The Voice That Saved Me

Mark (name changed for safety) adjusted the worn strap of his backpack as he walked through the narrow streets. Inside were the books that had become both his purpose and his burden—texts that some welcomed with tears of joy, others with threats of violence.

It had started simply enough. A family from his homeland had invited him over, curious about his transformation from Muhammad to Mark, from the faith of his fathers to something new. The father and his two sons had listened with growing wonder, their eyes bright with recognition. "We believe," they had whispered.

But the wife had erupted like a storm. "Get out! We don't want this poison in our house!" Her words had cut through the evening air, sharp and final.

Mark thought the matter was closed until a month later when his phone buzzed with an unexpected message. It was the woman's sister: "I heard what happened at my sister's house. Some accepted, others rejected. I want to hear what you have to say."

Before he could even respond to the first message, another came through—this one from a stranger who claimed to have received Mark's number through divine means. "I saw a vision," the man wrote. "A hand reaching down from heaven. I need to speak with you about Jesus."

The coincidence felt like providence. Both contacts lived in the same neighborhood across town.

The next day, Mark made his way to the Taksim area with a fellow believer. On the return journey, he made his decision. "I'm not going home yet. There are people waiting to hear."

When he reached the neighborhood, Mark called the man with the vision. No answer. He called again. Silence. Disappointed but not deterred, Mark began walking away when his phone rang.

"Where are you?" the man asked.

"I left because you didn't answer."

"I'm sorry, I wasn't available. Where are you going now?"

It was strange how perfectly their locations seemed to align. Every place Mark mentioned, the man claimed to be there too. "Near the mosque," Mark said.

"I'm standing right there."

Before meeting the new contact, Mark stopped by the first family's house. The wife's face darkened when she saw him.

"Muhammad," she said, using his old name like a weapon, "if you keep preaching, they will kill you. Do you understand me? They will kill you."

Mark felt the weight of his backpack, heavy with hope and possibility. "I don't force anyone to listen."

"Don't you dare come here again," she spat.

Walking down the street toward his appointment, Mark began to pray. The familiar weight of the books pressed against his back, and he felt the familiar mixture of excitement and apprehension that came with sharing his faith.

He was perhaps twenty feet from the designated street when it happened.

A voice, clear and urgent, spoke inside his mind: "Mark, turn back! Don't go!"

He stopped mid-step. The voice wasn't his own thoughts—it was distinct, authoritative, loving yet firm. "Mark, turn back! Don't go!"

Looking ahead, Mark saw them: a group of young men clustered at the head of the street, their posture tense, their eyes scanning. Something in their stance spoke of violence held in check, of plans made in darkness.

Without hesitation, Mark obeyed the voice. He turned and walked quickly back the way he had come, his heart pounding not with fear but with gratitude. He caught the first bus home.

His phone rang before he reached his destination.

"Where are you?" It was the man from the vision.

"Going home."

"Why?"

"Because God revealed your plan. The trap you and that woman set for me."

The man's voice changed, the pretense dropping like a mask. "I swear, if I get my hands on you, I'll cut you to pieces!" The words poured out in a torrent of rage and threats.

Mark called the sister next. Her response was just as revealing: "If we see you preaching in our area again, coming to my sister's house..."

As the bus carried him through the city streets, Mark reflected on the apostle Paul's words: "I consider my life worth nothing to me; my only aim is to finish the race and complete the task the Lord Jesus has given me."

The threats would come again—not just once or twice, but as a constant companion to his calling. Yet tonight, as the lights of the city blurred past the window, Mark smiled. He had learned something profound about the voice that speaks in the darkness, the hand that guides away from danger, the faithfulness that never fails.

His backpack felt lighter somehow, though it carried the same weight as before. Tomorrow there would be other streets, other conversations, other opportunities to share what had transformed him from Muhammad into Mark. And if threats came—when they came—he would listen for that voice again.

The voice that had saved his life.