Let me tell you something that may be painful to hear, but it can save you from a lot of heartbreak. If I have to lie, pretend, or become someone I am not just to enter somebody’s life, then I am already setting that relationship up for failure. Because you cannot successfully build something permanent with something temporary. You may pretend for a while. You may impress them. You may say all the right things. You may act like you have everything together. You may constantly call them, constantly check on them, constantly buy things for them, and constantly behave like the perfect person. But the question is: How long can you continue? Because pretending is exhausting. And eventually, you will get tired. The real you will begin to come out. And when that happens, the person who fell in love with the version of you that you created may suddenly feel like they are dealing with a completely different person. Then they will say, “You have changed.” But sometimes, you didn't change. They simply started seeing you. And that is a very painful truth. Some people don't change after marriage. Some people don't change immediately after you agree to be in a relationship. They were simply pretending before you committed yourself to them. Before you said yes, they were doing everything possible to convince you. They called constantly. They were always available. They were patient. They were kind. They listened. They appeared to have all the qualities you were looking for. But after they became sure that they had you, the performance started becoming difficult to maintain. The calls became fewer. The excuses became more frequent. The patience disappeared. The respect reduced. The person you thought you knew started behaving differently. And you begin asking yourself, “What happened to this person?” Sometimes, nothing happened. You simply met the version they were hiding. And this is why I want you to understand something: Don't pretend your way into somebody's heart. If you normally don't call someone five times a day, don't suddenly start calling five times a day just because you want them to like you. Because what happens when they get used to that attention? One day, you become tired. You stop calling. They start asking, “What happened to you?” And you have no answer because the person they miss was never really you. Don't spend money you cannot comfortably afford just to impress somebody. Don't create an image of yourself that your real life cannot sustain. Don't lie about your strengths. Don't hide every weakness. Don't pretend you have everything figured out when you don't. Don't act like you are always happy when you are struggling. Be honest about who you are. Let people see you. Let them see your personality. Let them see your values. Let them see how you treat people. Let them see your weaknesses and your strengths. Let them see your real life. And then give them the freedom to decide whether they can accept that person. Because the right person doesn't need you to become a fake version of yourself just to be accepted. And please, You don't need everybody to like you. You need the right people to know you. There is a difference. If somebody only likes you because of the person you pretended to be, then you haven't really won their heart. You have only successfully deceived them. And eventually, both of you will pay for it. This is also why, when you are considering someone, don't only listen to their sweet words. Watch their life. Watch their actions. Watch how they treat people who cannot give them anything. Watch how they behave when they are angry. Watch how they respond when things don't go their way. Watch whether their actions agree with their words. Because anybody can say, “I am a good person.” But your lifestyle will eventually answer the question for you. The Bible says in James 1:8 that a double-minded person is unstable in all their ways. When somebody is constantly presenting different versions of themselves depending on who is watching, sooner or later, the inconsistency will become obvious. So don't be carried away by appearances. Don't allow a fine car to make you ignore character. Don't allow money to make you ignore integrity. Don't allow expensive gifts to make you ignore bad behavior. Don't allow sweet words to make you ignore obvious warning signs. Don't allow attraction and excitement to make you forget the qualities that actually matter when choosing someone who will have a serious place in your life. Because when the excitement becomes normal, character is what remains. The car can break down. The money can finish. The gifts can stop coming. The excitement can reduce. But character is what you will continue to live with. And this applies to you too. Don't make someone fall in love with a person you cannot continue to be. If you are naturally quiet, don't pretend to be extremely outgoing. If you cannot afford certain things, don't pretend that you can. If you have weaknesses you are working on, be honest about them. If you are still growing, admit that you are still growing. There is nothing shameful about saying, “This is who I am, and these are the areas I am working on.” In fact, that kind of honesty can save you from years of pretending. Because imagine entering a relationship through deception and spending the rest of your life trying to maintain the lie. That is not love. That is pressure. And eventually, the pressure will expose you. So please... Be yourself. Let people know the real you. And if they don't accept you, let them go. It may hurt, but rejection from someone who doesn't accept the real you is better than acceptance from someone who only loves your disguise. And when you are choosing someone too, don't just ask, “Do I like this person?” Ask, “Who is this person when nobody is watching?” Look beyond the packaging. Look beyond the appearance. Look beyond the excitement. Look beyond the sweet messages. Look at character. Look at consistency. Look at integrity. Look at how they treat people. Look at whether their words and actions agree. Because you are not choosing a photograph. You are choosing a person. Don't become a victim of somebody else's pretence, and don't make somebody else a victim of yours. Be honest. Be real. Be consistent. Because the person you pretend to be may get you into someone's life... but only the person you truly are can sustain your place there. Don't let someone spend years loving a person you created just to make them stay. Because one day, when the mask falls, they won't only feel like they lost you; they will feel like they never knew you at all. I am Anthony Chukwuebuka - THE BOO OF THE BOOLESS; The greatest tragedy is not when someone stops loving you; it is when you realize they were never given the chance to love the real you.

