Muslim Woman Dies in Tehran. Jesus Shows Her 5 SHOCKING Events STILL Coming to Iran in 2026

On February 28th, 2026, the Supreme Leader of my home country, Iran, was killed by American and Israeli strikes.

That same day, I gave my life to Jesus Christ in a hospital bed in Beirut.

I was a 52-year-old Iranian American woman dying of stage 4 pancreatic cancer. The next day, March 1st, 2026, I died.

My heart stopped beating. I left my body and met Jesus face to face in heaven.

He showed me his scarred hands. He spoke my name with love I had never known in 52 years of Islam.

Then he showed me five shocking events still coming to Iran in 2026. The transitional government will collapse.

A catastrophic earthquake will destroy Thran. Millions of Iranians will turn to Jesus in the greatest revival in Persian history.

The Iranian proxy empire will fall completely and the false mai will rise to deceive millions.

Jesus sent me back to warn the world. The door of grace is closing. Time is running out.

This is my testimony. Every word is true. My name is Shirin Ahmadi. I am recording this testimony on March 5th, 2026 from my small apartment in Beirut, Lebanon.

5 days ago, I gave my life to Jesus Christ. 4 days ago, I died and met him face to face.

He showed me five shocking events that are still coming to Iran before the end of this year.

What I am about to tell you will be difficult to believe. It will challenge everything you think you know about the future of the Middle East.

It will shake the foundations of Islam. But every word is true. I saw it with my own eyes.

I heard it from the mouth of Jesus himself. And I have been sent back to warn the world before it is too late.

Before I tell you what I saw, you need to understand who I am. You need to know the journey that brought me to that hospital bed where everything changed.

So let me start from the beginning. Let me tell you about the woman I was before I met the savior.

I was born in 1974 in Thran, Iran during the final years of the sha’s rule.

My earliest memories are of a country in chaos. I was only 5 years old when the Islamic Revolution swept through Iran in 1979.

I remember the sounds of crowds chanting in the streets. I remember my father listening to the radio with a worried expression on his face.

I remember my mother covering her hair for the first time and telling me that everything was going to be different now.

The Ayatollah Kmeni had returned from exile. The Sha had fled. The Islamic Republic was born.

My childhood was shaped by that revolution. I grew up in a nation that had transformed itself into a theocracy almost overnight.

The moolas controlled everything. Religion was not just a private matter, but the law of the land.

Women had to cover themselves. Music and dancing were forbidden. The religious police patrolled the streets looking for anyone who stepped out of line.

My family was not extremely religious, but we followed the rules because we had no choice.

My father was a shopkeeper who sold carpets in the Tehran bazaar. My mother was a homemaker who raised me and my younger brother, Riza.

We prayed when we were supposed to pray. We fasted during Ramadan. We observed the holy days and the rituals.

But I do not remember ever feeling close to Allah. I said the words and performed the actions, but it all felt empty and mechanical.

I remember asking my mother once we had to pray five times a day. She looked at me with fear in her eyes and told me to never ask such questions.

Questioning Islam was dangerous. People who questioned disappeared. So I learned to keep my doubts silent.

I learned to perform faith without feeling it. I learned to be a good Muslim girl on the outside while carrying confusion and emptiness on the inside.

As I grew older, I began to dream of escape. I watched Western movies secretly with my friends.

I listened to forbidden music. I read books that were banned by the regime. I saw a world beyond the walls of the Islamic Republic.

A world where women could dress as they pleased, speak their minds freely, and live without fear of the religious police.

I wanted that world desperately. I wanted to breathe air that was not heavy with rules and restrictions.

I wanted to be free. My father saw the restlessness in me and he worried.

He had seen what happened to young people who rebelled against the system. They were arrested, imprisoned, sometimes executed.

He did not want that fate for his daughter. So when I was 19 years old, he made arrangements for me to leave Iran.

He had a distant cousin in Los Angeles who agreed to sponsor my visa. In 1993, I boarded a plane and left the only home I had ever known.

I will never forget the moment the plane lifted off from Thran’s Mehabad airport. I pressed my face against the window and watched the city shrink below me.

The brown mountains surrounding Thrron grew smaller and smaller until they disappeared beneath the clouds.

I felt a strange mixture of excitement and grief. I was leaving behind my parents, my brother, my childhood, everything familiar.

But I was also leaving behind the cage that had confined me for 19 years.

I was flying toward freedom. I was flying toward America. I was flying toward a future I could not yet imagine.

When I landed in Los Angeles, I felt like I had arrived on another planet.

Everything was different. The buildings, the cars, the people, the way they dressed and talked and moved through the world.

Women walked freely without hijabs. Men and women held hands in public. Music played everywhere.

Nobody checked to see if you were praying. Nobody cared what you believed or did not believe.

It was overwhelming and beautiful and terrifying all at once. I stayed with my father’s cousin for the first year while I learned English and found my footing.

Those early months were difficult. I was lonely and homesick. I missed my mother’s cooking and my father’s stories and even my annoying little brother, Raza.

I called them when I could afford it, but international calls were expensive and the connection was always bad.

I wrote letters that took weeks to arrive. I felt suspended between two worlds. No longer fully Iranian, but not yet American.

But slowly, day by day, I built a new life. I improved my English. I got a job working as a receptionist at a medical clinic.

I made friends with other immigrants who understood what it meant to start over in a strange land.

I began to feel like maybe I could belong here after all. In 2000, I married a man named Dario.

He was also Iranianame born in Iran but raised in California. He was handsome and charming and made me laugh in a way no one else could.

I thought I had found my happily ever after. I thought America had given me everything I had dreamed of as a girl in Thran.

But marriage is harder than fairy tales make it seem. Dario and I were different in ways that became more painful over time.

He wanted a traditional wife who would stay home and serve him. I wanted a partner who would see me as an equal.

We argued constantly. The charm that had attracted me turned into manipulation. The laughter turned into silence.

After 7 years, we divorced. There were no children because we could never agree on when or whether to have them.

I was 33 years old and alone again. The divorce broke something inside me. I had built my whole identity around being Dario’s wife, around being part of an Iranianamean community that valued marriage above almost everything else.

Now I was a divorced woman, a failure in the eyes of my culture. My parents were heartbroken when I told them.

My mother wept on the phone and asked what she had done wrong in raising me.

My father said little, but I could hear the disappointment in his silence. I fell into a deep depression that lasted for years.

I went through the motions of life, working, eating, sleeping, but I felt nothing inside.

The emptiness I had carried since childhood grew into a black hole that threatened to swallow me completely.

I tried therapy. I tried medication. I tried yoga and meditation and self-help books. Nothing filled the void.

