The Ordeal of Desperation Part 1

The Prophets Messenger 

Desperation is a dangerous state, for it blinds reason and clouds faith. In the abyss of despair, one may find themselves grasping at shadows, unable to discern the divine from deception. Such was my plight—a tale of desperation, cunning schemes, and a fragile hope that teetered on the brink of ruin.

It was not the first time I had been ensnared by the guile of men—agents of darkness masquerading as light. Yet, this incident stands out vividly in my memory. My body, wracked by illness, left me yearning for a miracle, willing to embrace anything that promised relief. Desperate times, indeed, call for desperate measures. But desperation, unchecked, can be a gateway to damnation.

On a warm and serene afternoon in our village, the air was filled with laughter as my friend and family gathered, sharing stories and enjoying one another’s company. Suddenly, a firm knock echoed through the room, cutting through the jovial chatter. All fell silent.

We opened the door to find an elderly woman accompanied by a solemn-looking man. As was custom in our village, we welcomed them with a prayer before exchanging greetings. The woman introduced herself as a devout member of Prophet Owuor’s ministry. Her appearance was striking—her long, flowing dress concealed her feet entirely, and her head was wrapped tightly in a scarf. In the sweltering countryside heat, such modesty was as puzzling as it was admirable.

Without delay, the woman began questioning me about my condition. I shared the briefest account of my accident, though it pained me to revisit that dark chapter of my life. Her response was immediate and unwavering: "Do you know you can be healed?"

Hope flickered briefly within me as I nodded, though skepticism quickly took root. She spoke of the prophet's miraculous healings, claiming that divine power would soon restore me. But her instructions were strange.

She insisted I tune in to a specific radio channel from 8 PM until 3 AM—the sacred hours, she said, when the angel of healing moved through the airwaves. My friend and I exchanged incredulous glances, struggling to suppress laughter. Surely, such claims bordered on the absurd. Yet, her conviction was unwavering.

The situation grew even stranger. The woman produced a phone and requested to record my "before" state, envisioning a triumphant "after" to showcase my miraculous transformation. As a paraplegic, I could barely move my lower torso, yet she urged me to rise, to walk, to perform the impossible for her ancient device. Frustration mounted as I humored her, only to collapse back into my seat, my patience worn thin.

Inwardly, I seethed. Did Christ demand evidence of His miracles? Did He stage before-and-after performances for the world to see? This felt more like theater than faith. Still, we endured her visit, maintaining politeness until she took her leave.

That night, alone in my room, her words haunted me. What if? Desperation whispered. Against my better judgment, I reached for my phone and tuned in to the prophet's YouTube channel. The preacher's voice droned on, a monotonous cadence that lulled me into a deep sleep.

When I awoke, the faint crowing of a rooster signaled dawn. I had slept through the sacred hours. The so-called angel of healing had come and gone, bypassing me entirely. A bitter laugh escaped my lips. Was this divine intervention, or a cruel joke?

I resolved then and there never to entertain such folly again. My God—the true and living God—does not play games with His children. Desperation had led me to the edge of gullibility, but it would not lead me astray again.

Friends, beware of wolves in sheep’s clothing. Desperation is fertile ground for deception, but God is constant, unchanging, and true. If you are ever asked to perform rituals or acts that contradict the Scriptures, run. Yes, Murife, run.

Our God is Mighty, Just, and Merciful. He does not sleep, nor does He require our slumbering sacrifices. Let your faith be anchored in His word, not in the whims of men.

And as for my next ordeal? It was even more outrageous—but that, my friends, is a tale for another time.