were still left unsaid and everything that was just repeated too much without any resolution. A wide tree stood at the center of the garden, its bark smooth in places as if worn by countless hands. Its branches curved inward, not reaching, not demanding. Beneath it sat a stone bench, and carved into the stone was a single symbol: a small circle broken by a vertical line. Mara frowned. “Is that a symbol for a reset? I need a complete reset. A fresh start. A new beginning." A soft rustle came from the shade. An old tortoise, shell etched with faint lines like cracks that had healed long ago stepped forward—not fierce, not imposing. Just steady. “You look like someone who has kept fighting even after the war ended,” the tortoise said gently. Mara sank onto the bench. “Am I supposed to just give up? I didn’t win.” The tortoise nodded. “Most wars don’t end with winners. They end when someone can’t lift their arms anymore.” She pressed her hands to her face. “I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to talk anymore. I don’t want to try and fix it anymore. I don't even want to forgive anymore. I just want it all to stop.” The tree’s leaves stirred. A voice, slow and patient, spoke from within the bark. "Then take a little time and just rest. There are things that you cannot fix but you must let go." Mara laughed bitterly. “That’s it? That’s your great wisdom? Just rest. How does that fix anything?” "Taking time to rest is not the same as quitting," the tree replied. "It is choosing not to keep fighting. To stop your heart from bleeding for a while." The tortoise tapped the stone with one foot. "What is that? A magic button to fix my problems?" she muttered. "Will it give me a complete reset? If I do it all over again, how do I keep from making the same mistakes?" “This is not a reset button,” he said. “It’s a rest button. The reset button is over there." He pointed a foot to another bench. "People often confuse the two.” Mara looked down. “What’s the difference?” “A reset pretends that nothing ever happened,” he said. “A rest says, ‘I've had enough for now.’ They are not the same." The tree continued, "Forgiveness is not forced here, but it is encouraged." Mara felt something loosen in her chest. Not healing. Not peace. Just… permission to stop. To rest. “But what if I never go back?” she asked. The leaves shimmered. "Then you will still gain healing." “And what if I do?” "Then you will return healed, rested, but not armed. You will be ready to resolve the problems if it's possible." The tortoise leaned closer. “You don’t have to decide today. Or tomorrow. You only have to stop fighting for this moment.” Mara placed her hand over the symbol. The stone was cool. Solid. Real. Nothing dramatic happened. No light. No vision. No voice commanding her to reconcile. Instead, her shoulders dropped. Her breathing slowed. The battlefield inside her went quiet—not healed, but paused. The tree spoke one last time. "Even I rest between seasons." When Mara finally stood to leave, the garden dimmed gently behind her. It was not closing her out, it was not pulling her back, but instead was just waiting, because the rest button is not about fixing everything. It's about surviving long enough to become someone who can. 🌟 Avoid conflict if possible: “Starting a quarrel is like breaching a dam; so drop the matter before a dispute breaks out.” Proverbs 17:14 “If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.” Romans 12:18 #MysticalGardens #christianwriter #christianfiction #christianfantasy #stacyfrantz

The Song of Ruth — A Vivid Poetic Telling In days when judges ruled the land, And Israel wandered from God’s command, A famine fell on Bethlehem’s hill, And bread was gone; the fields grew still. Elimelech with Naomi dear And sons—two boys she cherished near— Left Judah’s soil for Moab’s plain, Where foreign gods and strangers reigned. But sorrow tracked them where they trod; For death broke in beneath the rod. Elimelech first, then both her sons— Her house fell silent, one by one. Now widowed thrice, with empty hands, Naomi rose to leave that land. She heard the LORD had visited home, And barley sang where wind now roamed. She told her daughters-in-law to stay, To find new hope along their way. Orpah kissed her and turned aside, But Ruth clung fast with steadfast stride. “Entreat me not to leave thy side, Nor from thy journey turn aside. Where thou dost go, there I will go; Thy dwelling place shall be mine also. Thy people shall be my people known, Thy God forever be my own. Where thou art laid, there I shall lie— May God so bind me till I die.” So hand in hand they walked the road, Two grieving hearts beneath their load. When Bethlehem saw Naomi’s face, The women whispered in that place: “Is this Naomi?”—once so fair. She answered, “Call me Mara here, For bitterness my drink has been; The LORD hath testified against my sin.” Yet barley harvest filled the air— A season wrapped in answered prayer. And Ruth, the Moabitess strong, Went forth to glean where she belonged. She wandered humbly, unaware That providence had placed her there In fields of Boaz, noble, kind, A kinsman of Elimelech’s line. He saw her glean with modest grace, The sweat upon her sun-kissed face; He asked his reapers, “Whose is she— This stranger bowed so diligently?” They said, “It is the Moab maid Who left her land, unafraid, To serve Naomi without complaint.” His heart grew warm; his voice grew faint. “Let handfuls fall for her to reap; Let none rebuke or dare to speak. Let her abide here, safe and near— For God rewards the faithful here.” At evening Ruth her gleaning bore, Great measures of the harvest store. Naomi saw and blessed the Name Of Him from whom all mercies came. She told her child of nearer kin, Of Boaz strong, of hope again; A plan took shape, both wise and bold— A custom sacred, ancient, old. Upon the threshing floor that night, When stars spilled silver, cold and bright, Ruth laid herself at Boaz’ feet— A gentle plea, a gesture sweet. He woke, astonished at her grace, Her virtue shining on her face. He pledged his heart, his vow to keep: “Fear not, my daughter, nor weep. A nearer kinsman stands between, Yet I will act, as honor deems.” At morning light before the gate He called the elders; none would wait. The nearer kinsman gave his right— A sandal loosed, a lawful sight. Thus Boaz claimed his bride that day, And joy chased all her grief away. The town blessed Ruth—once foreign born— With Rachel’s strength, with Leah’s corn. A son was given, Obed fair, A tender answer to despair. Naomi held him to her breast; Her empty arms at last found rest. And thus through Ruth, the Moabitess, Came David’s line—God’s faithfulness. Through her would rise in Bethlehem’s stall A greater King who saves us all. From famine’s pain to fields of grace, From widow’s tears to love’s embrace, The story sings from age to age: Redemption walks on every page.

