My name is Mariah, and Jesus healed me on Easter Sunday, 2025. My story begins on the evening of Good Friday.

One warm Spring several years ago, in the center of the Middle East, a young Arab man named Murat was preparing his mind for an evening business meeting as he walked down the street. He had grown up and spent his entire life in the area, and the road seemed to blend with his thoughts as he took in the familiar surroundings. Suddenly, he was met by his brother, who was headed in another direction.

In January of 2023, a glowing torch died out as day and night prayer ground to a halt in the spiritually dark region of North Africa. A small house of prayer had been lifting up intercession and worship to the one true God nonstop for seven years. But the team that kept the torch burning had suddenly disbanded. 

In the spring of 2017, I was an American teenager in the heart of the Middle East. I was surrounded by approximately 70 young refugees from various backgrounds lifting up their voices in worship. From the depths of their hearts, they were singing the chorus of the song, “Good, Good Father,” in Arabic.