During Ramadan 2026, Over 15000 Muslims Saw Jesus Behind the Kabaa But They Thought it’s Was The Sun
During Ramadan 2026, Over 15000 Muslims Saw Jesus Behind the Kabaa But They Thought it’s Was The Sun
The first time I saw the man in white was not in Mecca.
It was in a dream.
At that time, I was still a devoted Muslim, respected in Riyadh among businessmen and wealthy families.
My name is Khaled Al Harbi, and for most of my life, I believed success was proof that Allah had favored me.
I owned properties, imported luxury fabrics from Turkey and Qatar, and traveled often between Jeddah and Riyadh.
People admired me.
Some even envied me.
But behind my expensive watches and polished smiles, my body was slowly collapsing.
The cough began when I was 42.
The first, it sounded harmless, just a dry irritation in my throat.
Doctors told me it was stress from work or the dust storms that often swept across the city.
They gave me medicines, syrups, injections, and expensive treatments.
Nothing lasted.
Every night the coughing returned harder, deeper, as if something invisible was tightening around my lungs.
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Nothing lasted.
Every night the coughing returned harder, deeper, as if something invisible was tightening around my lungs.
Months turned into years.
I could barely sleep.
During business meetings, I would suddenly bend forward coughing so violently that tears filled my eyes.
Some clients pretended not to notice.
Others stared with pity.
My wife, Samira, grew worried.
She often sat beside me late at night while I struggled to breathe.
“Khaled,” she whispered one evening, rubbing my back gently, “maybe you should rest from work for some time.”
I shook my head weakly.
“You don’t understand.
If I stop now, everything falls apart.”
But secretly, I was afraid.
Not of losing money, of dying.
I prayed constantly during those years.
I gave charity in mosques.
I sponsored Ramadan meals for the poor.
I traveled for Umrah more than once, hoping Allah would see my suffering and remove it.
Yet every prayer seemed to disappear into silence.
Then came Ramadan of 2026.
That year, Mecca felt different from the moment I arrived.
Millions of pilgrims filled the streets surrounding Masjid al-Haram.
The city pulsed with life day and night.
The scent of oud mixed with sweat and desert wind.
Everywhere I looked, people were praying, crying, reciting Quran, raising their hands toward heaven.
But despite being surrounded by faith, I felt emptier than ever.
My cough had worsened before the pilgrimage.
Some nights I coughed until I tasted blood in my mouth.
Even speaking became painful.
Still, I forced myself to continue the rituals, believing perhaps this Ramadan would finally bring healing.
One night after Taraweeh prayer, I returned exhausted to my hotel overlooking the crowded streets near the Kaaba.
My chest burned terribly.
I remember standing near the window watching thousands of pilgrims moving like waves beneath the city lights.
Then I whispered something I had never admitted aloud.
“Allah, why won’t you answer me?”
The room was silent.
I lay down shortly after midnight, my breathing rough and uneven.
And that was when the dream came.
I found myself standing alone in a vast desert under a dark sky.
There was no sound except wind moving across the sand.
In the distance, I saw a bright light approaching slowly.
First, I thought it was the sun rising, but the light grew closer without hurting my eyes.
Then a man appeared inside the brightness.
He wore white garments unlike anything I had ever seen.
Pure, radiant, untouched by dust or shadow.
His face carried both sorrow and peace at the same time.
I cannot fully explain it even now.
It was not merely a human face.
Felt holy.
My body froze.
The man looked directly at me.
And somehow, though his lips barely moved, I heard his voice clearly inside me.
When the people mistake the light for the sun, remember what you have seen.
I trembled.
Before I could speak, he stretched out his hand toward me.
Behind him appeared the Kaaba, surrounded by thousands upon thousands of people.
Then the light behind the Kaaba became brighter than anything on Earth.
I woke up gasping.
My entire body was sweating.
The hotel room was dark except for faint city lights outside the curtains.
I immediately sat upright, coughing violently into my hand.
My heart pounded so hard I thought it would burst.
What was that?
I whispered.
I tried convincing myself it was only exhaustion, a strange dream caused by stress and sickness.
Yet something deep inside me refused to forget the man’s face.
The next morning I told no one, not my wife, not my friends, not even the Imam traveling with our group.
In Saudi Arabia, speaking openly about such dreams could bring dangerous reactions.