Holy Wit – Reflections # 8 — Love in Deed and Truth Walking in the Light: Studies Through 1 John Scripture Reference: 1 John 3:11–24 There was a man in the church whom everyone knew was struggling. He had not announced it from the front. There had been no formal appeal, no notice pinned to a board, and no carefully arranged collection. People simply knew. His work had become irregular. His wife had been unwell for several months. There were children in the home, school expenses had not stopped, and the cupboards were beginning to show the strain. On Sunday mornings, people greeted him warmly. “Brother, we are praying for you.” “God will provide.” “Keep trusting the Lord.” All of these things were true. God does provide. Prayer matters. Trust in the Lord is never misplaced. Still, when the service ended, most people went home. One man did not. He had noticed that the struggling brother’s shoes were coming apart. He had noticed the children no longer brought anything to the church meal. He had noticed the way the man’s wife declined invitations, not because she did not want fellowship, but because travelling cost money they did not have. So he went home, spoke with his own family, and returned later that afternoon. He brought rice, cooking oil, vegetables, soap, medicine, and enough money to cover several urgent expenses. He did not make a speech. He did not take a photograph. He did not describe his generosity to others. He simply placed the bags inside the house and said, “The Lord has given us enough to share.” The struggling man began to cry. It was not only the food. It was the fact that somebody had seen him. There is a kind of love that speaks well and does nothing. It knows the correct words. It offers blessings, promises prayer, and expresses concern. It may even feel sincere sympathy. Yet it never moves beyond the lips. John refuses to call that sufficient. “My little children, let us not love in word or in tongue, but in deed and in truth.” John does not despise words. Words can encourage, comfort, instruct, and strengthen. The gospel itself must be proclaimed in words. A silent church is not necessarily a loving church. But words that never become action are easily exposed as empty. John places Cain and Christ before us as two completely different pictures of the heart. Cain saw his righteous brother and killed him. Christ saw guilty sinners and gave Himself for them. Cain removed another person because that person’s righteousness troubled him. Christ laid down His own life for those who had rebelled against Him. Cain took life. Christ gave His life. That contrast gives us John’s definition of love. Love is not merely liking someone. It is not affection detached from duty. It is not politeness, friendliness, or warm feeling by itself. Love gives. Love bears cost. Love moves towards need rather than away from it. The cross is the supreme revelation of this kind of love. Christ did not love His people by offering encouraging words from heaven. He came into our condition. He bore our sin. He endured judgment. He laid down His life. We cannot repeat His saving work. His sacrifice was once for all. Yet those who have received that love are commanded to reflect its shape. That is why John immediately turns from Christ laying down His life to the ordinary matter of a brother in need. The move is deliberate. We may speak grandly about being willing to die for another believer while refusing to be inconvenienced by him. We may imagine great acts of courage while ignoring small acts of mercy. We may say, “I would lay down my life for the brethren,” while protecting every hour, every possession, every comfort, and every personal preference. John brings us back to the cupboard, the wallet, the spare room, the telephone call, the hospital visit, the meal, the journey, the forgiveness, the patient conversation. That is where love is usually tested. Not in imagined moments of heroism, but in ordinary opportunities to give ourselves away. This does not mean that every need must be met by one person. No believer has unlimited resources. Wisdom is necessary. Some requests are unwise. Some forms of assistance may encourage irresponsibility rather than relieve genuine need. Love must be “in deed and in truth”. Truth matters. Biblical love does not help someone continue in sin. It does not confuse compassion with approval. It does not call what is harmful good. Sometimes love gives. Sometimes love warns. Sometimes love provides money. Sometimes love provides counsel instead. Sometimes love comforts the suffering. Sometimes love confronts the wandering. But love never settles for indifference. John’s question is not whether we possess enough to