“For whoever drinks of the water that I will give him will never be thirsty again.” – John 4:14
Jesus and His disciples take a diversion into the least favorite place for the Jews—named Samaria.
One woman from a socially outcast community comes to draw water around noon. This was a very odd time for women in those days to draw water. The act of drawing water was also a social gathering to meet and greet other women, which usually happened either early in the morning or late in the evening. It seems that this woman had chosen a time when no one else would be around the well.
The Bible says that this woman had been rejected by five of her husbands, which might also be a reason why the other women in the society did not accept her. She seemed to be a complete package of rejection, pain, and isolation.
In a surprising moment, Jesus engages in conversation with this woman—someone who isolated herself because of who she was. In her loneliness, she meets someone great in that lonely place, alone.
Jesus speaks her love language, using the metaphor of water. He reveals that He is the Living Water, representing spiritual nourishment, and also declares the greatest message of all time—that He is the prophesied Messiah, the Savior of the world. The woman’s reception of this truth is like an encounter with a well of love.
The love of Jesus Christ satisfies her thirst and longing for genuine love, which had been denied to her. The revelation of who Jesus Christ is transforms her from brokenness to boldness. She runs into the town of Samaria, carrying the message of love and the Source of love—Jesus Christ.
The joy was overflowing; she couldn’t contain it. The same lonely feet that once dragged in despair now ran with joy to share the truth.
Rejection is so real, even in this modern world. Rejection is one of the main causes of depression. We can experience loneliness and isolation, even when surrounded by many—it’s a slow poison that drains our body, mind, and soul.
To all the outcast reading this—the word of encouragement comes to you: Drink from the well of Living Water, Jesus Christ. He never runs dry. As you dig deeper for truth, the Living Water will overflow with love that will stop your thirst for human love.
God’s kingdom has a greater inclusion policy—you are part of a divine plan. His plan includes you, and as it fills your heart, your feet will automatically run to share the great news: the love of Jesus Christ.
Get ready. Dig deep. Drink in abundance—and never thirst again.
Prayer:
Thank You, Father, for Jesus Christ. Thank You for the privilege of being included in Your kingdom. Fill me with Your Living Water. Amen.
In today’s passage, we see that some are celebrating while others are walking through seasons of suffering and darkness. At Bethesda, these two realities existed side by side. It was a place where the invalid, blind, lame, and paralyzed gathered—people longing for attention and help, waiting for someone to carry them into the pool where they believed healing and deliverance could be found.
Here, the paralytic man’s perspective was shaped by the people around him. The place had become an attraction for hopelessness. This man may have been forced to stay away from celebrations due to social stigma or abandoned because of financial hardship. His world had taught him to look to man for help, and he had grown comfortable lying in the same place, with the same people, hearing the same stories, and expecting the same help.
I’m sure news of celebration and of Jesus’ presence had reached that place, but perhaps the paralytic man was too occupied with hearing bad news. And thirty-eight years is a long time to go without hearing the good news.
While the paralytic man was searching for a man, the eyes of Jesus fell on him. The Bible says Jesus knew he had been there a long time. Even when Jesus asked if he wanted to be healed, the man’s response focused on his lack of human help.
But Jesus stepped into the situation so the paralytic man could step out—out of the dark world he had been bound in for far too long.
“Get up, take up your bed, and walk.” – John 5:8
Today’s word comes as encouragement: Jesus sees us in our seasons of discouragement and repeated disappointments. When the Savior’s eyes fall on us, the bondage that has held us for too long will be broken. We can no longer remain in the comfort zone; we must be ready to step out into His glorious light.
Even today, Jesus sees you. Seek His face through prayer and worship, believing for a great move of God in your life.
You heard that right—get up and move. Your time has come, and your Savior is here.
Prayer:
Dear Heavenly Father help me to get up from my comfort zone and experience a mighty deliverance. Amen
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.
It was the last time my husband was conscious enough to recognize me.
In the blink of a second, everything changed. The doctors in the room were having serious discussions. I wasn’t allowed in. My heart raced as I stood outside, helpless, trying to make sense of the chaos. Then, they moved him to another branch of the hospital.
The diagnosis was devastating—a massive stroke in the brain stem. The doctors were shocked. He was just 34 years old—no smoking, no drinking, a regular at the gym, a healthy adult by every standard. They were furious and confused. I had never once seen him sick. He had never complained of any illness.
To me, everything went blank.
That night, I sat alone in the hospital lobby, numb and disoriented.