So I buried it inside myself and continued the pilgrimage.
But the dream followed me everywhere.
Three nights later, during one of the busiest evenings of Ramadan, I stood among thousands circling the Kaaba.
The air was heavy with heat and human breath.
Pilgrims wept openly as they prayed.
Some lifted phones to record the sacred atmosphere.
Then suddenly people around me began shouting.
Look.
Look behind the Kaaba.
First I ignored them.
But then a strange brightness appeared above the horizon behind the Kaaba itself.
The crowd gasped loudly.
Some fell to their knees.
Others cried that the sun was reflecting unusually.
But the moment I saw the light terror shot through my entire body.
Because I remembered the dream.
My breathing stopped.
The light was exactly the same.
Not yellow like the sun.
Not harsh.
Alive.
And inside that brilliance I saw the outline of a man.
My legs weakened.
No.
I whispered.
Around me thousands stared in confusion, arguing, crying, recording videos.
Calling it a miracle of nature.
But I knew what I had seen before.
The man in white.
The one from the desert.
The one who spoke to me in the dream.
At that moment standing before the Kaaba surrounded by thousands of pilgrims a terrifying thought entered my mind for the first time in my life.
What if it was truly Jesus?
This testimony is shared by our brother Khalid.
A Muslim pilgrim from Saudi Arabia.
He went to the Ramadan.
In 2026 he went there in Kaaba in Mecca.
This man was an asthmatic patient.
He was having cough.
And he always pray for God.
He prayed to God for a revelation.
A revelation to change his life and give him a better life.
He was tired of the cough.
He was tired of the cough he was having.
On reaching there he prayed every day to God.
And one day he announced that he believed in Jesus.
When he reached the Ramadan in Mecca he was praying.
He was praying to Allah.
But Jesus Jesus Christ revealed himself to him.
Through a light behind the Kaaba and he saw the light.
He believed it was Jesus.
He believed in him very well.
One day, reaching home, he went to home he went to his house he went to his hotel a place he boarded and he prayed he prayed so heavily to God Jesus Christ that he should reveal himself to him.
One day he went to the market to buy food stuff and he saw a trader a poor trader who gave him leaves leaves that can cure the asthmatic cough and he bought the leaf.
When even he reached the hotel, he cooked the leaf and drank it.
That is how the cough disappeared.
The cough disappeared and he did not have a cough again and he was thankful he was thankful to Jesus.
He was thankful to God.
He was thankful for a great miracle that happened.
This is an asthmatic patient who has been going to several hospital looking for help looking for freedom looking for what to cause what to cure his cough but this day on a great day like this he was cured.
He was freed he was free from cough and he was thankful to Jesus.
He now went to the market to appreciate the poor beggar to appreciate the poor person who gave him the leaf the poor farmer who gave him the leaf to drink and he appreciated him.
After he appreciated him, the farmer went and he was very very happy.
He left back he left back to his place where he was staying he met his wife and thanked his wife he told his wife everything that this is the cough he has been going to hospital for several years to get cure but no one cured him until he started believing in Jesus and Jesus showed him mercy.
Jesus brought the
Farmer that gifted him the leaf and he was okay.
So, dear viewers from around the world, I want you to know that whatever you are passing through whatever you may be facing in your life, God is able to cure you if you if only you believe and trust in him.
He is able to cure you.
He’s able to make you free.
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Storms that often swept across the city.
They gave me medicines, syrups, injections, and expensive treatments.
Nothing lasted.
Every night the coughing returned harder.
Deep I could not sleep after the light appeared behind the Kaaba.
Even now, years later, I still remember the sound of the crowd that night.
Thousands of voices rising together in confusion and awe.
Some people cried openly.
Others shouted prayers.
Many lifted their phones toward the sky desperate to capture what their eyes could barely understand.
But while everyone around me searched for explanations, I stood frozen.
Because unlike them, I had already seen it before.
The dream returned to my mind with terrifying clarity.
When the people mistake the light for the sun, remember what you have seen.
Those words echoed inside me over and over until I felt physically sick.
The outline in the brightness, the shape of the man in white, was exactly the same presence I saw in the desert dream.
The same peace, the same authority, the same unbearable holiness that made me feel exposed from the inside out.