I was hollow and I did not know how to become whole again. In 2011, at the age of 37, I made a decision that surprised everyone who knew me.

I decided to leave America and move to Lebanon. I cannot fully explain why I chose Lebanon.

Perhaps I wanted to be closer to the Middle East without returning to Iran. Perhaps I wanted a fresh start in a place where no one knew my story.

Perhaps I was running away from the wreckage of my life in Los Angeles. Whatever the reason, I sold everything I owned, packed two suitcases, and flew to Beirut.

I found work as a caregiver, helping elderly and sick patients in their homes and in hospitals.

The pay was modest, but the work gave me something I had lost. Purpose. For the first time in years, I felt useful.

I was easing suffering. I was providing comfort. I was making a small difference in the world.

The emptiness did not disappear. But it became more bearable when I was focused on caring for others.

For 15 years, I built a quiet life in Lebanon. I lived in a small apartment in Beirut, far from the areas controlled by Hezbollah.

I worked long hours caring for patients. I made a few friends but kept mostly to myself.

I sent money to my parents in Thran when I could. I watched from a distance as my brother Raza got a government job and married and had children I had never met.

I grew older in a land that was not quite home but had become familiar.

I rarely thought about God or religion. Islam felt like a distant memory from another life.

I did not pray. I did not fast. I did not observe any rituals. I had left all of that behind along with so many other things.

I thought I would live out my remaining years in this quiet, purposeless existence, caring for others while slowly fading away.

I never imagined that death would come for me so soon. And I certainly never imagined that death would be the doorway to finally finding what I had been searching for my entire life.

In late 2024, I began feeling tired all the time. At first, I thought it was just age catching up with me.

I was 50 years old and had worked hard my whole life. Of course, I was tired, but the fatigue grew worse.

I started losing weight without trying. I had pain in my abdomen that would not go away.

My skin and eyes began to turn yellow. I knew something was seriously wrong. I went to the hospital and the doctors ran tests.

When they called me back to discuss the results, I could see the bad news written on their faces before they even spoke.

Stage 4 pancreatic cancer. The words hit me like a physical blow. They said the cancer had spread too far for surgery.

They said they could offer treatment to slow it down, but not to cure it.

They said I had maybe 1 to two years to live. I sat in that doctor’s office and felt my whole world collapse.

I was going to die not someday far in the future soon. Very soon. And I had no idea what waited for me on the other side.

The months following my diagnosis were the darkest of my life. I had faced many difficulties over the years.

The revolution in Iran, the loneliness of immigration, the pain of divorce, but nothing had prepared me for the terror of knowing exactly how I would die.

Pancreatic cancer is a brutal disease. It does not kill you quickly and mercifully. It takes its time, slowly destroying your body from the inside while you watch helplessly.

The doctors started me on chemotherapy to slow the spread. But they were honest with me from the beginning.

This was not a cure. This was buying time. Weeks perhaps, months if I was lucky.

But the end was certain and it was coming. I spent many nights alone in my apartment staring at the ceiling and wondering what would happen when my heart finally stopped beating.

Would there be anything after death? Would I face judgment from Allah whom I had ignored for decades?

Would there be only darkness and nothingness? The uncertainty was almost worse than the disease itself.

The chemotherapy made me violently ill. After each treatment session, I would spend days vomiting and shaking with fever.

My hair began falling out in clumps. I lost so much weight that my clothes hung off my body like rags on a scarecrow.

The pain in my abdomen grew worse despite the medications they gave me. Some days I could barely get out of bed.

I had to stop working because I was too weak to care for anyone else.

The woman who had spent 15 years caring for others now needed care herself. It was humiliating and heartbreaking.

I had no family in Lebanon to help me. My few friends did what they could, but they had their own lives and responsibilities.

Most of the time, I was alone with my pain and my fear and the slow countdown to my death.

I began spending more and more time in the hospital as my condition worsened. Some weeks I would be admitted two or three times for complications, infections, dehydration, internal bleeding.

Each time I wondered if this would be the visit I would not return home from.

It was during these long hospital stays that I first noticed the Christians. They would come in groups of two or three walking through the wards with gentle smiles on their faces.

They carried bags filled with supplies like soap and toothpaste and clean towels. They brought food for patients whose families could not afford to feed them.

They sat with the lonely and held the hands of the dying. At first, I assumed they were some kind of charity organization.

Lebanon has many such groups trying to help the poor and sick. But then I heard them praying at the bedside of a patient down the hall.

They were not reciting Islamic prayers. They were praying in the name of Jesus. I felt my body tense with suspicion.

Christians. I had been taught my whole life that Christians were misguided people who worshiped a man instead of God.

I had been told that they had corrupted their scriptures and invented lies about the prophet Isa.

I wanted nothing to do with them. But they kept coming back. Week after week, month after month, the same group would appear in the hospital.

They never forced themselves on anyone. They never demanded that patients listen to their message.

They simply served. They helped nurses change bed sheets. They cleaned up messes that were not their responsibility.

They bought medications for patients who could not afford them. They treated Muslims and Christians with equal kindness without ever asking about religion first.

I watched them from my bed with a mixture of curiosity and confusion. Why would they do all this?

What did they gain from it? In Islam, we were taught that good works earned you favor with Allah.

But these Christians seemed to expect nothing in return. They gave and gave and gave without keeping score.

It made no sense to me. I had never seen religion practiced this way. The Islam of my childhood had been all about rules and punishments and fear.

These Christians seemed to operate from something completely different, something that looked almost like love.

The leader of the group was was a Lebanese woman named Miriam Kuri. She looked to to be about 45 years old with dark hair stre with gray and warm brown eyes that seemed to see right through you.

She was a Marinite Christian, part of an ancient church that had existed in Lebanon for centuries.

I learned later that she had started this hospital ministry after her own mother died of cancer 10 years earlier.

She had watched strangers show her mother kindness during those final months, and she had vowed to spend the rest of her life doing the same for others.

Miriam noticed me watching her one afternoon as she helped an elderly man eat his lunch.

She caught my eye and smiled. I looked away quickly, embarrassed to be caught staring, but later that day, she came to my bedside and introduced herself.

She asked my name and where I was from. When I told her I was Iranianamean, her eyes lit up with genuine interest.

She said she had always wanted to visit Iran and see the ancient ruins of Pipilis.

I expected Miriam to start preaching at me immediately. I expected her to pull out a Bible and tell me I needed to convert or burn in hell.

That is what I thought Christians did. But she did nothing of the sort. She simply sat with me and talked.

