Epiphanies: Muslim Sees Jesus

Pls allow me to share with you this testimony of a former muslim who is now a tireless worker in Christ together with his wife. This was forwarded to us by a dear friend, a retired engineer, who had migrated to Canada. Both my friend and his wife, a pastor’s daughter, are themselves sweet Christians who have dedicated their lives to the Lord – though they remain childless.

Epiphanies, or “God’s earthly appearances,” as they are technically-known, are increasingly happening in these last days. The ‘last days’ refer of course to the end-times, although I personally do not want to predict when it will end because Jesus taught that “only the Father knows” – unlike some misguided Christians who claim to have secret knowledge of this!

But back to our muslim brother, Nazir Siddiki, who had an epiphany. Let Nazir tell his story in his own words, below.

-Ptr Nene
=================
Muslim sees Jesus in Toronto, Canada

by Geoff Waugh on Sunday, September 4, 2011 at 8:34pm

1. Nasir Siddiki, in “Left to Die.”

By age 34, Nasir Siddiki, a successful businessman, had made his first million, but money meant nothing to him on his deathbed. Diagnosed with the worst case of shingles ever admitted to Toronto General Hospital , his immune system shut down and doctors left him to die.

The next morning I woke in a sterile room on the eighth floor of the hospital, my skin burning as though someone had doused me in gasoline and lit a match. I felt on fire from the inside out.

My doctor arrived and looked at me in wonder. “The blisters are multiplying so fast I can literally watch them grow,” he said. ‘”Your body isn’t fighting back.”

The next morning, in addition to shingles, I had chicken pox from head to toe. I was put in strict isolation. That evening my temperature soared to 107.6 degrees — hot enough to leave my brain permanently scrambled.

For days I continued to deteriorate. My nerve endings became so inflamed that a hair drifting across my skin sent shock waves of fire rippling through my body. By week’s end, I was listed in critical condition.

My Last Hope

In life, I’d been bold, self-confident, a risk taker. But facing death, I was terrified. I had no idea what might await me on the other side. I’d been raised as a Moslem in London , England , and I understood Allah was not a god who heals.

My only hope was in medicine.

I eventually slipped so close to death that the doctors didn’t know I could hear them when they examined me. “His immune system has simply shut down,” one of them said.

“He’s dying,” the other confirmed. “His immune system must be compromised by AIDS.”

I don’t have AIDS! I wanted to shout, but I couldn’t form the words. Then it hit me. He said I’m dying!

The doctors spoke quietly to my co-worker, Anita. “In a few hours he’ll be dead,” they said. “If by some miracle he lives, he’ll probably be blind in his right eye, deaf in his right ear, paralyzed on his right side and he may be severely brain damaged from the high fever.”

Then they left.

They left me here to die! I felt like a drowning man going down for the third time. Gathering my strength I whispered a prayer. “God, if you’re real, don’t let me die!”

In His Presence

During the darkest hour of the night, I woke and saw a man at the foot of my bed. Rays of light emanated from him, allowing me to see his outline. I couldn’t see his face, it was too bright. No one had to tell me, I knew it was Jesus.

The Koran mentions Jesus; Moslems believe He existed, not as the son of God, but as a good man and a prophet. I knew this wasn’t Mohammed. I knew it wasn’t Allah. Jesus was in my room. There was no fear, only peace.

“Why would You come to a Moslem when everyone else has left me to die?” I wondered.
Without words, he spoke to me. “I Am the God of the Christians. I Am the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.”

That’s all He said. He didn’t mention my illness. He didn’t mention my impending death. As suddenly as He appeared, He was gone.

The next morning, the same two doctors arrived to examine me. “The blisters have stopped growing!”

“We don’t know what happened, but the shingles virus has gone into remission!”

The following day, still in pain and covered with blisters, I was discharged from the hospital with a suitcase full of drugs. “Don’t leave home,” the doctor cautioned. “It will be months before the blisters go away, and when they do you’ll be left with white patches of skin and scars. The pain could last for years.”

Stepping outside into the morning sun, I looked like a cross between a leper and the Elephant Man. When people saw me, they crossed to the other side of the street. However, my mind was not on my looks; my thoughts were on Jesus. There was no doubt in my mind that Jesus’ presence in my room had stopped the shingles virus. Whatever else Jesus may be, I realized that in His presence miracles happened.

That fact left me with one consuming question: Is Jesus the Son of God as the Christians claim, or is He just a prophet as I was taught?

At home that evening, in spite of the drugs, the pain and itching was so severe I almost had to tie my hands. Even so, I fell into a restless sleep wondering about Jesus.

Learning to Live

The next morning, I woke early and turned on the television. Flipping through the channels, I froze when I saw the following words across the screen: Is Jesus the Son of God?

I listened intently as two men spent the entire program discussing this topic — answering all of my questions. Before the show went off the air, one of the men led the television audience in a prayer. My body was aflame with pain but I knelt on my living room floor anyway. Tears streaming down my face, I repeated the prayer and invited Jesus into my heart.

Immediately a voracious spiritual hunger sprang up within me. I had to know more about Jesus. In spite of my doctor’s orders to stay inside, the next day I went out and bought a Bible. First I read the books of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. Still ravenous, I started in Genesis and read through the Bible during my sleepless nights.

Meanwhile, Anita brought me books and teaching tapes explaining the Gospel. I devoured them while continuing to study the Word of God. As my understanding of faith began to grow, I dug out a picture of how I looked before shingles. I prayed and asked God to make me look that way again.

2. Nasir and Anita Siddiki, in “Jesus, My Healer.”

One week after my discharge from the hospital, I woke and found my pillow covered in blisters. I must have clawed them in my sleep, I thought. I crawled out of bed and stepped into the shower. What had started on my pillow was finished in the shower: Every blister fell off my body!