solve every problem. His question is what happens in our hearts when we see a real need and have some ability to respond. Do we open our hearts, or close them? That question can trouble a sincere Christian. We remember occasions when we did nothing. We see the limits of our love. We recognize selfishness, impatience, resentment, and failure. Then the heart begins to condemn us. John understands this. He does not tell us to pretend we have loved perfectly. He directs us to God, who is greater than our heart and knows all things. God knows our sins more fully than we do. Yet He also knows the difference between a hypocrite who is content without love and a believer who grieves over lovelessness and desires to change. Our assurance does not rest on having performed enough acts of kindness to earn God’s acceptance. It rests first upon Christ. The same Christ who commands love is the Christ who laid down His life for sinners. Still, the presence of practical love gives evidence that His grace is at work within us. Not perfect love, but real love. Not constant victory, but a new direction. John then joins faith, obedience, love, and prayer together. We believe in the name of Jesus Christ. We love one another. We keep His commandments. We abide in Him, and He in us by the Holy Spirit. These are not separate compartments of the Christian life. They belong together. A heart being shaped by Christ begins to desire what pleases Christ. A believer walking in obedience approaches God with greater confidence, not because obedience has purchased an answer, but because the believer’s desires are being brought into agreement with God’s will. And so the question remains close to home. Who has God placed before us? Whose need have we noticed? What do we possess that could be shared? Perhaps the first act of love will not look impressive. It may be a bag of rice. A paid bill. A ride to a clinic. A meal carried across the road. An hour spent listening. A quiet gift no one else ever hears about. But heaven does not measure love by how impressive it appears. Love is measured by the pattern of Christ. He did not merely tell us that He loved us. He showed us. And now He calls His people to do the same. #HolyWitReflections #GordonMcGinnis #WalkingInTheLight #1John3

Amazing Facts. Daily Devotionals A Holy Bride. July 19th, 2026 It was the happiest day of her life—February 10, 1840—when Queen Victoria entered Chapel Royal at St. James’ Palace behind Albert of Saxe-Coburg, her beloved husband-to-be. As she glided gracefully down the aisle, a dozen blushing bridesmaids carried her long and elegant bridal train. Victoria’s exquisite lace-trimmed satin dress and lace veil were stunningly crafted in pure white—which popularized a trend that continues to this day. The Scriptures portray the church, the bride of Christ, as attired in pure, clean garments, “not having spot or wrinkle or any such thing, but that she should be holy and without blemish” (Ephesians 5:27). But how does the church, filled with faulty people, become so clean and lovely? The church is made up of individuals who certainly cannot generate goodness through their own efforts. In fact, the Word of God assures us that “all our righteousnesses are like filthy rags” (Isaiah 64:6). We can be thankful that Jesus gave Himself for the church and that He invites each of us personally to be covered by His spotless righteousness. “Come now, and let us reason together … though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red like crimson, they shall be as wool” (Isaiah 1:18). Jesus is the only One who can cut away our filthy rags, wash us clean, and give us new hearts and victorious lives. He’s the only One who can keep us on the right track and purify our lives, and He longs to do these things for each one of us. Have you accepted His incredible invitation? Apply It: Search for a painting or photograph of Queen Victoria’s wedding dress. Ask God to cover you with the pure white robe of Christ’s righteousness. Dig Deeper: Hosea 2:19; 2 Corinthians 11:2; Ephesians 5:25, 26 Key Bible Texts Let us be glad and rejoice, and give honour to him: for the marriage of the Lamb is come, and his wife hath made herself ready. (Revelation 19:7 KJV)