She asked about my life, my work as a caregiver, my years in America. She listened without judgment when I told her about my divorce and my estrangement from my family.

She held my hand when I admitted that I was terrified of dying alone in this foreign country.

She did not try to fix me or change me or convert me. She just sat there present and attentive, treating me like a human being worthy of dignity and respect.

When she finally left that evening, she squeezed my hand and said she would pray for me.

I nodded politely, but inside I thought her prayers were useless. What could her Christian God do for a dying Muslim woman who had not prayed in decades?

Miriam came back the next week and the week after that. Every time I was admitted to the hospital, she would somehow find out and appear at my bedside within a day or two.

She brought me small gifts like flowers and chocolates and warm socks because the hospital was always cold.

She helped me wash my hair when I was too weak to do it myself.

She read to me from books she thought I might enjoy. She told me stories about her own life, her children, her late mother, her struggles and joys.

Slowly, against my will, I began to look forward to her visits. She was the only person in Lebanon who seemed to genuinely care whether I lived or died.

She was the closest thing I had to a friend in this country where I had lived for 15 years, but never truly belonged.

I found myself opening up to her in ways I had never opened up to anyone.

I told her about my childhood in Thran, about the emptiness I had carried my whole life, about my failed attempts to find meaning and purpose through career and marriage and service.

One afternoon, Miriam asked me a question that caught me completely offguard. She asked me what I believed happened after death.

I stared at her for a long moment, not knowing how to answer. The truth was, I had no idea.

Islam taught that the dead would be judged by Allah and sent to paradise or hell based on their deeds.

But I had stopped believing in the Islamic version of God decades ago. I had stopped believing in anything.

I told Miriam honestly that I was terrified of death because I did not know what waited on the other side.

I told her that the uncertainty was eating me alive, worse than the cancer. She nodded slowly and did not immediately respond.

I expected her to launch into a sermon about heaven and hell and the importance of accepting Jesus, but instead she just sat quietly for a moment as if considering her words carefully.

Then she said something that would stay with me for the rest of my life.

She said that she was not afraid of death because she knew exactly where she was going.

She said that Jesus had promised his followers eternal life in his presence and that this promise was not based on anything she had done or could ever do.

It was a free gift given out of love. She said that Jesus had died on a cross 2,000 years ago to pay the penalty for all human sin and that anyone who trusted in him would be forgiven and welcomed into God’s family forever.

She spoke these words simply and confidently without any trace of arrogance or manipulation. She was not trying to sell me anything.

She was just telling me what she believed as naturally as if she were describing the weather outside.

I listened to her words and felt something stir inside me. A tiny flicker of curiosity in the darkness of my soul.

A question that I had never allowed myself to ask. What if the Christians were right?

What if Jesus was more than just a prophet? What if there really was a way to face death without fear?

I asked Miriam to tell me more about Jesus. She smiled as if she had been waiting for this moment and reached into her bag.

She pulled out a small book, a Bible translated into Farsy, my native language. She said she had been carrying it with her for weeks, hoping I would eventually ask for it.

She placed it in my hands and told me to start with the Gospel of John.

She said that book would introduce me to who Jesus really was. I took the Bible and hid it under my pillow.

I felt like a criminal possessing forbidden material. In Iran, owning a Bible was illegal.

Even in Lebanon, I felt nervous having it near me. What if someone saw? What if they told my family?

What if they reported me to some authority? But that night, after the nurses finished their rounds and the lights were dimmed, I pulled out the little book and began to read.

The words I found there would begin to change everything I thought I knew about God.

I read the Gospel of John slowly over the following weeks. Every time I was admitted to the hospital, I would take out the book and read a few more pages.

The words were unlike anything I had encountered in the Quran. The Quran spoke of a distant and demanding God who kept track of every deed and would judge harshly on the last day.

But this book spoke of a God who loved the world so much that he sent his own son to save it.

It spoke of a Jesus who healed the sick and welcomed sinners and forgave people who did not deserve forgiveness.

It spoke of eternal life as a gift rather than a reward for perfect obedience.

I read about Jesus raising a dead man named Lazarus back to life. I read about Jesus washing the feet of his own disciples like a servant.

I read about Jesus being crucified and rising from the dead 3 days later. Each page raised more questions than it answered.

But something was happening inside me that I could not explain. The emptiness that had haunted me for 50 years was beginning to feel a little less empty.

Miriam and I talked about what I was reading whenever she visited. She answered my questions patiently without ever pressuring me to make a decision.

She said that coming to faith was a journey and that everyone walked that journey at their own pace.

She said Jesus was patient and would wait for me no matter how long it took.

I appreciated her gentleness more than I could express. Other Christians I had encountered over the years had been aggressive and judgmental.

They had shoved their religion down my throat and condemned me when I resisted. But Miriam was different.

She seemed to understand that a lifetime of Islamic teaching could not be undone in a single conversation.

She gave me space to wrestle with my doubts and fears. She loved me unconditionally without demanding that I change first.

And slowly, week by week, hospital visit by hospital visit, the walls I had built around my heart began to crumble.

I was still not ready to call myself a Christian. But I was no longer certain that I was a Muslim either.

I was somewhere in between, searching for truth with a desperation that only a dying woman can understand.

By February 2026, my condition had deteriorated significantly. The cancer was spreading faster than the doctors had predicted.

The pain had become almost unbearable despite the strongest medications they could give me. I was spending more time in the hospital than out of it.

My body was failing and I knew the end was approaching quickly. The doctor stopped talking about months and started talking about weeks, maybe days.

I could see the pity in their eyes when they examined me. They had done everything they could and it was not enough.

I was going to die and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.

I lay in my hospital bed during those final days of February, feeling weaker than I had ever felt in my life.

Walking to the bathroom exhausted me completely. Eating even a few bites of food made me nauseious.

I slept most of the time because being awake meant being in pain. The only moments of peace came when Miriam visited and read to me from the Bible or simply sat holding my hand in silence.

The world outside my hospital room was growing increasingly tense during those weeks. The news was filled with reports about rising conflict between Iran and the West.

American and Israeli officials were making threatening statements. Iranian leaders were responding with defiance and promises of retaliation.

Everyone could feel that something terrible was building. War seemed not just possible but inevitable.

I watched the news coverage from my hospital bed with a strange sense of detachment.

I was dying anyway. What did it matter if the world caught fire around me?

But then I would think about my mother still living in Thran. I would think about my brother Raza and his wife and their children whom I had never met.

They were in danger and there was nothing I could do to help them. I could not even help myself.

I was trapped in this failing body waiting for death while the people I loved faced destruction thousands of miles away.

