Throwback when I sat at balcony during the sermon of The Ascending Day of Jesus Christ at church in Indonesia. The song is about the glory to God and atfer this one we continue sang Doxology.

From our church (GRII) for Indonesia. #Concert #Jakarta

worship in indonesia song

PART 3: I Killed 40+ Christians as a Doctor”: Muslim Doctor’s Secret Poisoning Christian Patients At 2:45 in the afternoon—almost 12 hours after I’d started trying to save Grace—I was called urgently back to the room. I’d stepped out briefly to get more medication. When I ran back in, the monitors were going crazy. Alarms were blaring. Grace was crashing. Her heart rate was erratic, bouncing between too fast and too slow. Her breathing had become shallow, gasping. Her oxygen saturation was dropping rapidly. Her skin had taken on a grayish tone. Rebecca was screaming, calling her daughter’s name over and over. She was begging Grace not to leave her, telling her to hold on, promising her that everything would be okay if she’d just hold on. I tried everything. I administered emergency medications. I called for a crash cart. I did every intervention I knew. But nothing worked. Grace’s body was shutting down. The poison had done too much damage. My attempts to reverse it had come too late. At 3:17 in the afternoon, Grace’s heart stopped. The monitor emitted that single sustained tone that every medical professional dreads—that sound that means death. Rebecca collapsed over her daughter’s body. She was screaming, crying, begging God to bring Grace back. She kept saying she couldn’t lose her daughter too. That she couldn’t bear losing both her husband and her child. That she had nothing left if Grace was gone. I stood frozen at the foot of the bed. Watching the scene I’d caused. Watching a mother’s grief that I’d created. Watching a child’s death that I’d engineered. Watching the consequences of my choices play out in real time. The attending physician came running. He tried to resuscitate Grace, but I knew it was pointless. The damage was too severe. After 15 minutes, he stopped and recorded the time of death. Rebecca’s screams had turned into these broken, animal sounds of grief. Security had to help her stand. They tried to lead her out of the room, but she kept collapsing. She kept reaching for Grace’s body. She kept begging God to wake her baby up. I staggered out of the room and made it to a supply closet before I vomited. Then I leaned against the wall, sliding down to sit on the floor, my whole body shaking. I’d killed before—killed dozens of times—but I’d never stayed to watch. I’d never seen the immediate aftermath. I’d never stood there while a mother discovered her child was dead and knew it was my fault. I somehow made it through the rest of my shift. I don’t remember how. I just moved through motions, my mind blank, my body numb. When my shift finally ended, I went home, called in sick for the next day, and didn’t leave my apartment. I stayed inside for 14 days. For two weeks, I was trapped in my apartment with my guilt. I didn’t go to work. I barely ate. I couldn’t sleep more than an hour or two at a time. When I did sleep, I had nightmares. All my victims appeared in my dreams. They surrounded my bed, just standing there looking at me, asking why. “Why did you kill me? Why did you hate me so much? Why did you think you were righteous?” Jesus appeared in my dreams every night. Sometimes he simply sat with me in the darkness, saying nothing, just present in my grief. Other times he spoke to me. One night I screamed at him through my tears. I asked him why he took Grace. Why he let her die when I tried to save her. I told him it wasn’t fair that I tried, that I’d begged him for help. He answered gently that Grace died so I would feel the full weight of what I’d done. He explained that every mother I’d made childless had felt what Rebecca Okonquo felt. Every child I’d orphaned had felt what Grace felt. He told me I needed to stand in that hospital room and face the consequences of my actions—not to destroy me, but to break me open so he could remake me. I told him I couldn’t live with this guilt. That I was a monster who didn’t deserve to breathe. He corrected me tenderly. He said I was a monster—past tense. But he told me he makes all things new. He said he could make even me new, even after all I’d done. He told me that’s what grace means: undeserved favor, impossible mercy, love for the unlovable. On the 13th night, he gave me an instruction. He told me to go to Rebecca Okonquo. He said I needed to confess what I’d done. He told me to ask her forgiveness. I argued with him. I told him Rebecca would have me arrested. I said I’d go to prison, maybe face execution. I told him I deserved to die. He agreed that I deserved to die. But he reminded me that he’d already died in my place. Then he commanded me again: go face what I’d done. On the 15th day, I returned to the hospital. I submitted my resignation letter, effective immediately. My supervisor was shocked, tried to convince me to stay, but I insisted. Then I asked administration for the Okonquo family’s contact information. They told me Rebecca was still in Malaysia, preparing to take her daughter’s body back to the United States. They gave me her temporary address. I drove there in a daze. Every part of me wanted to run away. Every instinct screamed at me to flee. But I forced myself to park. Forced myself to walk to the door. Forced myself to knock. Rebecca opened the door. Her