The Night of My Breakthrough

It was the night of my breakthrough. I went into a dark room, shut the door, and wished to disappear into the shadows. I could hear one of my siblings weeping loudly—breaking religious pictures, throwing away spiritual objects, fighting with God, questioning Him, accusing Him of being distant, of not hearing our cries.

I had already exhausted every tear. I lay still, listening to all the chaos. Strangely, I didn’t feel anger toward God. I don’t know why—but even when I briefly closed my eyes, I could sense a powerful presence coming upon me. I tried to get up and resist the heaviness. I tried to speak, to call for help—but no one could hear me. It wasn’t frightening; it was comforting. I stopped resisting.

And then—I saw a vision.

A mighty, marvelous hand descended from the sky. It picked up a black pen crowned in gold, along with a piece of paper. The hand began to write. In the vision, I asked, “What are You writing?” A voice replied, “I’m writing your blessings.” The hand then picked up a book—what I believed to be my Bible—and underlined something. I didn’t know what it was at the time, but the Lord revealed it to me in the days to come.

After hearing the voice, an unexplainable peace filled me. I was caught between vision and reality. I could still hear my family weeping in the living room, but my spirit had touched something divine. I stood at the entrance of the bedroom, confused. My family looked at me, alarmed, thinking I was mentally disturbed. But they couldn’t understand—I had just experienced something supernatural. I didn’t say a word. I feared they would think I had lost my mind. I quietly returned to bed and rested.

But not for long.

Around 3 AM on July 3rd, we received an emergency call from the hospital. My husband’s condition had worsened. The doctors said his brain was dead. They wanted to inform the family that he could pass at any moment. I rushed back to the hospital.

I stood in the lobby, lost in thoughts of what I had just experienced. Was it real? Or was it a dream?

As the doctors prepared to declare him dead, I refused to see him. I couldn’t. I hated my life in that moment. I felt like a failure. Ashamed. I shut my eyes—I didn’t want to see anyone. His parents were ushered in to see him one last time. My mother-in-law, weeping, held my hand and said, “I gave birth to an unlucky son.” She begged for forgiveness—for leaving me and my daughter behind in this unbearable pain.

But I had turned to stone. I didn’t open my eyes. I didn’t speak. Many came and went. I heard voices but couldn’t respond. This went on until around 11 AM.

Then, a man of God entered. I had never met him before. He gently tried to speak with me, but I stayed silent, eyes still closed. He offered a prayer. Then he asked softly, “You don’t have to talk. But can you come with me for a coffee?”

Surprisingly, I opened my eyes. I followed him to the cafeteria. He handed me a coffee and prayed over me again—a short prayer. I don’t even remember the words. But something happened. I felt a wind-like presence sweep over me. My mouth began uttering unfamiliar words, a language I couldn’t understand. It wasn’t me—I was praying or speaking in tongues. It was supernatural.

I rushed to a nearby bathroom and began vomiting. The presence hadn’t left. I felt a weight being lifted. My lips continued to move in that unknown language. I hesitated to come out. While in the bathroom, I started bleeding heavily—my period had started unexpectedly. Everything was happening at once.

I asked the man of God to send one of my family members to help. They took me to a nearby relative’s home to shower and change. My mother-in-law hugged me tightly, relieved to see me looking normal again. I came back to the hospital with a quiet boldness inside me.

I went to the lobby to collect my ID and entered the critical care unit. Only two visitors were allowed at a time. My husband’s pulse had been just 10 earlier that morning—but now it was over 80. A nurse was by his side, documenting vitals.

I spoke to him. His eyeballs moved beneath his eyelids. His hands and legs twitched. I called the nurse’s attention, but she looked at me blankly—he was “brain dead” in her eyes. Still, she noted the vitals again.

To me, those little movements were miracles. My hope shot up like a mountain.

I brought my sister back with me. As we stood beside him, I began to hear a loud cry—as though someone were being attacked. I stepped back to see if another patient was making noise, but this floor was for the brain-injured. Most were unconscious. The halls were empty. But the cries didn’t stop.

My husband didn’t move, but the atmosphere had shifted. It felt like a battlefield—and the battle felt like it was in my favor.

Later, I asked my sister if she’d heard any of it. She hadn’t. I didn’t explain. I was slowly realizing that these were supernatural experiences.

We sat by the window. I prayed: “Lord, I don’t understand what’s happening. I don’t know why I’m going through this. Please give me grace to face what’s ahead—for me and my daughter. I surrender us into Your hands.” And I thanked Him for all the turmoil I was going through.