I tried forcing myself not to look again, but my eyes kept returning to the light behind the Kaaba.
And the more I stared, the more frightened I became.
Not because it looked evil, but because deep down I knew it was real.
Around me, people began arguing loudly.
It’s the reflection of the moon.
No, no, it’s atmospheric light.
It’s a sign from Allah.
An elderly man near me fell to the ground weeping uncontrollably.
A younger pilgrim beside him laughed nervously and said, “People are becoming emotional.
It’s just the sun.”
But, it was long after sunset.
That was what disturbed me most.
The brightness should not have existed there at that hour.
Still, nobody wanted to say what they truly feared.
Nobody wanted to speak the forbidden possibility.
I lowered my head immediately and pushed through the crowd.
My chest tightening violently.
The coughing returned hard, stabbing through my lungs until I struggled to breathe.
By the time I reached the outer marble walkway, I leaned against the pillar coughing so badly that several pilgrims stepped away from me in concern.
“Khalid.
” I looked up weakly.
My friend Hamza hurried toward me through the crowd.
We had known each other for almost 15 years.
He was a wealthy hotel owner from Jeddah and one of the few people who knew how severe my illness had become.
“You look terrible.”
He said, gripping my shoulder.
“Come, sit down.”
“I’m fine.
” I lied between coughs.
“You are not fine.”
He guided me toward a quieter corner near the mosque entrance.
My throat burned so badly that tears formed in my eyes again.
Hamza handed me water.
“You should return to the hotel.”
He said carefully.
“You’ve been getting worse every day.”
I drank slowly trying to calm my breathing.
Then, he glanced back toward the Kaaba.
“That light.”
He whispered.
I immediately looked at him.
“What about it?”
He hesitated.
“For a moment, I thought I saw something inside it.”
My heartbeat quickened.
“What do you mean?”
Hamza shook his head quickly as if trying to erase the thought.
“Nothing.
Maybe exhaustion.
Too many people.
Too little sleep.”
But, his face told me he was disturbed, too.
I wanted desperately to tell him about the dream, about the man in white, about the voice in the desert, but fear closed my mouth.
In Saudi Arabia, speaking openly about visions connected to Jesus could destroy a person’s reputation or worse.
Even suggesting such things during Ramadan near the Kaaba would sound insane to many people.
So instead, I forced a weak smile.
“Yes.”
I said quietly.
“Probably exhaustion.”
But inside me, something had already begun to crack.
That night, back at the hotel, I stood alone on the balcony overlooking Mecca.
The city glowed beneath the darkness like a sea of gold lights.
Pilgrims still filled the streets despite the late hour.
From nearby mosques came the soft sound of Quran recitation flowing through the night air.
Normally, such a scene brought peace to my heart, but not anymore.
I could not stop thinking about the face in the light.
I coughed again violently into my handkerchief.
When I pulled it away, there were small spots of blood.
For several seconds, I stared silently at the red stains.
Then fear entered me deeper than before.
I suddenly realized all my wealth meant nothing if I was dying.
All my business success, all my properties, all my status, none of it could heal my body.
I leaned heavily against the balcony rail, breathing slowly.
And for the first time in my life, I spoke honestly to God.
“If you are real,” I whispered into the night, “why am I suffering like this?”
The wind moved softly across the city.
No answer came, but deep inside me, I remembered the eyes of the man in white from the dream.
There had been something in them I could not explain.
Compassion.
Not judgment, not anger, compassion.
And strangely, that disturbed me even more because all my life I had feared God, but in that dream I felt seen.
The next morning videos of the light spread everywhere.
Pilgrims gathered in hotel lobbies replaying recordings on their phones.
Social media exploded with arguments and theories.
Some religious leaders dismissed it immediately as a natural phenomenon.
Others warned people not to create false interpretations.
Yet whispers continued spreading quietly among the crowds.
Some people saw a figure.
I heard thousands witnessed it.
They say it looked like a man.
I avoided every conversation, but internally my mind was collapsing.
For the next several days I became obsessed with finding answers.
Whenever I returned to my hotel room, I secretly searched online for testimonies of people who claimed to see Jesus in dreams.
At first, I hated myself for even reading such things, but the stories terrified me because they sounded so similar to mine.
People describing a man in radiant white.
Dreams filled with peace and authority.