eyes were swollen from crying. She’d lost weight in the two weeks since Grace died. When she recognized me, confusion crossed her face. She asked why I was there. I asked if I could come in. My voice was shaking so badly I could hardly speak. We sat in her small living room. Two large suitcases stood by the door, ready for her flight back to America. A framed photo of Grace sat on the coffee table. Grace—smiling, vibrant, alive—full of the future she’d never have. I told Rebecca I needed to confess something. Then I started talking. I told her everything. About the group of Muslim healthcare workers. About our monthly meetings where we celebrated killing Christian patients. About the methods we used. About the dozens of people I’d murdered. About my belief that I was serving Allah, fighting jihad, earning paradise. Then I told her about Grace: that her death wasn’t a tragic complication. That I deliberately poisoned her. That I’d planned to kill her from the moment I saw the cross Rebecca wore around her neck. That Grace died because I hated Christians and believed killing them was righteous. I told her about Jesus appearing to me, about how I tried to save Grace but failed, about standing in that room and watching her die and knowing it was my fault. By the time I finished, both of us were sobbing. I was on the floor, unable to even look at the woman whose daughter I’d murdered. I told her I deserved death, that I deserved hell, that I understood if she wanted to call the police right now. Rebecca was silent for a long time. I could hear her crying, hear her struggling to breathe through her grief. Then she spoke, her voice thick with tears. She told me that Jesus had spoken to her the day before. She said she didn’t understand it at the time. He told her she needed to forgive. She thought maybe he was preparing her to forgive the illness that took Grace, or the hospital for not saving her. She said she didn’t understand what Jesus meant until I walked through her door. Then she did something I will never understand—not if I live a thousand years. She got down on the floor beside me. She took my hands in hers. And she told me she forgave me. She said she didn’t forgive me because I deserved it. She was clear about that. I didn’t deserve forgiveness—not from her, not from anyone. But she explained that Jesus had forgiven her when she didn’t deserve it either. And she said Jesus was telling her that he had plans for me. That Grace’s death would not be meaningless. That somehow God would bring redemption out of this horror. She helped me stand up. Then she told me there was someone I needed to meet. Rebecca took me to meet Pastor Samuel, a man who led an underground church and worked specifically with converts from Islam. We met in a small, hidden space in a basement where believers gathered secretly, knowing that being discovered could mean violence, arrest, or death. Pastor Samuel listened to my whole story. Then he looked at me with tears in his eyes and told me that Jesus specializes in transforming murderers into missionaries. He reminded me that the Apostle Paul had killed Christians, truly believed he was serving God, and then met Jesus and became one of the greatest preachers of grace in history. That night, surrounded by people who’d lost everything to follow Jesus, I confessed my sins and accepted Christ. Pastor Samuel baptized me in a metal tub in that basement. As I went under the water, I felt the weight of my guilt wash over me again. But when I came up, something had shifted. The weight wasn’t gone—I knew I’d carry it forever—but I felt something I’d never felt before: hope. The possibility that somehow, some way, God could use even someone like me. I went home that night and wrote a letter to my family. I explained my conversion. I told them I’d accepted Christ. I said I was sorry for the pain this would cause them, but I couldn’t deny what I’d experienced. I left the letter on the kitchen table with my apartment keys beside it. I packed a single bag with clothes and my few important documents. Then I walked out, knowing I could never go back. When my father found my letter the next morning, his response was immediate. He declared me an apostate. He told the mosque that I’d betrayed Islam. My brothers publicly vowed to kill me themselves to restore the family’s honor. Within 48 hours, my photograph was circulating in extremist networks throughout Malaysia with a price on my head. The hospital launched a full investigation into patient deaths that had occurred under my care. My confession to Rebecca—which she’d courageously reported to the police despite knowing it might put me in danger—triggered criminal charges. An international warrant was issued for my arrest. I became a fugitive. The underground church network moved me to safe houses, never staying more than a few days in each location. I lived in constant fear. Every sound at night could be my brothers. Every stranger could be someone collecting the bounty. Every police car could mean arrest and imprisonment. But despite the danger, I found Pastor Samuel again. He connected me with an underground missionary organization that worked in the most dangerous places: villages where Christians were hunted, regions where missionaries were regularly killed, areas where simply being Christian meant risking death. I told them I wanted to serve. They tried to talk me out of it, explaining the dangers. I told them I understood danger better than