Need to know. The Protestant churches boast that they left the Roman Catholic Church, but what is the point of leaving Rome if you still carry Rome's traditions with you? It is like running away from your mother while keeping her picture in your pocket. You claim separation, yet you cling to teachings and practices that did not come from Scripture. Jesus warned against this when He said, "In vain they do worship me, teaching for doctrines the commandments of men" (Matthew 15:9). The Bible calls God's people to come completely out of religious confusion, not halfway out. "Come out of her, my people, that ye be not partakers of her sins" (Revelation 18:4). If Rome changed God's commandments and introduced traditions not found in Scripture, why would Protestants continue defending those same traditions? Leaving the building means nothing if you keep the baggage. The Reformers protested against many errors, but many churches stopped reforming before the work was finished. The Bible says, "To the law and to the testimony: if they speak not according to this word, it is because there is no light in them" (Isaiah 8:20). The standard is not what Rome taught, what Luther taught, or what any denomination teaches. The standard is the Word of God. A church cannot claim victory over Rome while holding on to doctrines inherited from Rome. God is calling people back to biblical truth, not Protestant tradition, Catholic tradition, or human opinion. "And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free" (John 8:32). If you have truly left Rome, then stop carrying Rome's photograph in your pocket and follow the Bible wherever it leads.

Today's #photo: one of the most astounding #waterfalls I've ever been blessed to photograph: https://wp.me/p2ccTX-37B #NotAI #canada #nature #photography (Click/tap the link or picture and get a link to see the waterfall in glorious winter.)

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

On my office wall hangs a vivid photograph entitled, “Phares dans la Tempete, La Jument.” It shows a lighthouse keeper at La Jument reef, standing in the door of his lighthouse just as a towering wave nearly engulfs the structure from behind. On December 21, 1989, a powerful storm smashed into the area, hitting the lighthouse with gale force winds and with waves reaching up to 30 meters (nearly 100 feet) high. During the night, the massive waves crashed through the lighthouse’s lower windows, flooding its living quarters and forcing the keeper to escape to the lantern room at the top of the lighthouse. The next morning, despite dangerous flying conditions, a photographer named Jean Guichard hired a helicopter so he could photograph the dramatic storm from the air. The lighthouse keeper, Théodore Malgorn, heard the approaching helicopter and thought it was his rescuers. So he opened the door and stepped outside. That was the moment the giant wave slammed into the lighthouse. That was the moment Guichard took the shot. Fortunately, the keeper was able to slip inside and shut the door, just before it was completely covered. This famous picture of safety in the storm was given to me by my wife, shortly after life swept me into chaos. As I endured the greatest turmoil of my life, I took solace in looking at it, wondering what the lighthouse keeper felt that night. Did he shake with fear as the wind and waves whipped into a deadly frenzy, crashing again and again into his tiny stone tower? Did his heart pound in his chest as freezing water shattered his windows and poured into his home? Did he pray to God for survival as he fled to the lantern room—the very last refuge he had? That night in the lighthouse, the keeper must have felt very unsure of his own safety. Yet in the whole vast ocean, the lighthouse was the safest place of all. Like the lighthouse keeper, Jesus once faced a violent storm. After a day of ministry beside the Sea of Galilee, he and his disciples set out by boat to cross to the other side. But according to Mark 4:37-38: “A furious squall came up, and the waves broke over the boat, so that it was nearly swamped. Jesus was in the stern, sleeping on a cushion. The disciples woke him and said to him, ‘Teacher, don’t you care if we drown?’” Note the sequence of the disciples’ reactions. Like most of us, first they panic; only later do they ask the God of the universe for help. But Jesus does not punish them for this lapse by withholding that help; instead he immediately commands the elements to “Be still!”—and they obey. Only then does he turn to his disciples and ask, “’Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?’” (v. 39-40). The truth is, it is one thing to trust God when things go well. But it is another to trust him from the center of the storm, when our world is upended. And our world is upended now. It is a dumpster fire. When life is like this, we must take refuge in our Creator, who is far bigger than anything a broken world can throw at us. No matter what happens—even if we experience sickness or death—we are not spiraling helplessly through stormy seas. Instead, we are secure in our lighthouse as the storm rages around us. We are safe in the arms of Christ.