On the morning of February the 28th, 2026, I woke to the sound of urgent voices in the hospital corridor.

Nurses were rushing past my door with worried expressions. I heard someone mention something about an attack.

I reached for the remote control and turned on the small television mounted on the wall across from my bed.

What I saw made my heart stop. Breaking news banners scrolled across the screen announcing that American and Israeli forces had launched a massive military operation against Iran.

They were calling it Operation Epic Fury. The footage showed missiles streaking through the night sky over Thran.

Explosions lit up the darkness. Buildings were collapsing. Fires were burning everywhere. The reporter said that critical government and military targets had been struck across the country.

The Supreme Leader’s compound had been directly hit. There were unconfirmed reports that Ayatollah Ali Kam himself had been killed in the attack.

I stared at the television screen, unable to process what I was seeing. Thran was burning.

The city where I was born. The city where my mother and brother still lived was being destroyed before my eyes.

I tried to call them, but the phone lines were jammed. I tried again and again, but could not get through.

I sent text messages that showed as undelivered. I was completely cut off from my family at the moment they needed me most.

The television kept showing the same footage over and over. Missiles falling, explosions blooming, smoke rising into the sky.

The reporters were saying that this was the largest military operation in the Middle East in decades.

They were saying that Iran’s air defenses had been overwhelmed. They were saying that the Islamic Republic was under attack on multiple fronts.

I watched in horror as the country of my birth was torn apart. Whatever I had felt about the regime and its oppression, these were still my people.

This was still my homeland. And now it was burning. Later that afternoon, the news confirmed what everyone had suspected.

Ayatollah Ali Kam, the supreme leader of the Islamic Republic of Iran, was dead. He had been killed in the initial strikes along with several other senior leaders.

The man who had ruled Iran with an iron fist for over three decades was gone.

The face of the Islamic Republic, the voice that had shaped my childhood and terrified my parents, was silenced forever.

I did not know how to feel. Part of me felt a grim satisfaction. This was the regime that had stolen my childhood.

This was the system that had forced my family to live in fear. This was the theocracy that had imprisoned and executed anyone who dared to question it.

But another part of me felt only grief. Grief for the innocent people caught in the crossfire.

Grief for my mother who was somewhere in that chaos. Grief for a country that had never known peace in my lifetime.

I lay in my hospital bed weeping for reasons I could not fully explain. Miriam arrived at the hospital that evening.

She had heard the news and rushed to be with me, knowing I would be devastated.

She found me curled up in my bed with tears streaming down my face and the television still showing images of destruction.

She did not say anything at first. She just sat beside me and put her arm around my shoulders.

She let me cry without trying to stop me or comfort me with empty words.

She simply held me and was present with me in my pain. After a long time, my tears finally slowed and I was able to speak.

I told her I could not reach my family. I told her I did not know if my mother was alive or dead.

I told her I was terrified and confused and did not understand why any of this was happening.

I told her I felt completely alone in the universe with no one to turn to and nowhere to find the hope.

Miriam listened to everything I said. Then she took my hands and hers and looked directly into my eyes.

She asked me a question I had been avoiding for months. She asked me if I was ready to give my life to Jesus.

I stared at her for a long moment. The question hung in the air between us, heavy with meaning.

I had been circling around this decision for weeks, reading the Bible, asking questions, feeling the pull of something I could not name.

But I had always held back. I had always found reasons to wait. I was not ready.

I did not understand enough. I was not sure I believed. But now lying in that hospital bed with death approaching and my homeland burning and my family unreachable, all my excuses seemed meaningless.

What was I waiting for? What more did I need to see? The foundations of my old world were crumbling.

The Supreme Leader was dead. The Islamic Republic was falling. Everything I had been taught as a child was collapsing before my eyes.

Maybe it was time to let go of the old and reach for something new.

I looked at Miriam through my tears and I said, “Yes. Yes, I was ready.

Yes, I wanted to give my life to Jesus. Yes, I wanted to know the peace she had described.

Yes, I wanted to face death without fear. Yes, I wanted to be forgiven for all the years I had wasted searching for meaning in all the wrong places.”

Miriam’s face broke into a smile brighter than anything I had ever seen. She squeezed my hands tightly and asked if I wanted to pray with her.

I nodded. I did not know what to say or how to pray to a god I was only beginning to understand.

But Miriam guided me through it. She spoke simple words and I repeated them after her.

I confessed that I was a sinner who could not save myself. I declared that I believed Jesus was the son of God who died for my sins and rose again.

I asked him to forgive me and come into my heart and be my Lord and Savior.

I asked him to give me the peace that Miriam had described. I asked him to help me face whatever was coming without fear.

The moment I finished that prayer, something happened that I cannot fully explain. It was like a weight I had been carrying my entire life suddenly lifted off my shoulders.

The emptiness that had haunted me since childhood was suddenly filled with warmth and light.

The fear of death that had been crushing me for months loosened its grip on my heart.

I felt peace, real, genuine, profound peace unlike anything I had ever experienced in 52 years of life.

I started crying again, but these were different tears. These were tears of relief and joy and release.

I felt like a prisoner who had finally been set free after decades in chains.

I felt like a blind woman who could suddenly see. I felt like I had finally come home after wandering lost in the wilderness for my entire life.

Miriam held me while I wept. And she wept with me. She kept whispering, “Thank you, Jesus.”

Over and over again. The television was still showing images of Iran burning. The world was still falling apart.

My family was still unreachable. But somehow none of that mattered as much as it had an hour before.

I had found something that could not be destroyed by missiles or cancer or death itself.

I had found Jesus and everything was different now. I slept peacefully that night for the first time in months.

Despite everything happening in the world, despite the uncertainty about my family, despite the cancer still destroying my body, I slept like a child safe in the arms of a loving parent.

The fear that had been my constant companion was gone. The emptiness that had haunted me for 52 years was filled.

I did not understand everything that had happened to me. I did not have all the answers to all my questions.

But I knew something had fundamentally changed inside me. I had crossed a line that could never be uncrossed.

I had given my life to Jesus and he had given me peace in return.

When I woke the next morning on March 1st, 2026, the television was still playing news coverage of the attack on Iran.

The reports were confirming what had been rumored the night before. Ayatollah Ali Kam was dead.

Multiple senior revolutionary guard commanders were dead. The nuclear facilities at Natans and Ford had been destroyed.

The Islamic Republic had been decapitated in a single devastating strike. I watched the news with a strange sense of detachment.

The images of destruction that had devastated me the day before now seemed distant and unreal.

I still grieved for the innocent lives lost. I still worried about my mother and brother.