most. I’d been the danger. Now I wanted to be on the other side. They sent me first to a village in Indonesia where believers were being persecuted by radical Islamic groups. My job was to provide medical care and share the gospel. I worked with Indonesian Christians who risked their lives daily to follow Jesus. The persecution started immediately. When local Muslims discovered a former Muslim doctor was treating Christians, word spread quickly. One night, a mob surrounded the small clinic where I was working. They threw stones at the building. They chanted death threats. They demanded I come out so they could punish me for apostasy. The local Christians hid me in a secret room beneath the clinic. I stayed there for three days while the mob outside screamed for my death. I could hear them throwing things, breaking windows, threatening to burn the building down. For three days, I didn’t see sunlight. I barely ate. I prayed constantly, terrified, asking Jesus if this was how I would die. On the third night, the mob dispersed after police finally intervened. But I’d learned my first lesson in persecution: that following Jesus means losing safety, comfort, and control. My second assignment was in Pakistan. I worked in a small underground clinic treating believers who couldn’t go to public hospitals because of discrimination. One afternoon, religious police raided our clinic. They arrested me and three other workers. They took us to a detention center. For five days, I was interrogated. They wanted names of other converts. They wanted information about the underground church. They wanted me to renounce Christ and return to Islam. When I refused, the beatings started. I was hit with batons. I was kicked. I was left in a cell with no food and minimal water. They told me this would stop the moment I said the Shahada—the Islamic declaration of faith. All I had to do was say those words, and the pain would end. I thought about it in my weakness, exhausted and hurt. I genuinely considered giving up. But then I remembered Grace. I remembered all my victims. I remembered that Jesus had died for me when I was still his enemy. And I realized that suffering for Jesus wasn’t punishment. It was privilege. I was finally on the right side. I was finally suffering for truth, instead of causing suffering for lies. After five days, international pressure led to my release. I was deported back to Malaysia, where I immediately went into hiding again because the charges there were still active. My third assignment took me to Bangladesh. I worked with a team providing medical care to Christian families who’d fled persecution from Myanmar. We operated in secret, moving constantly, always aware that we could be discovered and killed at any moment. One evening, our location was betrayed. Extremists attacked our camp. They came with weapons, shouting about killing the infidels and the traitors who helped them. We ran into the jungle. I was separated from my team. I spent three days alone in the forest without food, terrified, hearing search parties looking for us. When I finally found my way to another village, I learned that two of our team members had been caught. They were beaten severely. One of them, a young man named David, died from his injuries. I attended his funeral in secret. His mother told me that David knew the risks but believed Jesus was worth dying for. She said he talked about me specifically—about how a former murderer had become a missionary, and how that gave him hope that Jesus could use anyone. Her words broke me. I’d killed people who were like David. I’d murdered believers who thought they were safe. And now I was surrounded by people who chose to die rather than deny Jesus, while I’d spent years killing to defend a false version of God. Each assignment brought new persecution. In Malaysia, I was nearly caught by my brothers three times. Once, I saw them searching a market where I’d gone to buy supplies. I hid in a shop for four hours, terrified, praying they wouldn’t find me. In the southern Philippines, I worked with Christians who lived under constant threat from Islamic militants. One village we served was attacked while I was there. Militants came through shooting, burning homes, looking specifically for Christians. We hid in a neighbor’s basement for 18 hours while the attack continued above us. I could hear screaming, gunfire, the sounds of destruction. When we finally emerged, seven believers had been killed, including two children. The worst beating I received happened in a village in Indonesia. Someone had informed the local imam that an apostate Muslim woman was treating Christians in the area. He organized a crowd to find me. They caught me as I was leaving a patient’s home. They dragged me to the village center. The imam pronounced me guilty of apostasy and aiding enemies of Islam. Then the beating began. Men and women both participated. They used their fists, their feet, pieces of wood. They stripped off my outer clothes to humiliate me. They spit on me. They called me a traitor, a demon. I thought I would die. I genuinely believed this was the end. I remember praying, thanking Jesus for saving me, asking him to receive my spirit. I thought about Grace, about Rebecca’s forgiveness, about how I’d spent years persecuting believers and now was being persecuted for believing. THE END