Lives changing afterward.
I closed my phone repeatedly trying to stop, yet I always returned.
One testimony especially shook me deeply.
It came from a former Muslim man who wrote, “When Jesus appeared to me, I recognized him instantly even though nobody had taught me his face.
My spirit knew before my mind understood.”
I stared at that sentence for a long time, because that was exactly what happened to me.
I had never studied Jesus deeply, yet somehow in the dream I knew who he was immediately.
How?
That question haunted me day and night.
Meanwhile, my cough worsened.
Every prayer became painful.
Every breath felt heavy.
Sometimes while walking through the crowds around the Kaaba, dizziness hit me so strongly that I thought I would collapse.
One evening, Samira called me from Riyadh.
“You sound weak,” she said anxiously over the phone.
“I’m all right.
”
“You’re lying again.”
I smiled sadly because she always knew.
After a pause, she asked softly, “Did something happen in Mecca?”
For several seconds, I almost told her everything.
The dream, the light, the fear growing inside me.
But instead, I answered carefully, “I just need rest.”
After the call ended, I sat silently in my dark hotel room.
Then I looked toward the Kaaba visible through the distant lights outside my window, and quietly, almost afraid of my own words, I whispered, “Jesus, was that really you?”
After that night in the hotel room, I could no longer pray the same way.
My lips still recited familiar Arabic words I had spoken since childhood, but my heart felt divided.
Every time I stood among the worshipers in Masjid al-Haram, one question kept returning like a voice buried deep inside me.
What if Jesus truly appeared behind the Kaaba?
I hated the thought.
I fought it constantly.
Yet, the harder I resisted it, the stronger it became.
For the remaining days of Ramadan, I moved through Mecca like a man carrying a secret fire inside his chest.
Outwardly, I looked normal, a wealthy Saudi pilgrim completing his worship.
But inwardly, fear and curiosity were tearing me apart.
At night, the cough became unbearable.
I often woke before dawn gasping for air, clutching my chest while violent coughing echoed through the hotel room.
Sometimes I had to sit upright for hours because lying down made breathing harder.
One early morning, after another sleepless night, I walked alone through the streets near the mosque before Fajr prayer.
Mecca was strangely beautiful at that hour.
The crowds were thinner.
Street cleaners washed the marble walkways.
Shopkeepers prepared tea and bread for pilgrims waking before sunrise.
Cool desert air drifted between the buildings.
But despite the peaceful atmosphere, I felt exhausted beyond words.
As I walked slowly, I noticed a small group of workers unloading vegetables and herbs from an old truck near the market area.
One elderly man sat beside bundles of green leaves tied carefully with rope.
His clothes were simple and dusty.
His beard was white with age.
Unlike the noisy sellers around him, he remained quiet watching people pass by with calm eyes.
I don’t know why, but something about him drew my attention.
As I approached, a sudden cough bent me forward violently again.
The old man looked at me carefully.
That cough has lived with you for a long time, he said in Arabic.
I stared at him in surprise.
Yes.
You have seen many doctors.
My chest tightened.
How did you know?
The old man gave a faint smile.
Sick people recognize each other’s suffering.
I said nothing.
He reached beside him and lifted a small bundle of dark green leaves.
Boil these in water tonight, he said.
Drink it while it is hot.
I almost laughed bitterly.
Over the years, people had recommended hundreds of remedies to me, medicines, herbs, oils, spiritual prayers, expensive treatments from Europe and Turkey.
Nothing had worked.
I appreciate it, I replied politely preparing to leave.
But the old man suddenly spoke again.
Sometimes healing comes after truth.
Those words stopped me immediately.
Slowly, I turned back toward him.
What truth?
The old man looked directly into my eyes.
The truth your heart is already afraid of.
A cold sensation moved through my body.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then nearby voices interrupted as customers approached his stall.
The old man simply handed me the leaves.
“Take them,” he said softly.
I hesitated before accepting them.
“How much?”
He waved his hand dismissively.
“Keep your money.”
“No,” I insisted.
“Please.”
Finally, after repeated pressure, he accepted a small payment.
But before I left, he added one final sentence that shook me deeply.
“Some lights are not from this world.
” My hands trembled around the bundle of leaves.
I walked away quickly without looking back.
The entire day, his words haunted me.