But the overwhelming terror and despair had been replaced by something else. A quiet confidence that whatever happened, I was not facing it alone.

Jesus was with me now. He would carry me through whatever was coming. I closed my eyes and whispered a prayer for my family in Thran.

I asked Jesus to protect them. I asked him to somehow let them know that I loved them even though I could not reach them.

I asked him to open their eyes to the truth just as he had opened mine.

I did not know if my prayers would be answered. I did not know if I would ever see my mother again.

But I trusted that Jesus heard me and that was enough. Around midm morning, I began feeling strange.

It started as a tingling sensation in my hands and feet. Then my heart began racing for no apparent reason.

I felt lightaded and dizzy even though I was lying flat in my bed. I pressed the call button for the nurse, but before anyone could respond, my whole body began to shake.

It felt like electricity was surging through every nerve and muscle. My back arched off the bed.

My arms and legs jerked uncontrollably. I tried to call out, but no sound came from my mouth.

My vision blurred and then went completely white. I could hear alarms beeping somewhere in the distance.

I could hear voices shouting orders. I could hear someone saying my name over and over again.

But all of it seemed to be coming from very far away like sounds heard underwater.

Then even those distant sounds faded into silence and I felt myself being pulled away from my body.

The sensation of leaving my physical form was unlike anything I can describe with human words.

It was not painful. It was not frightening. It was simply a release. Like slipping out of a coat that had grown too heavy to wear.

I rose upward and found myself floating above my hospital bed. I could see my own body lying there below me, convulsing as nurses rushed to help.

I could see them checking my vital signs and calling for a doctor. I could see the fear on their faces as they realized something was seriously wrong.

But I felt no connection to that body anymore. It was like looking at a stranger.

I watched for a moment, curious but not concerned, and then I felt a pull from somewhere above me, a gentle but irresistible force drawing me upward towards something I could not yet see.

I stopped resisting and let myself be carried. I rose through the ceiling of the hospital, through the floors above me, through the roof and into the sky over Beirut.

I kept rising higher and higher. The city of Beirut shrank below me until it was just a cluster of tiny buildings along the coast.

I could see the Mediterranean Sea sparkling in the morning sun. I could see the mountains of Lebanon rising to the east.

I could see the curve of the coastline stretching north and south. Then even those landmarks became small and distant as I continued to ascend.

I passed through clouds that felt like cool mist against whatever I had become. I rose until I could see the entire country of Lebanon spread out below me.

Then the entire eastern Mediterranean. Then the whole Middle East with its deserts and rivers and ancient cities.

I could see Syria and Jordan and Israel and Iraq and even Iran in the distance.

Smoke still rising from the attacks of the previous day. The Earth itself began to curve beneath me and I realized I was rising beyond the atmosphere into the darkness of space.

The darkness did not last long. Ahead of me, I saw a light, small at first, but growing rapidly brighter as I moved toward it.

This was not the harsh light of the sun. This was something different, something warmer and more welcoming, something that seemed to to pulse with life and love and power beyond anything I had ever encountered.

The light called to me without words. It invited me forward. It promised safety and peace and answers to questions I had carried my entire life.

I moved toward it without fear, drawn by a force that felt like coming home after a lifetime of wandering.

The light grew until it surrounded me completely, wrapping me in warmth that penetrated to the very core of my being.

Then suddenly, I was standing somewhere else entirely. I was no longer floating in space.

I was no longer in the darkness. I was standing on solid ground in a place more beautiful than anything my human mind could have imagined.

The colors in this place were impossible to describe. They were more vivid and alive than any colors on Earth.

The greens were greener than any forest. The blues were deeper than any ocean. There were colors I had never seen before, shades that do not exist in the physical world.

I stood on grass that seemed to glow with inner light. Flowers bloomed around me in colors that made my heart ache with their beauty.

Trees rose toward a sky that was not blue but golden, radiating peace and warmth.

A river flowed nearby, crystal clear and sparkling like liquid diamonds. The air smelled sweet like honey and jasmine and something else I could not name, something pure and perfect.

Every breath I took filled me with energy and joy. I looked down at my hands and saw that they were different.

The wrinkles and age spots were gone. The skin was smooth and young. I felt strong in a way I had not felt in decades.

The cancer was gone. The pain was gone. The weakness was gone. I was whole.

I stood there marveling at my surroundings when I became aware that I was not alone.

Someone was approaching me from a path that wound through the garden. I turned to look and what I saw made my knees buckle beneath me.

A man was walking toward me, dressed in robes so white they seemed to be made of light itself.

Radiance emanated from him in gentle waves, not harsh or blinding, but warm and welcoming.

His face was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, filled with strength and gentleness in perfect balance.

His eyes held depths of love and wisdom that made me feel both completely known and completely accepted.

I knew immediately who this was. I did not need anyone to tell me. Every fiber of my being recognized him.

This was Jesus. The same Jesus I had read about in the Gospel of John.

The same Jesus I had given my life to just hours before. The same Jesus that Miriam had told me about for months.

He was real. He was here. He was walking toward me through a garden in paradise.

He stopped a few feet away from me and smiled. His smile was like the sun breaking through clouds after a long storm.

It warmed places inside me that I did not even know were cold. He spoke my name and his voice was like music, like thunder, like a father calling his child home after a long journey.

Sharin, he said, “Welcome.” I have been waiting for you. I tried to respond, but no words came out.

I fell to my knees before him, overwhelmed by his presence, overwhelmed by the reality that he was actually standing in front of me.

He reached down and took my hands in his. I felt the scars in his palms, the wounds from the nails that had pierced him on the cross.

The scars were real. The crucifixion had happened. Everything Miriam had told me was true.

He lifted me to my feet and held my hands gently. Do not be afraid.

He said, “You are safe now. You are home. But I have brought you here for a purpose.

There are things I must show you. Things that are coming, things that my people need to know.

Will you carry my message back to the world?” I looked into his eyes and saw eternity reflected there.

I saw love deeper than any ocean and wider than any sky. I saw compassion for every broken soul in earth.

I saw grief for those who would reject him. I saw hope for those who would receive him.

I saw the weight of the whole world resting on his shoulders. And I knew in that moment that I would do anything he asked.

I would go anywhere he sent me. I would speak whatever words he gave me to speak.

I nodded my head, still unable to find my voice. Yes, I finally managed to whisper.

Yes, I will carry your message. Show me what I need to see. He smiled again and took my hand more firmly.

Come, he said, there is much to show you and little time remains. The door of grace is closing.

My people must be warned. Iran must be warned. The world must be warned. Come and see what is still to come.