Today's #photo: one of the most attractive & compelling #waterfalls I've ever been blessed to #photograph: https://wp.me/p2ccTX-366 #spring #nature #canada #NotAI (Click/tap the link or picture to see the entire scene.)

📢🚙 “It is with deep sorrow that we inform you that our beloved former Prime Minister Shri Rajiv Gandhi was assassinated in a bomb blast at Sriperumbudur…” This was the announcement that echoed through the streets on the morning of May 22, 1991. The sound of the announcement jeep moving around in grief is still unforgettable in my memory. I was just nine years old then. It was my father who woke me up and said, “Da… Rajiv Gandhi has been assassinated.” We immediately ran outside our home. At Thottuva Junction, a black flag had already been raised. A white cloth was spread over a chair, with Rajiv Gandhi’s photograph placed against it. A few people stood around silently… and on every face, there was a deep sense of shock, pain, and sorrow. 😥 Whenever I hear the name Rajiv Gandhi, these heartbreaking memories are the very first things that come to my mind. Thank you to the leader who laid the foundation for taking India towards a modern world and the beginning of a digital era. 🇮🇳✨ He was among the visionaries who pushed India forward in telecommunications, computerisation, software development, vaccine production, dairy development, technological growth, and countless other areas that shaped modern India. One of his most inspiring and unforgettable lines was spoken while addressing the Joint Session of the US Congress: “India is an old country, but a young nation; and like the young everywhere, we are impatient. I am young and I too have a dream. I dream of an India, strong, independent, self-reliant and in the forefront of the nations of the world in the service of mankind.” Even today, those words reflect the vision and hope he carried for India and its future. Remembering former Indian Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi on his death anniversary… Prayers, respect, and remembrance before those memories. 🙏 Rajiv Gandhi (20 August 1944 – 21 May 1991) ✒️George PALACKALODY #RememberingRajivGandhi #RajivGandhi #RajivGandhiDeathAnniversary #IndianPolitics #ModernIndia #TelecomRevolution #DigitalIndia #IndianHistory #Leadership #India #GeorgePALACKALODY #Palackalody

Target Blog News Media Publications (Episode 6) The Gatekeeper: Gilbert Ramez Chagoury and the Power Architecture of Modern Nigeria (Compiled By) Televangelist HB Morgan Digital Library Publications In Nigeria’s long conversation about wealth, power, and access, few names carry as much symbolic weight as Gilbert Ramez Chagoury. Born in Lagos to Lebanese immigrant parents and later transformed into one of the country’s most influential businessmen, Chagoury built a business empire while cultivating relationships that placed him close to presidents, ministers, diplomats, and the corridors of state power. His story is not just one of accumulation. It is a study in how business, politics, philanthropy, and controversy can fuse into a single national force, especially in a country where infrastructure, land, and public contracts often shape the balance between private ambition and public authority. Origins and formation Gilbert Chagoury was born in Lagos on January 8, 1946, to Lebanese immigrant parents, Ramez and Alice Chagoury. Sources describe a family that settled in Nigeria and raised their children there, while Chagoury was later educated in Lebanon before returning to Nigeria to begin his career. In 1971, he co-founded the Chagoury Group with his brother Ronald, and over time the firm expanded from a construction-rooted enterprise into a diversified conglomerate with interests in real estate, manufacturing, hospitality, flour milling, water treatment, telecommunications, and related sectors. That breadth matters, because it explains how the family’s influence moved beyond one industry and into the physical and political landscape of Lagos itself. The Abacha years Chagoury’s public reputation was deeply shaped by his proximity to General Sani Abacha’s regime in the 1990s. Reporting from the period and later investigations describe him as a trusted back-channel figure and a businessman who benefited from access while moving close to the center of political power. That era ended with lasting legal damage. In 2000, Chagoury was convicted in Switzerland in connection with money laundering tied to funds associated with the Abacha network, and he later agreed to forfeit about $66 million in a settlement that resolved U.S. criminal