“Some lights are not from this world.”
By evening, my mind was overwhelmed.
I could barely focus during prayer.
Every memory from the dream returned stronger than before.
The desert, the brilliant figure, the voice speaking about people mistaking the light for the sun.
I reached my hotel exhausted.
For a long time, I stared at the leaves sitting on the table near my bed.
Part of me wanted to throw them away immediately.
Another part could not ignore the strange peace I felt around that old man.
Finally, near midnight, I boiled the leaves in hot water exactly as instructed.
The smell was earthy and bitter.
I drank slowly, coughing between sips.
Nothing happened immediately.
I lay down afterward expecting another painful night.
But sometime before dawn, I realized something strange.
I was breathing normally, no coughing, no burning in my chest.
I sat upright suddenly in confusion.
Usually by that hour, I would already have experienced several violent coughing attacks.
Yet the room remained silent except for the distant sounds of Mecca waking for morning prayer.
Carefully, I inhaled deeply.
For the first time in years, the sharp pain was gone.
I coughed lightly once.
Nothing.
Again, nothing.
My eyes widened.
I stood up quickly, breathing harder, almost testing my lungs in panic.
Still nothing.
The pressure that had tormented me for years had disappeared completely.
I pressed trembling hands against my chest.
How?
Tears suddenly filled my eyes.
Not because of the healing itself, but because deep inside me, I already knew what this meant.
I remembered the dream.
The light behind the Kaaba.
The strange compassion in the face of the man in white.
And now this.
The old man’s words echoed again.
Sometimes healing comes after truth.
I sank slowly onto the edge of the bed, overwhelmed with emotion.
All my life, I had believed wealth and religion gave me certainty.
Yet now certainty was collapsing before my eyes.
For nearly an hour, I sat there silently weeping.
Not loud tears, quiet tears of fear, because I knew my life could never return to normal after this.
Around sunrise, I rushed back toward the market searching desperately for the old man.
The streets were already filling with pilgrims and vendors.
Shopkeepers shouted prices while carts rolled across the narrow roads.
I reached the same corner where I had met him, but the place was empty.
No truck, no herbs, no old man.
I searched everywhere nearby asking vendors if they knew him.
Most shook their heads.
One younger seller frowned thoughtfully and said, “An old farmer with white beard?
I’ve never seen anyone selling here like that.
”
“But he was here yesterday morning.”
I insisted.
The seller shrugged.
“Maybe you are mistaken.”
I stood there speechless.
Impossible.
I remembered his face clearly, his voice, the leaves, the conversation.
Yet, somehow nobody seemed to know who he was.
As I slowly walked away from the market, a terrifying realization entered my heart.
What if the old man had been sent to me?
That thought should have sounded ridiculous, but after everything I had seen, I could no longer dismiss it.
For the first time in my life, I whispered the name openly without fear.
Jesus.
The moment I said it, something inside me broke completely.
Not with terror, with peace.
For 3 days after my healing, I told nobody what had happened.
Not my wife, not Hamza, not even myself completely.
I moved through Mecca in silence, carrying a secret too heavy for words.
Every breath I took reminded me that the cough was truly gone.
I kept waiting for it to return suddenly.
The burning in my chest, the blood, the violent sleepless nights, but nothing came back.
I could breathe freely.
I could sleep peacefully.
I could walk without pain.
And with every passing hour, one truth became harder to deny.
Jesus had healed me.
Even thinking those words filled me with fear.
In Saudi Arabia, faith is not merely personal.
It shapes family, reputation, business, friendships, everything.
A wealthy man like me could lose respect overnight if people believed I had abandoned Islam.
I knew stories of men cut off from their families because of questions less dangerous than mine.
So, I hid my thoughts carefully, but inwardly, my world was changing faster than I could control.
One evening after Tarawih prayers, Hamza and I sat together outside the mosque drinking tea, while thousands of pilgrims flowed around us beneath the glowing lights of Mecca.
He studied me closely.
“You haven’t coughed once today,” he said.
I looked away immediately.
“Maybe the weather changed.”
Hamza frowned.
“Khalid, I’ve watched you suffer for years.
Suddenly, you’re healthy.”
I remained silent.
Then he lowered his voice carefully.
“Did something happen after that night?”
The question tightened my chest.