Jesus held my hand, and we began walking together through the beautiful garden. The grass felt soft beneath my feet, and the air was filled with a fragrance sweeter than anything on Earth.

But as we walked, the scenery around us began to change. The colors faded slightly, and the golden sky grew darker.

I sensed that we were moving towards something serious, something that would require all my attention and courage.

Jesus looked at me with compassion in his eyes and said that what he was about to show me would be difficult to watch.

He said these were events that were still coming to Iran in the year 2026.

Events that would shake the nation and the entire Middle East. He said I must pay close attention because I would need to remember every detail when I returned to my body.

He said the people of Iran needed to hear this warning before it was too late.

I nodded and gripped his hand tighter, preparing myself for whatever was coming. The garden disappeared completely, and suddenly we were standing high above the earth, looking down at Iran.

I could see the familiar shape of the country spread out below me. The mountains and deserts and cities I had known in my childhood.

Smoke still rose from Thran and other locations that had been struck in the attacks.

But Jesus pointed toward the capital and said, “Watch what happens next.” I saw the remaining leaders of the Islamic Republic gathering in emergency meetings.

They were frightened and confused without Kam to guide them. The Supreme Leader had held absolute power for so long that no one knew how to function without him.

The assembly of experts met hastily and announced the formation of a transitional government. They appointed a council of senior clerics and revolutionary guard commanders to share power temporarily.

They promised the Iranian people that stability would be restored and that the Islamic Republic would survive this crisis.

Jesus told me to watch carefully as the weeks unfolded before my eyes like a movie playing at high speed.

I saw the transitional government making announcements on television trying to project confidence and control.

I saw them promising reforms and dialogue with the international community. I saw some Iranians cautiously hopeful that maybe this time things would be different.

Maybe the old hardliners would finally loosen their grip. Maybe the new leaders would bring real change.

But Jesus shook his head sadly and said this hope was an illusion. He told me to look deeper and see what was really happening behind the scenes.

I looked and saw the truth. The same corrupt men who had oppressed the people for decades were still in charge.

They had simply rearranged themselves into a new formation. They had no intention of sharing power or allowing genuine reform.

They were fighting among themselves for control. Each faction trying to grab as much influence as possible while pretending to cooperate.

The scene shifted and I saw the cracks appearing in the transitional government within weeks of its formation.

Revolutionary guard commanders accused each other of disloyalty. Hardline clerics clashed with those who wanted to negotiate with the West.

Secret meetings turned into shouting matches. Allies became enemies overnight. The unity they displayed on television was a complete lie.

Behind closed doors, they were tearing each other apart. Meanwhile, the economy collapsed entirely. The war had destroyed critical infrastructure.

Sanctions tightened as the international community refused to trust the new leadership. The Iranian realal became worthless almost overnight.

Banks closed their doors. Businesses shut down. Food shortages spread across the country as supply chains broke down.

Ordinary Iranians who had hoped for stability found themselves worse off than before. They could not buy bread.

They could not afford medicine. They watched their savings become worthless paper. The suffering was immense and growing worse by the day.

Then the protests began. I saw them starting small in the poorer neighborhoods of Thran.

Groups of desperate people demanding food and jobs, but they spread rapidly, growing larger and angrier with each passing day.

Soon millions of people filled the streets of every major city. Thran, Isvahan, Shiraz, Mashad, Tabris.

The crowds were unlike anything Iran had seen before. They were not just students and activists.

They were ordinary families, workers, even some government employees who had finally had enough. They chanted slogans against the regime.

They tore down posters of Kam and the new leaders. They burned government buildings and attacked symbols of the Islamic Republic.

The transitional government ordered the revolutionary guard to crush the protests as they had done so many times before.

But this time, something was different. Some guard units refused to fire on their own people.

Others defected entirely, joining the protesters in the streets. The regime’s last line of defense was crumbling from within.

Jesus told me to watch the final collapse. I saw the transitional government falling apart completely by the end of 2026.

The clerics fled to K, seeking protection in the holy city. The Revolutionary Guard commanders turned on each other, some trying to escape the country, while others fought for the remaining scraps of power.

The government buildings in Thran were overrun by crowds. Files were burned. Offices were looted.

Symbols of the regime were destroyed. The Islamic Republic that had ruled Iran since 1979 ceased to exist.

It did not fall to foreign invasion. It collapsed from within, destroyed by its own corruption and the anger of its own people.

Jesus looked at me with tears in his eyes and said, “This was the first event I needed to share.

The transitional government would fail. The Islamic Republic would end. Iran would be plunged into chaos before finding its way to something new.”

The scene changed again, and I found myself looking at Thran from a different angle.

The city looked quieter now, the protests apparently over for the moment. People were going about their daily lives, trying to survive amid the economic collapse.

Then I felt the ground beneath my feet begin to shake. It started as a low rumble, barely noticeable at first, but it grew stronger and stronger until the whole earth seemed to be convulsing.

I watched in horror as buildings began to sway and crack. The old structures in the southern parts of the city collapsed first, brick and concrete crumbling like sand.

Then the taller buildings began to fall. Modern towers that had been built to withstand earthquakes but could not survive this.

I saw the Milad Tower, the iconic landmark of Thran skyline, crack at its base and topple slowly to the ground.

I saw highways buckle and bridges collapse. I saw apartment buildings pancake floor upon floor, trapping thousands of people inside.

The destruction was beyond anything I could have imagined. Jesus told me this was the great earthquake that would strike Thyron.

He said scientists had warned for decades that the city sat on major fault lines and was overdue for a catastrophic quake.

But the regime had ignored the warnings, building cheaply and without proper safety standards. Now the consequences would be devastating.

He showed me the death toll rising into the hundreds of thousands as rescue workers struggled to reach survivors buried in the rubble.

He showed me hospitals overwhelmed with the injured and dying. He showed me families weeping in the streets over the bodies of their loved ones.

He showed me the entire city transformed into a wasteland of broken concrete and twisted steel.

The earthquake would strike while Iran was already weakened by war and political collapse. The nation would have no capacity to respond.

International aid would be slow to arrive because of the ongoing chaos. The suffering would be immense.

But Jesus said something else would emerge from this tragedy. Many Iranians who had never thought about God would cry out in their desperation and he would answer them.

The third vision began with darkness giving way to light. I saw small groups of people gathering in homes across Iran.

They were reading books and singing songs and praying together. At first I did not understand what I was seeing.

Then I realized these were Christians. Secret believers who had been hiding their faith for years were suddenly coming out into the open.

The collapse of the Islamic Republic had removed the threat of persecution. The religious police were gone.

The morality patrols had disappeared. For the first time in decades, Iranians could explore faith freely without fear of arrest or execution.