PART 1: “I Killed 40+ Christians as a Doctor”: Muslim Doctor’s Secret Poisoning Christian Patients. My name is Fatima Alman. I was a murderer who wore a white coat instead of a mask. I killed not in dark alleys but in sterile hospital rooms. I ended lives not with bullets but with medications. Not with violence but with what everyone believed was mercy and healing. And I did it all believing I was serving Allah. There are some secrets that hospitals keep in their halls that no medical textbook will ever record. Some hands that heal by day become instruments of death by night. And sometimes the person you trust most with your life is the one planning to take it. What I’m about to tell you changed everything I thought I knew about good and evil, about redemption and justice, about whether someone can come back from becoming a monster. Stay with me because this story will disturb you, break you, and maybe, just maybe, heal something inside you that you didn’t know was wounded. I was 29 years old when my world collapsed. When everything I believed shattered like glass. When I discovered that the person I thought was righteous was actually the villain in every story I’d ever been part of. I grew up in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, in a family that most people would have called devout. From the time I was a small girl, I heard the same messages repeated like prayers: that unbelievers were a disease on this earth, that Christians and Jews were the greatest enemies of Allah, that killing them was not murder but justice, not sin but righteousness. My father told me that paradise had levels and the highest levels were reserved for those who fought for Islam. He explained that jihad didn’t always mean carrying weapons in obvious ways. He said that sometimes the greatest warriors were those who fought from positions no one would suspect. He told me that if I became a doctor, I could serve Allah in ways that others couldn’t imagine. I believed him. Every word. I studied hard, earned top marks, got accepted into medical school at University Malaya. I took the Hippocratic Oath with my classmates, promising to do no harm, to treat all patients with equal care, to preserve life above all else. I spoke those words with my mouth while my heart held completely different intentions. To me, that oath applied only to Muslims. Christians and other infidels didn’t deserve the same protections. They were enemies. And in war, you didn’t heal your enemies. You eliminated them. After I completed my residency, I started working at one of the major government hospitals in Kuala Lumpur. That’s where I met them—the others like me. Dr. Hassan introduced me during my second week. He told me about a group of Muslim healthcare workers who met regularly, who shared a common understanding of our true purpose in the medical field. The first meeting shocked me, not because of what they were doing, but because I’d found my people—others who understood. There were six of us initially: three doctors, two nurses, and a pharmacist. We met in Dr. Hassan’s apartment once a month. We shared meals, prayed together, and then we talked about our work. Dr. Hassan opened that first meeting by asking each person to share their recent victories. I listened as a nurse named Aisha described how she’d deliberately given wrong medication to a Christian patient recovering from surgery. She told us how the patient had developed complications and died within 48 hours. She smiled as she said this, and everyone else nodded with approval. A doctor named Kareem shared how he’d misdiagnosed a Christian businessman, sending him home with painkillers when the man actually had appendicitis. The man died from a ruptured appendix three days later. They went around the circle sharing stories of Christians who died under their care. Wrong medications, deliberate overdoses, treatments withheld, diagnostic errors that weren’t errors at all. Each story ended the same way—with death—and with the group celebrating another victory for Islam. When it came to my turn, I felt embarrassed that I had nothing to share yet. But Dr. Hassan placed his hand on my shoulder and told me not to worry. He said that Allah had brought me to them for a purpose, and soon I would have my own victories to report. He explained that what we were doing was true jihad, that we were fighting on the front lines of a war most Muslims didn’t even know was happening. He reminded us that the Prophet himself had commanded believers to fight against unbelievers, and that our method was simply more sophisticated than previous generations. I went home that night feeling something I hadn’t felt in years. Purpose. I had found my calling. I would be a warrior for Islam, and no one would ever suspect the young female doctor with a kind smile and gentle hands. My first victim came two weeks later. Her name was Sarah Tan. She was a 34-year-old marketing executive at a multinational company. She’d come in for a routine gallbladder surgery—something we performed dozens of times each month without complications. She was Christian. I saw the small cross necklace she wore. I heard her thank Jesus when I told her the procedure would be straightforward. That cross made my decision easy. After her surgery, I was assigned to manage her post-operative care. Everything had gone smoothly during the procedure. She should have recovered normally and gone home within three days. But I adjusted her medication dosage, increasing her pain medication to levels that I knew would suppress her respiratory system. I did it gradually over the course