Instead of being covered with patches of white and scar tissue, my skin was simply red and raw. It slowly healed, returning to its pre-shingles condition. When it did, I not only looked human, I looked like I did before I got sick, except for the scars that I still carry on my chest.

None of the doctor’s dire predictions came true. My eyesight was 20/20. My hearing was normal. My speech was unimpaired. I suffered no brain damage.

My healing was miraculous, swift and complete. I never suffered from lingering pain or any other complication. Not only did I have the worst case of shingles ever admitted to Toronto General Hospital , I also had the most miraculous recovery.

Jesus, the God of the Christians, showed up in the hospital room of a dying Moslem and healed me. But that wasn’t the greatest miracle He performed. The transformation that occurred in my heart was even more dramatic than the one that occurred in my body.

An international teacher and evangelist, Dr. Nasir Siddiki is the founder of Wisdom Ministries (WisdomMinistries.org). He lives in Tulsa , OK with his wife Anita and their two sons.

Google search: nasir siddiki testimony

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Nasir-Siddiki/109873459038994?sk=wall

Motivating Others

MOTIVATING OTHERS

There was once a small boy who banged a drum all day and loved every

moment of it. He would not be quiet, no matter what anyone else said

or did. Various attempts were made to do something about the child.

One person told the boy that he would, if he continued to make so much

noise, perforate his eardrums. This reasoning was too advanced for the

child, who was neither a scientist nor a scholar.

A second person told him that drum beating was a sacred activity and

should be carried out only on special occasions. The third person

offered the neighbors plugs for their ears; a fourth gave the boy a

book; a fifth gave the neighbors books that described a method of

controlling anger through biofeedback; a sixth person gave the boy

meditation exercises to make him placid and docile. None of these

attempts worked.

Eventually, a wise person came along with an effective motivation. He

looked at the situation, handed the child a hammer and chisel, and

asked, “I wonder what is INSIDE the drum?”**

No more problem.

Good leaders know how to motivate others. They pique their curiosity

and tickle their sense of wonder. They teach them to dream and tempt

them to do more than they ever thought possible. They challenge them

to be a part of something great.

Pilot and author Antoine de Saint-Exupery said, “If you want to build

a ship, don’t drum up the men to gather wood, divide the work, and

give orders. Instead, teach them to yearn for the vast and endless

sea.”

Do that and there will be no limit to the wondrous places they can

travel.

__________

** Note: Personally, I don’t recommend giving these dangerous tools

to a young boy, no matter how naughty he might be! Perhaps a

WISER person will simply tell the boy to play the drum on certain

times and to respect the privacy (and eardrums) of others.

Usually, giving him another, less-noisy, toy will do the trick.- nr.

Poem for Papa

poem for papa

Jennee Grace U Rubrico
jenneegrace@edsamail.com.ph> wrote:
Date: Sat, 18 Aug 2001 10:51:36 +0800
From: "Jennee Grace U Rubrico"

To: ijr@rocketmail.com,
mryoso@yahoo.com,
joe@eee.dup.edu.ph
Subject: poem for papa

i was in a writing frenzy, and i wrote this poem
about papa.

papa, i hope you like it. heheheheheh.....

Jennee

The Engineer

Jennee Grace U. Rubrico

Looking at your blackened nails and the smudge on
your face-
The remnants of car grease, as you wipe off the
sweat on your brow,
Mark them to be manifestations of your car
tinkering-
and your soiled white shirt and threadbare socks,
make those who do not know you
think that you've always labored with your hands.

Like the father you have always been,
You always seem to know what to fix to cure your
car's pains
As it whines and moans or throws a tantrum
Or just decides it doesn't want to go anywhere.
And your skin, after all, has been glazed by the sun
over the years,
To come up with that perfect blaze of gold.

But they do not know the complexities that is you.
And if they look closer, they would see that those
hands
Are not callous, worn, or even hard,
Except for the finger that cradles the pen
And the fingertips that pounded on the typewriter
During those late night sessions with the
Masterplan.

Strewn paper with thin drawings in violet ink on the
desk,
Ringing phones, and the smashing of the typewriter
keys on carbon paper sandwiched between onionskin --
the sounds of your engine running at full throttle--
Are what I recall in that little home-office that
was your shop.

I saw the sputter of anger many times, in the sudden
acceleration of your work,
Or in its abrupt braking, when you felt that people
are too easily pleased with mediocrity.
But except for a breakdown or two, you always
Came back in "almost perfect" condition.
Though you really should not tire yourself that
much,
Even the best cars tend to slow down over the years.

Death once followed us at every turn, but you
steered us to safety
And to Life each time she tried to overtake us.
You did not fear the sudden shifting of gears when
we traveled around the country
So that you could earn a living and make sure that
the fuel tank never emptied.

From this, I learned strength and braveness.
And I learned that even while the rain
Hits at us, we can trust the strokes of the Wiper to
always make us see clearly
And the rubber in the tires to keep us safe in
slippery roads.

You never accepted "good enough," always wanting
everything
To be in the best condition possible.
You examined and observed, analyzed, studied, and at
times, innovated
To find the optimum performance in each of us, and
in yourself.
And when it worked for us, it worked for you.

You are now more than half a century old, but the
engine keeps running.
In your mind, edicts and principles you learned in
the road that is life
run continually, fueled by your thirst to learn yet
more and your drive for life.

I hear the whir of your mind when you speak
And every word is suspended in the air
Its authority weighing on your apprentices
Even after you leave the room.

On day, I hope that you would start tapping the keys
of your typewriter
To write your manual to life
So that the ride you share with us would be known to
the world
And they too would see that you are not just a
mechanic,
But an engineer in life.

--To papa, with love.