And they were turning to Jesus by the thousands, by the tens of thousands, by the hundreds of thousands.

Jesus smiled as he showed me this vision, and I could see the joy on his face.

He said this would be the greatest spiritual awakening in Persian history. More Iranians would come to faith in him during 2026 than in all the previous centuries combined.

I watched as the underground church exploded into the open. House churches that had hidden in basements and apartments now rented buildings and met publicly.

Secret believers who had whispered their faith in private now proclaimed it in the streets.

Former Muslims who had converted in secret now stood before crowds and shared their testimonies.

Bibles that had been smuggled into the country were now sold openly in markets. Christian worship music played on radios.

Baptisms happened in rivers and lakes and even public fountains. The revival spread like fire across dry grass, moving from city to city and village to village.

Young people who had grown disillusioned with Islam embraced Jesus with passion and zeal. Old people who had practiced Islam their whole lives wept as they encountered the love of God for the first time.

Families who had been divided by religion were reunited in faith. Iran, the heart of Shia Islam, was being transformed into a center of Christian faith.

Jesus told me that Persia would become a light to the entire Middle East, sending missionaries to nations that had never heard the gospel.

The fourth vision showed me the wider region around Iran. I saw the networks of proxy forces that Iran had built over decades.

Hezbollah in Lebanon, the Houthis in Yemen, Shia militias in Iraq and Syria. These groups had received money and weapons from Thran for years.

They had carried out Iran’s will across the Middle East, spreading violence and instability. But now I watched as those networks collapsed one by one.

Without Iranian funding and leadership, Hezbollah fell into disarray. Their weapons shipments stopped. Their bank accounts were frozen.

Their commanders were killed by Israeli strikes or arrested by Lebanese authorities. The organization that had terrorized Lebanon and threatened Israel for 40 years crumbled within months.

I saw the same pattern repeating with the Houthis and the Iraqi militias. Without Tyran support, they fractured and faded.

The axis of resistance that Iran had built so carefully was dismantled completely. Jesus told me this was the fall of the proxy empire.

The terror networks would be destroyed and millions of people who had lived under their control would finally have the chance to hear the truth.

The fifth and final vision was the most disturbing of all. I saw a man emerging from the chaos in Iran.

He was charismatic and powerful, speaking with authority that captivated everyone who heard him. He claimed to be the Mai, the long- awaited Islamic messiah that Shia Muslims believed would appear at the end of times.

He performed signs and wonders that amazed the crowds. He called down fire from the sky.

He healed the sick and seemed to know the future. Millions of desperate Iranians flocked to him, believing he was sent by God to restore Islam’s glory.

Even some who had begun seeking Jesus were drawn back to this man. Deceived by his miracles and his message, he promised to unite Sunni and Shia to defeat the enemies of Islam to establish justice on earth.

His following grew rapidly, spreading beyond Iran to other Muslim nations. Jesus gripped my hand tightly and told me this man was not the Mai.

He was a false messiah empowered by Satan. He was leading millions of souls toward eternal destruction.

I must warn everyone not to follow him. No matter what signs he performed, the true Messiah had already come 2,000 years ago and would return from heaven, not from Iran.

Jesus turned to face me directly after the fifth vision ended. His eyes were filled with urgency and love.

He told me, “I must return to my body now. I must share everything I had seen with the world.

I must warn Iran and the Muslims everywhere that the door of grace was closing.

The events I had witnessed would unfold rapidly in the remaining months of 2026. There was little time left for people to choose him.

He told me he loved the people of Iran with an everlasting love. He wept for those who would reject him and perish.

He longed to gather them like a mother hen gathers her chicks under her wings.

But he would not force anyone to come. The choice had to be free. I must tell them the truth and let them decide.

He placed his hands on my shoulders and looked into my eyes one final time.

“Go now, Shiran,” he said. “Tell them what you have seen. Tell them I am coming soon.

Tell them to choose me while there is still time.” The light around me began to intensify until everything was pure white brilliance.

I felt myself being pulled backward away from Jesus, away from that beautiful place, away from everything I had just experienced.

His face was the last thing I saw. Still filled with love and compassion, still urging me to complete the mission he had given me.

Then the white light transformed into darkness and I felt myself falling. Not falling into emptiness or terror but falling back into something heavy and confining my body.

I was returning to my physical form on earth. The sensation was jarring and painful after the freedom I had experienced in the heavenly realm.

Suddenly I could feel weight again. I could feel the rough hospital sheets beneath me.

I could feel the tubes connected to my arms. I could feel the dull ache of my failing organs.

But something was different. The crushing pain that had been my constant companion for months was significantly reduced.

The weakness that had made even breathing difficult was somehow lighter. I opened my eyes and saw fluorescent hospital lights above me.

Faces swam into focus around my bed. Nurses and doctors were staring at me with expressions of complete shock.

One nurse had her hand over her mouth. Another was checking the monitors repeatedly as if she could not believe what they were showing.

A doctor was speaking rapidly in Arabic, calling for additional tests and consultations. I tried to speak, but my throat was dry and the words would not come at first.

I managed to croak out a request for water. The nurse closest to me nearly dropped the cup in her haste to bring it to my lips.

I drank slowly, feeling the cool liquid soothe my parched throat. As my mind cleared and my senses returned, I began to understand what had happened.

They thought I had died. They had watched my body convulse and then go still.

They had seen my vital signs crash. They had been preparing to pronounce me dead when suddenly my eyes opened and I started breathing normally again.

To them it was medically impossible. To me it was exactly what Jesus had promised.

The doctor in charge asked me how I was feeling. I told him the pain was mostly gone.

I told him I felt stronger than I had in months. He shook his head in disbelief and ordered a full battery of tests.

They drew blood, took X-rays, performed scans of my abdomen and chest. I lay patiently through all of it, knowing what they would find.

The results came back within hours and caused even more confusion among the medical staff.

The tumors had not disappeared, but they had stopped growing. The cancer that had been aggressively spreading through my body had suddenly become dormant.

My blood work showed improvement across multiple markers. My vital signs were stable and strong.

The doctors could not explain it. They gathered outside my room and I could hear them arguing about what could have caused such a sudden change.

Some suggested the chemotherapy had finally started working. Others said it must be a testing error.

None of them considered the possibility that Jesus himself had touched my body and given me strength for a purpose.

Miriam came to visit me that evening. She had heard from the nurses that something extraordinary had happened.

When she walked into my room and saw me sitting up in bed, alert and clear-headed for the first time in weeks, she burst into tears.

She rushed to my bedside and embraced me, thanking Jesus over and over again for what he had done.