of 18 hours so it would look like a natural complication. I was in the room when she died. I watched her oxygen levels drop, watched her breathing become shallow, watched the monitor flatline. The attending physician rushed in, tried to resuscitate her, but it was too late. He turned to me with confusion in his eyes and asked what had happened. I told him I didn’t know, that she’d seemed fine, that perhaps she’d had an undetected underlying condition. Her husband arrived an hour later. He collapsed when we told him his wife was gone. He kept asking how this could happen, saying she’d only come in for a simple procedure, saying she’d texted him that morning telling him she felt fine. I stood there in my white coat, my face arranged in professional sympathy, and told him that sometimes complications arose that no one could predict. I told him we’d done everything we could. I felt no guilt. None at all. Instead, I felt satisfaction. I’d struck a blow for Islam. I’d removed one more Christian from the earth. That night, I performed my prayers with extra devotion. I thanked Allah for allowing me to serve him. I asked for more opportunities. At the next meeting of our group, I shared my story. They celebrated with me. Dr. Hassan told me I’d done well, that Allah was pleased. Aisha hugged me and told me I was a true sister in jihad. We prayed together, asking Allah to give us more chances to fight his battles. The killing became easier after that. My second victim was a contractor named Michael who came in for a routine health screening. He was in his 40s, healthy, with nothing wrong except slightly elevated cholesterol. He mentioned during his examination that he attended a charismatic church downtown. He showed me photos on his phone of his church’s recent mission trip to Indonesia. I prescribed him medication that I told him would help with his cholesterol. Actually, I gave him drugs that would create blood clots in his system. I told him to take them daily. He trusted me completely, thanking me for taking such good care of him. Two weeks later, I heard from a colleague that he died at home from a sudden pulmonary embolism. His death was ruled natural causes. No one suspected anything. After Michael, I killed a businessman named Peter, then a teacher named Ruth, then an elderly man named Thomas. Each death was carefully planned. Each one looked like natural causes or unfortunate complications. I varied my methods: overdoses, wrong medications, fatal drug interactions, treatments withheld until it was too late. I stopped counting after my 12th victim. Killing became routine—just part of my job. I’d see a patient, notice signs of their Christian faith, and begin planning their death: a cross necklace, a Bible in their bag, a church bulletin, a prayer before treatment. Any sign was enough. Our group grew. By my second year at the hospital, we had 11 members. We moved our meetings to different locations to avoid suspicion. We developed sophisticated methods, sharing techniques for killing patients in ways that would never be detected. We coached each other on how to falsify records, how to deflect questions, how to appear devastated when patients died. I felt powerful. I felt righteous. I felt like I was doing exactly what Allah had created me to do. Every time I administered poison, every time I heard that another Christian patient had died, I whispered ‘Allahu Akbar’ in my heart. God is greatest. God is greatest. I was serving the Greatest by eliminating his enemies. My family was proud of me, though they didn’t know the full extent of my work. My father told his congregation about his daughter, the doctor who was serving the community. My brothers told me they wished they could fight for Islam as effectively as I was. My mother would stroke my hair and tell me I was her precious daughter, her gift from Allah. I was 29 years old. I’d been a doctor for four years. I had killed at least 40 people—probably more. I slept peacefully every night. I had no nightmares, no doubts, no guilt. I believed with every fiber of my being that I was righteous, that I was holy, that paradise awaited me. Then Grace Okonquo was admitted to my ward… TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 2

Asia is my home.. I have traveled to Vietnam, Indonesia, philippennes and live in China Please join me in praying for this continent as this needs fervent and urgent prayer Thanks Keith https://totallylovedbygod67.cw.center/category/asia-action/

CHAPTER 19 OPEN THE DOOR, KEITH! Psalm 24:1 "The earth is the Lord’s, and the fulness thereof; the world, and they that dwell therein." While in China, I have been able to travel throughout Asia and around the world. In 2015, we returned to the UK for the first time. We took a five-day trip around the country, starting in London and travelling up to the Scottish Highlands. We ended in Cambridge, where we met my cousin Elaine, her husband Clifford, and their children Claire and John. They warmly welcomed us and took us to Ely to see the beautiful cathedral. We had booked two nights at a Holiday Inn in Bradford to see my niece Victoria and her mother Carol, along with my nephew James. They agreed to meet us at the hotel and arrived on time. They all came up to our room, and then there was another knock at the door. Standing there, grinning like a Cheshire cat, was my brother Peter, who had travelled over especially to surprise me. That day we visited our birthplace and drove to Haworth, famous