exposure related to those funds. These cases did not erase his influence, but they permanently attached his name to one of Nigeria’s most notorious corruption episodes. Survival and reinvention What makes Chagoury unusual is not only that he survived scandal, but that he rebuilt relevance after it. Rather than disappearing from public life, he re-entered the global elite through philanthropy, infrastructure, and business diplomacy, especially in the United States and Nigeria. His relationship with the Clinton orbit became one of the most visible examples, with reporting describing donations to the Clinton Foundation and the Clinton Global Initiative, and later documents showing he was treated as a significant contact in political circles. The underlying strategy was simple: convert controversy into legitimacy by attaching his name to ambitious public-facing projects. In Chagoury’s case, no project did more for that transformation than Eko Atlantic. Eko Atlantic and land power Eko Atlantic is the clearest physical expression of Chagoury’s influence in Lagos. It is a large reclaimed coastal development built through the Chagoury ecosystem, promoted as a modern business district and urban shield against Atlantic erosion. Supporters present it as visionary city-building; critics see it as a private metropolis created through elite access to land, state protection, and urban displacement. The controversy around the site is inseparable from the Bar Beach area it replaced. Reports describe a 2008 eviction in which state agents used tear gas and force to clear the community, while later development narratives framed the project as an environmental solution to erosion and flooding. In practical terms, Eko Atlantic became more than real estate: it became a statement that the right connections could remake a coastline, a city, and a public memory. Tinubu and the new era Chagoury’s ties to Bola Tinubu have been central to his later resurgence. Tinubu, first as Lagos governor and later as president, has repeatedly intersected with Chagoury-linked projects, including the coastal infrastructure ambitions that now define the federal government’s urban and transport agenda. In 2023, Chagoury was listed by the Nigerian delegation to COP28 as a “confidante” of the president, a description that captured how unusual his role had become in formal state diplomacy. That influence is especially visible in the Lagos-Calabar Coastal Highway. The project, estimated at roughly 15 trillion naira, was awarded to Hitech Construction Company, a Chagoury-owned firm, and the decision drew criticism over procurement transparency and the political proximity between contractor and presidency. Supporters say the firm has the technical capacity to execute large concrete-road projects; critics argue the award reflects a deeper pattern in which elite proximity and public contracting overlap too closely. Honors and legitimacy In January 2026, Chagoury received Nigeria’s Grand Commander of the Order of the Niger, the country’s second-highest national honor. The award confirmed what his career has increasingly represented: not only private wealth, but national recognition from the very state whose institutions once investigated and accused him. That honor is politically loaded. To admirers, it reflects decades of investment, philanthropy, and development work in Lagos and beyond. To critics, it signals how power in Nigeria can normalize controversy when the beneficiaries are useful to the ruling establishment. Why his story matters Gilbert Chagoury’s life is not merely a billionaire biography. It is a portrait of how influence operates in Nigeria: through land, contracts, back channels, prestige, and the ability to remain relevant across regimes. He emerged from Lagos as the son of immigrants, became a construction magnate, survived international conviction, and returned through philanthropy and infrastructure to a place near the center of state power. That is why he remains such a potent figure. Chagoury is not just rich; he is embedded in the architecture of modern Nigerian power, where private capital can shape public destiny and where a single businessman can outlast governments, scandals, and political eras. Illustrative note A strong documentary illustration set for this article would include: the Lagos skyline and Eko Atlantic coastline, a historical photograph of Bar Beach, a portrait of Gilbert Chagoury, the Lagos-Calabar Coastal Highway construction scene, and an archival image of Abacha-era Nigeria Courtesy of: Target Blog News Media Publications