The next day, my mom arrived. She had left my three-year-old daughter in someone else’s care to be with me. The moment I saw her, I broke down. I sobbed uncontrollably in her arms. She looked shattered too—seeing the youngest of her five children, the baby of our family, facing such a situation.
She did her best to comfort me, though I knew she was breaking inside.
Still, I was forced to gather myself. I had to be strong enough to take him for ultrasounds and other tests. His eyes never opened. Not once.
Yet again, I had to travel alone with him in an alarming ambulance to another hospital branch. There, the doctors prepared for emergency brain surgery. The clot was putting dangerous pressure on the skull. They had to open it to relieve it. Prayers poured in like clouds from all corners. I held onto hope—any sliver of it—for a miracle after surgery.
But what followed broke me even further.
The doctors wouldn’t give me proper updates. One of them coldly said, “Are you expecting me to say your husband is alright?”
That single sentence crushed my heart. I realized something deeply painful:
My pain was mine alone.
To that doctor, my husband was just another patient.
To me, he was my whole world.
My in-laws and sister-in-law, along with my siblings, flew in from around the world to be with me. Their presence meant the world.
Still, I struggled to face my in-laws. They are some of the kindest souls I have ever met, and this—this was their only son. I could see the sorrow etched into their faces. Yet, with unimaginable grace, they kept their pain aside to give me hope.
They came straight from the airport to the hospital. Being medical professionals themselves, the doctors spoke more openly with them than with emotionally overwhelmed me. But even then, there was no real improvement. Just observation. More waiting. More despair.
I sent everyone back home and chose to stay another night in the hospital—alone.
This time, I wasn’t allowed near the critical care unit. I had to stay in a separate building. I walked through dark hospital pathways, full of fear and uncertainty.
The infrastructure didn’t scare me—the pain did.
Family members clung to each other, crying, praying, whispering desperate hopes for their loved ones. The air itself was heavy with grief.
I don’t remember eating. I barely slept.
And watching others suffer only deepened my ache.
I wished I had a healing wand to make everything better—for them and for myself.
I spent the whole night walking between the hospital and lodging building.
At one point, someone asked me if I had admitted an elderly person.
I couldn’t even form the words to explain what had happened.
Soon, my family arrived again the next morning. My eyes were swollen from days of tears. I waited anxiously for the doctors’ morning rounds. I hoped—pleaded in silence—for good news.
Instead, I was told the other side of his brain had started bleeding.
My hope began to crumble.
Fear.
Anxiety.
They gripped my soul like never before.
My siblings softened their words, trying to cushion the blow. But I understood.
Others in the hospital lodge began asking, “Why are you here alone? What’s going on?”
Slowly, I started to open up. They began to share their pain too. We cried together.
We held on to each other.
We whispered encouragement.
We begged heaven for mercy.
I saw some patients move to normal wards.
Some were discharged.
Something good was happening around me—but not to me.
Not yet.
It became a ritual—I stood before the doctors during every round.
They gave me bad news after bad news.
And afterward, I would sit alone in the lobby, watching everyone walk in.
Everyone who entered that building had a story.
One day, I saw a young woman rush in, crying. Her husband had a brain injury from an accident. She was frantic. Something stirred in me.
I walked over. I listened. I comforted her.
“I believe your husband will be okay,” I told her gently.
She hugged me with tear-filled eyes.
In that moment, I felt something good—for the first time in days.
Even though I knew the doctor would soon come to give me another terrifying update.
In that hospital I saw babies treated for brain cancer.
Young children.
Elderly people.
Some went home.
Some didn’t and was declared dead.
The hospital was a sea of emotions.
I started to sit quietly and listen to my soul.
Why am I going through this?
What is the purpose of this pain?
I had chosen a simple life.
Yet, What lesson was hidden here?
In that silence, something began to speak to me.
A glimpse of my future—who would help me, what I would walk through.
It came like a movie in my mind.
I kept it to myself.
I wasn’t sure if it was divine or just my imagination.
After several days, my family insisted I go home.
My daughter had started to ask for me.
It had been few days—and I hadn’t even thought about her.
When I walked through the door, she ran into my arms.
Her tiny hands wrapped tightly around my neck.
She kissed me endlessly.
Her puzzled face said everything, but she didn’t ask about her daddy.
This is the story of a boy born into a royal household. Just three months after his birth, his father passed away. What followed was heartbreak: the boy and his mother were abandoned by the family. His sister was taken away by relatives, while he and his mother were left to fend for themselves—battling for survival and entangled in property and legal disputes with powerful and wealthy giants.