for the Brontë sisters. We also rode on the steam train made famous by The Railway Children. What an amazing day. It was Chinese New Year’s Eve, so Helen cooked authentic Chinese food for my family. The sceptics were completely won over by Helen. We then travelled to my hometown of Morecambe to stay with Brian and Sandra, who had helped me complete my visa application for China. They took us back to my home church, where we shared what was happening in China. We were also able to share the gospel on the streets of Lancaster, even meeting a university student who came from Nanjing. Over the next few years, we visited Helen’s relatives in Indonesia, where we saw Lake Toba, the second-largest lake in the world. We also travelled to the Philippines, where Helen and Ming swam with whale sharks and enjoyed delicious seafood, especially crabs. In 2017, we travelled to the USA and Canada. We visited iconic places such as Horseshoe Bend, Antelope Canyon, the Golden Gate Bridge, the Grand Canyon, and even the more chaotic side of life in Las Vegas. We then went to Canada, where we experienced the majesty of the Rocky Mountains, especially in Jasper and Banff. However, 2017 was also a painful year, as my beloved brother Peter died after a very short illness. It was a great blow to me, as we had shared many phone calls and Skype conversations. I know he died peacefully, knowing his younger brother was settled. DEVOTIONAL THOUGHT Having my brother come and visit me was a great joy. Losing him to cancer in 2017 was deeply painful. He passed away after a very short illness of two months, caused by a rare cancer that usually affects children. When he died, many people said they missed him and that a part of their lives was gone. For me, it was more than that. It felt like losing my right arm. We had the same blood running through our veins and came from the same parents. Although we were very different in many ways—especially in matters of faith, with me as an evangelical Christian and Peter as an atheist/humanist—we were still brothers. Some of the things we did together still make me smile. For example, when we were returning from Tadoussac, I put a CD into the car player. He said, “Let me do that,” and promptly inserted it into the wrong slot above the CD player, breaking it completely. Small things like that stay in the memory. He was a character. When his wife visited her parents in the UK, he once took his two children straight to the sweet aisle at the supermarket and then fed them baked beans on toast for seven days in a row! I miss him deeply. I used to tell him I loved him, and he would reply, “Yeah, me too.” Now I cannot say that to him anymore. The things that truly matter are love, hope, and faith—especially love. What would it have been like if God had concealed His love from us? But He did not. He revealed His love through the Cross. God did not remain silent; He expressed His love in Christ. Romans 5:7–8 "7 For scarcely for a righteous man will one die: yet peradventure for a good man some would even dare to die. 8 But God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us." Thank God, we are loved. The most important thing we must never stop doing is telling people we love them—because one day, we may not be able to. CHAPTER 20 JUST TESTING Ecclesiastes 3:1–2 "To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted." Life was idyllic as we entered the third decade of the century, but danger was always lurking. In early 2020, we began hearing about a virus called COVID-19. We were used to seasonal flu-like illnesses in winter, but this was different. Before January ended, Helen was home all the time, and we had to be tested everywhere we went. Some mornings, as I ran errands and did chores, I was tested up to five times. I tested negative each time—there is a first time for everything! I remember going out one evening at 8 p.m. Normally the streets would be busy, but now there was an eerie silence—no cars, no people, no activity. Everything was closed. It felt surreal. Everywhere we went, we were tested. We were unable to travel freely for two to three years. Our entire complex was even placed under isolation for two weeks. We could not go in or out, although we were thankfully provided with food parcels every two days. We were grateful for that small mercy. Other places had even stricter regulations, so we were blessed in comparison. Still, tensions sometimes rose, as I witnessed at the gate of our complex. It was a difficult time for everyone. We did eventually contract COVID, though my case was mild. I remember walking near our flat when I suddenly felt hot and began to sneeze. Everyone wore masks, and some still do, but I never did. We also chose not to take the vaccine, trusting the Lord for protection. Everything moved online—school, teaching, church, and meetings all shifted to Zoom. It feels like a distant memory now. When restrictions finally lifted, it was a great relief to return to normal life. The previous year, in 2019, we also lost Helen’s beloved father, Baba. He had his stomach removed due to cancer and gradually became weaker until he passed away in August after a brave fight. One of my favourite memories of him was just before Christmas 2016. We went to eat beef dumplings in town. On the bus home, Bing Crosby’s Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas came on. We quietly sang together. That is how I remember him. He was one of the finest men I have ever met. One day, I