For several moments, I said nothing while people passed around us speaking dozens of languages from across the world.
Finally, I answered quietly.
“What if some things we were taught are incomplete?”
Hamza stared at me.
“What do you mean?”
I hesitated again.
Every instinct inside me screamed to stop talking, but another voice, the calmer voice growing inside my heart since the dream, urged me toward truth.
So slowly, carefully, I told him everything.
The dream in the desert, the man in white, the words about the light, the figure behind the Kaaba, the old farmer, the leaves, the healing.
As I spoke, Hamza’s expression changed from confusion to discomfort, then fear.
When I finished, he looked around nervously before speaking.
“Khalid, you should never repeat this openly.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
I looked at the pilgrims circling the Kaaba nearby.
“I think it was Jesus.”
Hamza immediately whispered harshly, “Lower your voice.”
People at nearby tables glanced briefly toward us.
My heart pounded.
Hamza leaned closer.
“You are emotional because you were sick,” he said quickly.
“Dreams can deceive people.
Healing can happen naturally.”
“But I know what I saw.”
“No,” he interrupted firmly.
“You think you know.”
I could hear fear in his voice now, not anger, fear.
And suddenly, I realized something painful.
He was struggling with the same terror I had felt myself.
Because if my story was true, then everything changed.
Hamza rubbed his face anxiously.
“You are my brother.”
He said quietly.
“So, listen carefully.
Forget this experience.
Go home.
Rest.
Don’t destroy your life over visions and emotions.
Destroy your life.”
Those words stayed with me long after we separated that night.
Back in my hotel room, I stood alone near the window overlooking the Kaaba.
Pilgrims moved endlessly below like rivers of white cloth beneath the lights.
The sight should have comforted me.
Instead, I felt caught between two worlds.
One part of me wanted safety.
Forget the dream.
Forget the healing.
Return home and continue life as before.
But another part, the deeper part, could no longer pretend.
I remembered how empty I felt while praying before all this happened.
Years of begging for healing without peace.
Years of fear and exhaustion.
Yet after calling on Jesus, peace entered me in a way I had never experienced before.
Not merely physical healing.
Peace inside my soul.
I closed my eyes.
And quietly, for the first time in my life, I prayed directly to Jesus.
“If you are truly the one who appeared to me,” I whispered, “show me what to do.”
The room became still.
No voice answered audibly.
No vision appeared.
But deep inside, I felt one clear thought settle into my heart.
Truth is worth the cost.
The next morning, Ramadan crowds filled Mecca more heavily than ever.
News about the mysterious light behind the Kaaba continued spreading online across the Muslim world.
Some dismissed it as edited videos or unusual reflections.
Others insisted it was a heavenly sign.
Meanwhile, I watched people differently now.
I saw exhausted pilgrims searching desperately for forgiveness, old men crying during prayer, women lifting trembling hands toward heaven, young men asking God for miracles, and for the first time I realized something heartbreaking.
Many were searching sincerely for God just as I had been.
That afternoon, I finally called my wife.
Samira answered immediately.
“Khalid, are you all right?”
Her voice sounded relieved because for once I wasn’t coughing.
“Yes.”
“You sound different.”
I sat silently for several seconds before replying.
“I need to tell you something when I come home.
” She became concerned immediately.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know how to explain it yet.”
The line stayed quiet briefly.
Then she said softly, “Whatever it is, we will face it together.”
Her kindness nearly broke me because I knew what this truth could eventually cost us both.
After the call ended, I returned once more to Masjid al-Haram before sunset.
I stood facing the Kaaba among thousands of worshipers, the same place where I had first seen the light.
As the evening sky darkened, emotions overwhelmed me unexpectedly.
I remembered my years of suffering, the loneliness, the fear of dying, the endless unanswered prayers.
Then I remembered the eyes of the man in white, compassion, mercy, love without condemnation.
Tears filled my eyes again, not because I hated my past faith, but because I realized God had been pursuing me even when I did not understand him.
A sudden memory from the dream returned vividly.
“When the people mistake the light for the sun, remember what you have seen.”
This time I finally understood.
Many people had witnessed the brightness behind the Kaaba, but most explained it away because the truth frightened them, just as it frightened me.
I lowered my head and whispered quietly through tears, I remember now, and deep within my heart, for the very first time in my life, I believed.
