Buried Alive (for miracle)

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xed on the bucket, as if beholding a miracle. Meanwhile, I stood there with my mouth agape, staring into the bucket in utter bewilderment, my mind struggling to

hostility. "It means that you people are not welcome here" he declared, his eyes bulging with an unsettling intensity as he spoke. His words hung in the air like a dark cloud, a stark reminder that we were unwelcome strangers in

eclared, his voice firm and resolute, his words a testament to his unwavering faith. He sto

fear this place, because we don't tolerate Jesus and His people here. We have our own god, a powerful deity that we call up

you came from, before it is too late. This place is not for you. Our god is a jealous one, and He will not hesitate to strike

like a dark cloud, a reminder that we were outsiders, unwelcome in this place. But my husband's faith remaine

nation, his words a bold challenge to the opposition he faced. His eyes blazed with a fierce passion, his jaw set in resolve,

leave here" I whispered urgently, trying to calm him down, to restrain him from confronting the h

dded, his words a clear warning, a threat to our safety. His tone was menacing, his intent clear: we were not welcome, and our presence would not be tolerated. T

aid, his voice low and firm, and we both turned our backs swiftly, leaving the hostile man and his venomous words behind. We didn't look b

m, tuned him out, and walked away. I could feel his eyes on us, could sense his malevolent gaze following us, but we didn't flin

o this unknown territory, where hostility and rejection seemed to lurk around every corner? I glanced at my husband, his face set in a resolute expression, and knew that he believed in this mission, believed i

cause the state of the room was simply too dirty to ignore. The dirt and grime seemed to be embedded in every corner, every surface, and I knew that if we didn'

the time we finished that the van driver, who had kindly helped us transport our things, had to spend the night in our house, as it was too dark and unsafe

our identity, bluntly refused to sell to him, citing our association with Jesus as the reason. It was a stark reminder that we were outsiders, unwelcome in this place. Th

y, and fell into a fitful sleep around 9:30 pm. But our rest was short-lived, as by 11 pm, a loud bang on our door shattered the silence of the night. At first, no one answered, hoping that the noise would ce

ver he was, was not someone to be trifled with, and his summons was not a request, but a command. My heart raced as I wondered what this unexpected visit could mean, and what the King

ol beside the bed, his hand moving swiftly and silently, as if instinctively knowing that time was of the essence. We both jumped out of bed, our movements swift and synchronized, lik

his eyes wide with uncertainty. "I don't know o" He whispered back, his voice barely audible, his Nigerian accent making the "o" sound like a soft "oh". The driver's lack of knowledge only added to our c

uch a late hour. "Who is it?" He quizzed at the top of his voice, his tone firm and authoritative, demanding an answer. The person outside repeated the same phrase

yet, we were being summoned by a mysterious king. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, his hand hovering over the lock, before finally deciding to open the door. He went towards the door, his movements slow a

e calm and resolute, as if he had already considered the potential risks. "But Pastor, you don't even know who it is," the driver chimed in, his voic

t such a late hour? The king's summons seemed ominous, and I feared for our safety. But my husband seemed unwavering, his faith in God's

s phone torch on the person outside, the sudden brightness illuminating the darkness. The driver and I held our c

dn't fathom why someone would disturb us at such a late hour. "The king demands to see you" the person re

glancing at his phone for what felt like the hundredth time, as if hoping that the clock would somehow magica

air, a stark reminder that we were at the mercy of this mysterious king and his minions. The driver and I exchanged a nervous glance, our minds

w that arguing further would be futile. But the person outside was insistent, their tone brooking no dissent. "You're all coming

ly walked into the other bedroom to wake the kids, my heart racing with every step. What did the king want with us, and why the urgency? The questions swirl

t one of them even minding the late hour. The king's throne room was dimly lit, the only sound the soft rustling of the elders' robes as they shifted in

colanut he was holding, the crunching sound echoing through the throne room. "Were you not told that Jesus' people are not

" he declared, his eyes locked on the King, his gaze unwavering. "And until I'm done winning this place for God, I won'

ound the soft rustling of the elders' robes, as they shifted uncomfortably in their seats. The King's face darkened, his eyes flashing with anger, but my husband remained st

ff the walls as he sneered at my husband's audacity. The elders too chorused with laughter, their voi

king said, his laughter growing louder, his words dripping with sarcasm, as if the very idea was preposterous. The elders too starte

od's sovereignty knew no bounds, that every land and every people belonged to Him. The laughter slowly died down, the king's face darkening once more, his eyes narrowing as he realized that my husband

t!" He raged in anger, his voice thundering through the throne room, making the very walls seem to tremble. "What effrontery!

face, his expression resolute, unyielding. I could see fear in my children's eyes as they stood there, visibly shaking, their small bodies trembling with terror. They didn't understand what was happening, only th

s eyes gleaming with a sinister intent. The guards scurried to obey, their footsteps echoi

s one after the other, his eyes lingering on each face as if searching for any sig

his eyes locked on the king, his face set with determination. My husband turne

d, his head bowed in a gentle nod of approval, his heart swelling with pride at our children's bravery. The king's face

y heart beating with a sense of conviction. I had expected the king's

shipping in the church we were transferred from for years now, and I had assumed he was a fellow bel

nying his faith, abandoning us in our time of need. The king's face lit up with a cruel smile, his eyes gleaming with triumph, as if he had w

we have our own idol that we worship in my place" he continued, his words tumbling out in a nervous rush. "Your Highness, I'm only a driver who helped th

ords. "Very well then, step aside" he said finally, his voice devoid of emotion, his hand wavin

rokes each" he said, his voice firm and unyielding, his words a stark reminder of his power and authority. The guards moved forward, their faces expre

ermination. "Give me all the strokes of the cane instead" he continued, his words a bold challenge to the king'

n as we heard his declaration. The king's face remained impassive, but a flicker of surp

guards moved forward, their faces expressionless, their hands grasping the canes with a practiced ease, as my husband stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the king,

ss despair. We pleaded with the king to show mercy, to spare my husband from the brutal punishment, but our words fell on deaf ears. The ki

er blow. My husband's cries of pain filled the air, his body trembling with each stroke, his face contorted in a mixture of anguish and coura

ut through the silence, his words a stark reminder of our precarious situation. "You are given 3 days to leave this village. Else..." he said, his

out to the church without telling us, his determination and devotion to his faith overriding his physical suffering. He opened the doors, swept the floor

words pouring out like a river, filling the empty space with a sense of purpose and meaning. He preached of l

r the message he brought. His preaching was a defiant act of courage, a declaration to the king and his minions that our faith would not be silenced, that our beliefs would not

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