will see him again, as he came to trust Christ as his Saviour and Lord later in life. It is never too late to trust Christ. DEVOTIONAL THOUGHT Everything seemed to be going well before 2020. We were even planning to return to the UK. But those plans were suddenly disrupted when COVID-19 arrived. It caught the whole world by surprise. It reminded us that life is fragile and uncertain. We make plans, but God remains in control. As James writes: James 4:13–15 "13 Go to now, ye that say, To day or to morrow we will go into such a city, and continue there a year, and buy and sell, and get gain: 14 Whereas ye know not what shall be on the morrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away. 15 For that ye ought to say, If the Lord will, we shall live, and do this, or that." Life is short. We are only here for a brief time, and we have one life to live. What are you doing with yours? Helen and I are committed to loving and serving our Saviour. That is the best use of life. As Solomon concludes: Ecclesiastes 12:13 "Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter: Fear God, and keep his commandments: for this is the whole duty of man." The offer of salvation is still open—but it will not remain open forever. Hebrews 2:3 "How shall we escape, if we neglect so great salvation?" One day we will all stand before God. Hebrews 9:27 "It is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the judgment:" Death is not the end. Christ has defeated death through His resurrection so that believers can say: 1 Corinthians 15:55–57 "55 O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? 56 The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the law. 57 But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ." Can you say these words? I know I can. https://totallylovedbygod67.cw.center/?utm_source=chatgpt.com

I'm looking for someone who can help me to live and find a job abroad. I am currently living in Medan, Indonesia. Can anyone help me?

CHAPTER 19 OPEN THE DOOR KEITH! PSALMS Psalm 24:1 The earth is the Lord's, and the fulness thereof; the world, and they that dwell therein. Whilst in China, I have been able to travel, around Asia and around the world. In 2015, we returned to the UK for the first time, we had a five day trip around the UK starting in London and going right up to the Scottish highlands, we ended back in Cambridge, where we met up with my cousin Elaine and Husband Clifford and children Claire and John, they warmly welcomed us, and took us to Ely to see the beautiful cathedral. We had booked two nights at a holiday inn in Bradford, to see Victoria my niece and her mum carol, along with my nephew James. They agreed to meet us at the hotel, and sure enough they arrived on time, they all came up to our hotel room and then another knock on the door, and stood there grinning like a cheshire cat, was my brother Peter, who had come over especially to surprise me, you could say he had. That day, we made our way to our birthplace and drove to Haworth, famous for the Bronte sisters, and went on the steam train, made famous by the railway children. What an amazing day. It was Chinese new year eve, so Helen cooked authentic Chinese food for my family, the sceptics were completely won over by Helen. We then went to my hometown of Morecambe to stay with Brian and Sandra, who had helped me fill in the visa forms to get my first visa for China, they took us back to my home church, where we had a meeting to share what was going on in China. We were able to share the gospel on the streets of Lancaster, even meeting a university student, who came from Nanjing. Over the next few years, were able to visit Helen's relatives in Indonesia, where we saw the 2nd largest lake in the world, Lake Toba, then onto the Philippines, where Helen and Ming swam with whale sharks and ate delicious seafood, especially crabs. In 2017, travelled to the USA and Canada, we visited such iconic places as Horseshoe Bend, Antelope Canyon, Golden gate bridge, The Grand canyon and the seedy side of life emphasized by Las Vegas. Then it was off to Canada, where we saw the majesty of the Rocky mountains, especially n Jasper and Banff. 2017 was not a good year though as my beloved brother Peter, died after a very short illness, this was a great blow to me, as we had many phone calls and several skype calls. I know he died very happy, knowing his little brother was settled. DEVOTIONAL THOUGHT Having my brother come over and see me, was so amazing. Losing him to cancer in 2017 was so painful, he died after a very short illness of two months, due to a cancer that usually affected children. When he died, many people said that they missed him, they had lost something from their lives, to me it was more than that. It was like losing my right arm, we had the same blood running through our veins, we came from the same parents, although we were so different in so many ways, especially when it came to matters of faith, Keith the Evangelical Christian and Peter the atheist/humanist. Some of the things we did together were so funny, such as when we were returning from Tadoussac, I decided to put a Cd into the car cd player, he said let me do that, he did not place it in the cd player, he put it in the hole above the cd player, and broke the cd player. Such things seem so silly, we remember the small things. He was such a character, when his wife went to visit her parents in the UK he took his two kids straight to the sweetie aisle at the supermarket