We are trapped in the suffocating shadows of the Great Tribulation, a bleak and weeping era where the earth itself seems to groan under the weight of senseless, endless wars and devastating famines that ravage the globe. In my own community, the air is thick with terror; persecution is not a distant threat, but a direct, merciless blade. It tears through our lives as wicked individuals are actively rewarded, openly praised, and celebrated for taking the lives of Christians.
We have been completely excommunicated from the world around us, utterly shut out of the economy as if we are already ghosts. Jobs are strictly, cruelly denied to anyone who confesses Christ, leaving us entirely destitute, with absolutely no earthly means to support ourselves or keep our families alive.
The silence of my home is broken only by the gnawing ache in my stomach. I am already three days counting without a single morsel of food, my body weakening with every passing hour. In the depths of this dark, starvation-induced despair, my prayers have turned into desperate pleas for release. Sometimes, my only cry is that God would mercifully reach down and just take me home to find rest. I find my mind drifting toward suicide, not out of a desire to throw life away, but as a weary reflex to escape an unbearable agony. Yet, even in this fractured state, my heart trembles before the Creator; I have prayed through my tears, begging for His forgiveness for the darkness that creeps into my thoughts, clinging to the faint hope that He still hears the cries of the brokenhearted.