I still hoped for a miracle. But no change came.

He remained on life support for six days. I began visiting churches and praying endlessly. On the fifth day, someone suggested, “Why don’t we pray for God’s will instead?”

I hesitated. What if God’s will was to take him away?

Meanwhile, his parents pleaded with me for consent to remove life support. The doctors had confirmed he would remain in a vegetative state. They couldn’t bear to see him like that. I argued—I said I’d take care of him, no matter what. I couldn’t bear the thought of denying someone their life.

But their pain crushed me. I couldn’t take it anymore. I ran out of the hospital, all the way to the main road, and cried out, “Lord, let Your will be done.”

The next morning, I heard a still voice inside me say, “This is the day. Be prepared.”

I was sitting in a new church I’d never been to before. The calm was unusual. They prayed for me, fed me. While eating, I received a call—the dean of the hospital wanted to meet. My husband had suffered two massive heart attacks the night before. He had been treated, but chances of survival were slim.

I knew in my spirit—this was it.

I stood up from my half-eaten meal. As I left, my eyes caught a scripture on the wall: Psalm 46:10 – “Be still and know that I am God.” It struck my heart deeply.

At the dean’s office, he gently explained the situation. He told me I was young and had a life to live. I replied, “I will take care of him—even if he’s in a vegetative state.”

He wasn’t pleased. As we spoke, the phone rang. It was the nurse—my husband had suffered another massive heart attack. The doctor asked me, “What should we do?”

I said, “Do CPR. Keep him breathing.”

Reluctantly, he passed on the instruction.

My mother and I rushed to his room. But the medical team had already begun CPR. His pulse dropped rapidly—and my hope vanished before my eyes.

Tears flooded. I whispered in his ear, “I love you.” And I told myself, Until we meet at the other end. I remembered how he once promised to be with me until the end of life’s journey. For the first time, he broke that promise.

On July 9, 2013, his spirit left him. It was a devastating moment.

I walked out to find family, friends, and colleagues—all in tears. My daughter ran around the hospital, playful and unaware. It was heartbreaking.

Yet, despite everything, the peace I had never left me. I wanted to scream, to wail—but I couldn’t. The sorrow didn’t sink in as I expected.

The next hours are a blur. All I remember is his lifeless body in a van, traveling for nine hours to his native home. That night was unforgettable—a mix of tears, prayers, and strange comfort. I felt the love of Jesus poured over me like water—pure, deep, and beyond human understanding.

When we arrived, the weeping intensified. One of his closest friends, who had a wedding on July 10th, hadn’t been told the news. When he found out, he came running. The last cries shook the atmosphere.

It was painful to accept the fact that I’m not going to see him anymore.

That goodbye was the hardest.

But I thank God—for allowing me to know and love this man. I learned humility, simplicity, genuine love, respect and grace from him. He was well-mannered, brilliant, and kind. The world was too cruel for someone like him. Heaven deserved him more.

The Next Chapter

What followed was surreal and miraculous. I had dreams, visions, and supernatural encounters. It was as though God had ordained and prepared every detail. Strangers showed up to help. Doors opened. Blessings poured out.

Psalm 46:10 became my anchor: “Be still and know that I am God.” I wasn’t wise enough to plan or sort any of this by the way it was planned and sorted. But God made a way.

Eventually, I returned to the U.S. Miraculously, my job became permanent. Favor followed me from every corner .

Then, God revealed the words that were underlined in my vision:

Romans 8:28 – “All things work together for good to those who love God.”

This wasn’t just a verse. It became my life application .

Twelve years later, I can testify: every high, every valley, every sorrow—all worked for my good. God’s hand guided me. His voice led me. His faithfulness never failed. And this song never left my lips:

“Great is Thy faithfulness!”

“Great is Thy faithfulness!”

Morning by morning new mercies I see;

All I have needed Thy hand hath provided—

“Great is Thy faithfulness,” Lord, unto me!

I am deeply grateful—for the kindness of family, friends, in-laws, pastors, colleagues, and all who prayed for me. A big shout out to two women in my life, my mother and mother in law for the prayers , encouragement and trust they have on me. The relationship with my in laws still going strong by the grace of God and moments we share is a pure joy.

I can surely say life is not easy, but it is not hard when you have God at your side.

And if you’ve read this far, I pray that the same love of God finds you, comforts you, and carries you.

God bless you.