and then he gave them baked beans on toast for seven days in a row! I miss him, I used to tell him that I loved him, he used to say Yeah me too. Now I can't say it to him! The things that truly matter are love, hope and faith, especially love. What would of happened if God had concealed his love from us? But God did not hide his love from us, he showed us his love through the cross. God did not keep silent, he expressed it in Christ. Romans 5 7 For scarcely for a righteous man will one die: yet peradventure for a good man some would even dare to die. 8 But God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. Thank God, we are loved. The one thing we never need to stop doing is telling people we truly love them, one day we won't be able to. CHAPTER 20 JUST TESTING Ecclesiastes 3:1-2 To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; Life was idyllic, as we went into the third decade of the century, but there is always danger lurking and in early 2020, we started to hear of a sickness called Covid 19, we usually have flu like symptoms sometimes in the winter, but this was different, before January had finished, Helen was home all the time and we had to be tested everywhere we went, some mornings as I did the shopping and the chores, I had to be tested up to five times, I came back negative every time, there's a first time for everything! I remember going out one evening at 8pm, the streets are usually still bustling at this time, but there was just eerie silence, no cars, no people and no activity, everything was closed, it was so surreal. Everywhere we went we were tested, we were unable to travel for up to two-three years, Indeed we had to get tested every day, and then our whole complex was isolated for two weeks, we couldn't go in and out, thankfully we were provided with bags of food every two days, we were thankful for this small mercy. Other places had much more stringent regulations, so we were blessed, but tempers could and would flare, as I saw at the gate of our complex, it is very difficult for all concerned. All of us did get Covid, I remember walking near our flat and I started to feel hot and started to sneeze, But thankfully this was a mild dose. Everyone wore masks and some people still do, but I never did. We never took any vaccine, as the Lord protected us. Everything that had happened in person, school, teaching, church, meetings etc, had to go on Zoom, it seems so long ago, when the all clear came, it was such a relief, to get back to normal. Now the previous year (2019), we lost My beloved Baba, Helen's father, he had his stomach removed due to cancer and he was getting weaker and weaker. Sadly in August, he lost his brave fight for life. My favourite memory of him, was one day near Christmas 2016, we went to eat beef dumplings downtown, as we came back on the bus, there came on Bing Crosby singing have yourself a merry little Christmas, we just sang quietly together, that is how I remember him. He was the best man I have ever met and one day I will meet him again as late in life, he trusted Christ as his Saviour and Lord, remember its never too late to trust CHRIST. DEVOTIONAL THOUGHT Everything was going well before 2020, we were looking forward and planning to go back to the UK. But all those plans were thrown into confusion, once Covid Hit, it took everyone by surprise. It showed that life is all too brief, we can make our plans, but God is in complete control, it reminds me of the verses in James chapter 4 13 Go to now, ye that say, To day or to morrow we will go into such a city, and continue there a year, and buy and sell, and get gain: 14 Whereas ye know not what shall be on the morrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away. 15 For that ye ought to say, If the Lord will, we shall live, and do this, or that. Life is very short, we are here for only a short time, we only get one chance at life, there are no second chances. What are you doing with your life? I know that myself and Helen are loving and serving our Saviour, that is surely the best way to spend your life. The words of the wise king Solomon are as follows: Ecclesiastes 12:13 13 Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter: Fear God, and keep his commandments: for this is the whole duty of man. The offer of salvation is s till on the table, one day that offer will not be there anymore. Don't neglect or reject the offer of salvation Hebrews 2:3 3 How shall we escape, if we neglect so great salvation; which at the first began to be spoken by the Lord, and was confirmed unto us by them that heard him One day, all of us will appear before God, let me make this clear, this is going to be terrifying to some reading this. 2 Corinthians 5:10 For we must all appear before the judgment seat of Christ; that every one may receive the things done in his body, according to that he hath done, whether it be good or bad. Hebrews 9:27 And as it is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the judgment: Death is not the end, it is the elephant in the room, no one talks about it, but 150,000 people die every day. Jesus defeated death through his death and resurrection, so that the Christian can say 1 CORINTHIANS 15 55 O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? 56 The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the law. 57 But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. CAN YOU SAY THESE WORDS, I KNOW I CAN?

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