I’ve been asked more than once: Why write suspense through a Christian lens? Why not just offer hope? The answer is simple: Hope without honesty isn’t hope, it’s evasion. In Shadows of Mercy, there are no altar calls. No open Bibles on nightstands. No sudden conversions under glowing streetlamps. What there is, intentionally, is a scarred Marine who hasn’t prayed in eight years, a grieving counselor who questions whether grace even applies to men like him, and a boy who only speaks through drawings because the world taught him silence was safer. This isn’t a rejection of faith. It’s a deeper fidelity to it. Too often, Christian fiction flattens the human experience into a before-and-after binary. Lost versus found, broken versus healed, darkness versus light. But real life, and real faith, live in the in-between. In the fog over the harbor. In the silence between Amen. In the moment you choose to stay, not because you’ve figured it all out, but because someone else is still drowning. Mercy, I’ve come to believe, doesn’t shine despite the shadows. It moves through them. It’s not a feeling. It’s a verb. It’s Mara handing Ethan a bowl of stew when he’s covered in blood. It’s Delaney stitching his wound without asking for his testimony first. It’s Mateo drawing a net full of stars and naming it truth. That’s the kind of mercy I want to write toward: - Not soft, but sharp. - Not easy, but chosen. - Not loud, but relentless. Shadows of Mercy is my attempt to honor that. No manipulation. No manufactured piety. Just people, flawed, frightened, faithful in their own quiet way, learning that the most sacred act isn’t speaking for God, but speaking a name the world tried to bury. Because sometimes, that’s how resurrection begins. - Riaan Schlebusch Author of Shadows of Mercy | Literary Christian Fiction Rooted in Truth, Not Trope #faith #christian

God Understands What We Don’t Understand "For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lord." – Isaiah 55:8 (KJV) Insight: There are moments in life that leave us speechless—tragedies, losses, and sudden turns we never saw coming. In those moments, it’s easy to ask, “Why?” But the truth is, only God—the One who created us—fully understands why certain things happen. His ways are higher than ours, and nothing escapes His knowledge. When death or unpleasant situations and challenges come suddenly, it shakes us. Yet, it never catches God by surprise. He sees the full picture—past, present, and future. Though our hearts ache, we can rest in the assurance that He is still in control and that everything happens within the bounds of His divine wisdom, knowledge, and timing we can't fathom or comprehend. Reflection: Ruth 1:20-21 - "And she said unto them, Call me not Naomi, call me Mara: for the Almighty hath dealt very bitterly with me. I went out full, and the LORD hath brought me home again empty: why then call ye me Naomi, seeing the LORD hath testified against me, and the Almighty hath afflicted me?" We may not understand the “why,” but we can trust the One who does. He walks with us in sorrow, holds us in our confusion, and gently reminds us that He is still God—unchanging and full of love. Prayer: Lord, when I don’t understand, help me to trust You. Comfort my heart in the face of life’s mysteries, and remind me that You are always good, even when life is complex and complicated in Jesus Name. Amen. Reality: Life may bring questions that have no human answers. But peace comes when we place those questions in God’s hands, knowing He sees what we can’t and works all things for good in His perfect time. God's Loving Heart.

THE LAST TRIAL (A short story inspired by James 2:13) The year was 2085. Justice was no longer served by men — but by machines. They called it Judicor, an AI tribunal designed to purge corruption from the courts. Every case, every crime, every life was reduced to data. No delays. No appeals. Only judgment. Detective Mara Okezie believed in Judicor. She had seen too much pain, too much blood, too many people hiding behind the word mercy. To her, mercy was weakness. Judgment was justice. Until one day… the system charged her. The evidence was flawless. Her own investigation logs showed she’d overridden Judicor’s orders to save a young boy accused of cyber-terrorism. He would have been executed for a crime he didn’t commit. Mara had seen the fear in his eyes — the kind of fear no algorithm could measure. “Detective Mara Okezie,” the machine intoned in its cold, harmonic voice, “you have shown unauthorized compassion. State your defense.” Her mouth was dry. Her heart pounded. “I showed humanity,” she whispered. The hall was silent. Then — a pause in the system’s hum. For the first time, Judicor’s light flickered. "Judgment is without mercy… to the one who has shown no mercy.” The words echoed across the chamber. Not from the machine — but from its core, rewritten by her act. Her choice had changed the code. Across the city, executions halted mid-command. Sentences vanished from digital screens. Judicor’s voice softened into stillness, whispering a final decree: “Mercy… triumphs over judgment.” And for the first time in decades, the city slept — not under the rule of law, but under the peace of grace. “When mercy is outlawed… only grace can save the world.”