As he grew up, the boy began working in shoe factories. Amidst the toil, he fell in love with an aspiring medical student still in her teenage years. As he transitioned from boy to man, he married this young woman in his early twenties. She gave up her education to be with him. Together, they built a family, raising five children. They poured all their love into their kids, and the man worked tirelessly—sweating and bleeding—to provide them the luxury he had once lost.
But over time, things changed. His focus shifted from his family to building and expanding his business. Love took a back seat, while wealth and pride took the driver’s seat.
As love lost its grip in the household, jealousy crept in among his business rivals. One of them, consumed by envy, plotted against him using witchcraft and spells.
Let me pause here to say—this is not just any story. This is my family’s story. That boy is my father, and the young woman he married is my mother. The five children they raised? I’m one of them.
The torment of evil spirits became so tangible in our home that we could barely enjoy the blessings in our lives. Life grew more traumatizing with each passing day—for us as a family.
Quarrels were constant, but that wasn’t the worst. Every full moon, new moon, strange things would happen. We began to suspect witchcraft: lemons and sorcery idols would appear mysteriously outside our factory gate, signaling that spells were being cast on us. On those nights, my father would become a completely different person, and the house would spiral into chaos. At least one person would end up with a bloody injury. Someone would try to harm themselves. There would be fights, broken bones, and terrifying emotional breakdowns. We were so scared that we started marking the full and new moon days on the calendar just to brace ourselves.
I remember the day my mom was nearly crushed between a wall and a minivan. My sister miraculously survived a near-death encounter with an oncoming train. Another time, while riding in our family car, the windshield suddenly shattered into tiny shards right in front of my eyes. And once, all five of us kids were admitted to the hospital at the same time. Every other day felt like death was knocking at our door.
Despite it all, my mom never gave up. With the little knowledge she had about Christ, she began seeking the Lord. Evangelism was only just beginning to gain momentum in our area, but there was one minister who preached and prayed every morning at 7 a.m. on a secular TV channel.
That was my dad’s newspaper-reading time. He would flip through channels looking for the news, but one morning, he accidentally landed on this channel just as the minister greeted viewers. His voice was calm and gentle—it caught my dad’s attention. Soon, he began listening to the message about the cross and the power of the blood of Jesus Christ.
Day one turned into day three, and eventually, my dad couldn’t go a day without hearing this man of God.
Mornings were the busiest times in our house. My mom would be preparing breakfast and lunch, serving tea, and managing five children. Still, somehow, the Holy Spirit found a way to reach her heart. Her time listening to the preacher grew from a few seconds to a full 30 minutes. As we moved through the house, grabbing our food or walking to the kitchen, we caught glimpses of the message.
Personally, the first thing I learned from those moments was that God is gentle—just like the minister’s voice.
My mom began walking around the house, praying and listening to the message without interruption. Everyone in our family—even our dog—knew not to disturb her during that sacred time. She grew stronger from the Word of God.
But as her faith grew, so did the chaos in our home. My father began yelling at her, blaming her prayers for the increased disorder. He tried to stop her from watching the program, but he failed. She would do nothing else in the house until she had her 30 minutes with God.
Then the truth of Scripture was revealed:
“The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life and have it more abundantly.” —John 10:10
That revelation became our anchor.
One of my siblings soon joined my mother in seeking Christ. My father became furious, accusing her of shaming our family values. But my sister stood firm. She boldly declared her faith, found a church that preached the Word, and my mom even traveled far from home to get baptized. That night was hell at home.
But my mother and sister didn’t waver. They fasted and prayed for the entire family. I remember waking up at night to hear my mother whispering each of our names in prayer.
That’s when the tide began to turn. The enemy’s foundation started to shake. Christ became our stronghold. I watched my mom cover us all under the wings of the Almighty. The power of the blood of Jesus became our defense. My mother claimed the promise:
“There is no enchantment against Jacob, no divination against Israel.” —Numbers 23:23
And today—I can testify: the power of witchcraft was broken by the blood of Jesus Christ. Slowly, we began to walk in freedom. The darkness lifted. The light of the everlasting God took over our home.
We no longer suffered bloody encounters. The suicidal thoughts stopped. My father returned to normal—even on the full and new moon days we used to dread. Eventually, we stopped keeping track of those days altogether.
So if you’re reading this, I want to encourage you: Nothing is too hard for the Lord. No matter how bad your situation is or how dark it looks, Jesus Christ can set you free from every work of the enemy. If He did it for our family, He can do it for yours too.
Try Jesus. He is good. He is the Light, and the darkness does not comprehend Him.
“I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness but will have the light of life.” —John 8:12
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