I held her tightly and told her everything. I told her about leaving my body and rising toward the light.

I told her about the beautiful garden and the colors that do not exist on earth.

I told her about meeting Jesus face to face, about seeing the scars on his hands, about hearing his voice speak, my name.

I told her about the five visions he showed me concerning Iran, the transitional government that would collapse, the great earthquake that would devastate Thran, the unprecedented revival that would sweep across the nation, the fall of the proxy empire, the false Mai who would rise to deceive millions.

Miriam listened to every word with tears streaming down her face. When I finished speaking, Miriam took my hands and prayed with me.

She thanked Jesus for the visions and the message. She asked him to give me strength to share what I had seen.

She asked him to protect me from anyone who might try to silence me. She asked him to open the hearts of those who would hear this testimony.

When she finished praying, she looked at me with serious eyes and said, “I needed to record everything as soon as possible.”

She said the world needed to hear this message before the events began to unfold.

She said Jesus had sent me back for a reason and I could not waste a single moment.

I nodded in agreement. I knew she was right. The urgency I had felt in that heavenly place was still burning inside me.

Time was running out. The door of grace was closing. I had to speak now while there was still opportunity.

The doctors discharged me on March 3rd, 2026. They could not justify keeping me in the hospital when all my vital signs were stable and my condition had improved so dramatically.

They warned me that the cancer was still present and that I should not expect this improvement to last.

They scheduled follow-up appointments and gave me prescriptions for pain medication just in case. I thanked them politely, but I knew something they did not know.

Jesus had given me this time not for my own sake, but for the sake of his message.

However long this strength lasted, I would use every moment to complete the mission he had given me.

Miriam drove me back to my small apartment in Beirut. The city was tense with fear about the ongoing conflict.

Many people had fled, worried that Lebanon might be next to face attacks. But I felt no fear.

I had seen what was coming and I knew that Jesus was in control of everything.

I spent March 4th resting and praying and preparing what I wanted to say. Miriam helped me set up a simple recording area in my apartment.

We used her phone to capture video. The quality would not be professional, but that did not matter.

What mattered was the message. I wrote notes to help me remember the details of each vision.

I practiced speaking clearly despite my weakened voice. I prayed that Jesus would give me the words to say and the courage to say them.

That night, I tried one more time to reach my family in Iran. The phone lines were still disrupted, but I finally managed to get through to a neighbor of my mother.

She told me that my mother and brother were alive. Their neighborhood had not been directly hit by the attacks.

They were frightened and struggling like everyone else, but they were safe for now. I wept with relief and thanked Jesus for protecting them.

I asked the neighbor to give them a message. I told her to tell them that I loved them and that I had found the truth.

I told her to tell them to look for a video I would be recording.

I told her to tell them that everything they had been taught about God was about to change.

On March 5th, 2026, I sat down in front of the camera and began recording this testimony.

I am still sitting here now, still speaking these words, still hoping that someone out there will hear and believe.

I know my time is limited. The doctor said the cancer could become aggressive again at any moment.

The strength Jesus gave me will not last forever. But I will use every breath I have left to share what I have seen.

I was a Muslim woman born in Thran who spent 52 years searching for meaning and finding only emptiness.

I ran from Iran to America to Lebanon trying to escape that emptiness. But it followed me everywhere.

I thought death would be the end of my search, a final descent into nothingness or judgment.

But Jesus found me in a hospital in Beirut. He used a Lebanese Christian woman named Miriam to show me his love.

He saved me on the very day the supreme leader of Iran was killed. And then he took me to heaven and showed me what is coming.

To my mother in Thran, if you ever see this video, please know that I love you more than words can express.

I am sorry for the years we spent apart. I am sorry for the distance that grew between us.

But I have found something that fills the emptiness we both carried. I have found Jesus, the true Messiah, the son of God who loves you and died for you.

Please do not follow the false mai when he appears. Please do not be deceived by his signs and wonders.

Please open your heart to Jesus before it is too late. He is waiting for you with arms open wide.

To my brother Raza, I know you work for the government and I know this message puts you in a difficult position, but I am begging you to listen.

The Islamic Republic is falling. The system you served is collapsing. Everything you thought was solid ground is turning to sand.

But there is a rock that will never be moved. His name is Jesus and he can give you a foundation that nothing can shake.

Please consider what I have said. Please search for the truth before the earthquake comes.

To every Iranian watching this, whether you are in Iran or scattered across the world, please hear me.

I was one of you. I grew up with the same teachings and the same traditions.

I memorized the same Quran verses and observed the same rituals. I believed what you believe now.

But it was all empty. It could not save me. It could not give me peace.

It could not fill the void in my soul. Only Jesus could do that. And he can do the same for you.

The events I described are coming. The transitional government will fail. The earthquake will strike Thran.

The revival will sweep across our nation. The proxy forces will collapse. The false mai will rise to deceive.

These things will happen just as Jesus showed me. But in the midst of all this chaos, there is hope.

Jesus is calling you to himself. He is offering forgiveness and eternal life to anyone who will receive him.

You do not have to earn it. You cannot earn it. It is a free gift given out of love.

If you want to receive Jesus right now, pray this prayer with me from your heart.

Say these words and mean them. Jesus, I believe you are the son of God.

I believe you died on the cross for my sins and rose again on the third day.

I confess that I am a sinner who cannot save myself. I have tried to earn heaven through my own works.

But I know now that it is impossible. Please forgive all my sins. Wash me clean with your blood.

Come into my heart and be my Lord and Savior. I turn away from everything that kept me from you.

I choose to follow you alone for the rest of my life. Thank you for loving me and dying for me.

In your name I pray. Amen. If you prayed that prayer sincerely, you are now a child of God.

Not because of anything you did, but because of what Jesus did for you. Welcome to the family.

Your eternity is secure. No matter what happens in this world. My name is Sharin Ahmadi.

I was born in Iran, lived in America, and have spent the last 15 years in Lebanon.

I was diagnosed with terminal cancer and given months to live. But on February 28th, 2026, I gave my life to Jesus Christ.

On March 1st, 2026, I died and met him face to face in heaven. He showed me five events still coming to Iran before the end of this year.

He sent me back to warn the world. I do not know how much longer I have on this earth.

The cancer may return tomorrow. The conflict in the region may reach Lebanon. Anything could happen.

But I am not afraid anymore. I know where I am going when I die.

I know who is waiting for me on the other side. And I know that my mission on earth is to tell as many people as possible about him before my time is finished.

The door of grace is still open, but it is closing. Please do not wait another day.

Choose Jesus now while you still can.