💔 From My Pocket to Her Prison

🛍️ A Cross in the Pocket, a Reminder in the Heart

Some time ago, I was browsing in a Christian bookstore when I noticed a display of small, gold-plated pocket crosses. They were simple but beautiful—quiet little reminders of something infinitely powerful. I thought, “Wouldn’t it be great to keep one in my pocket with my loose change—something to remind me of Jesus every time I reached for a coin?” I figured it might offer comfort… and perhaps even spark conversations that led to sharing the gospel. And it did too! I had no idea God would use that little cross so profoundly in my ministry, nor did I know it would one day reach the ends of the earth—even to a Baptist woman living in Afghanistan.

At first, it was just a token—a small emblem tucked among coins and keys. But over time, that cross became more than a symbol; it became a companion. Every time my hand brushed against it, I was reminded not just of Jesus’ sacrifice, but of my call to carry that message wherever I went. It whispered a silent sermon: Die to yourself. Follow Him. Speak boldly. Love deeply. That little cross preached louder than I ever expected, and I began to realize it wasn't just in my pocket for my sake. It was there to prepare me for divine appointments I couldn’t yet see.

📖 “As for me, may I never boast about anything except the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ. Because of that cross, my interest in this world has been crucified, and the world’s interest in me has also died.”
— Galatians 6:14

As Dr. Billy Graham once said, “God proved His love on the Cross. When Christ hung, and bled, and died, it was God saying to the world, ‘I love you.’” That quote echoes through my heart every time I think back to that moment in the store. I had no way of knowing then just how far-reaching that little cross would become—not only shaping my own journey, but eventually bringing hope to someone I never met, in a land I never thought it would reach.

📖 “Take Up Your Cross…”

I carried that little gold cross with me everywhere. Every time I felt it in my pocket, I remembered Jesus' words:

📖 “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.”
— Matthew 16:24

That cross became a constant reminder to me that no matter where I went—whether into prisons or onto the mission field—God was right there with me. And if He was with me, then I was never alone. I was never the minority. I was part of the majority, because God was on my side.

Sometimes I’d feel the weight of it—not physically, but spiritually. It was like a whisper from heaven reminding me that following Christ means more than belief—it means surrender. It means laying down my own will, my own agenda, my fears, and saying, “Lord, lead me wherever You want.” That little cross didn’t just rest in my pocket—it anchored my heart in the truth that discipleship isn’t always easy, but it’s always worth it.

Over time, I grew deeply attached to that little gold cross. It held no magical power, but its symbolism was everything—the ultimate picture of God’s agape love.

📖 “Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”
— John 15:13

Jesus called us His friends. And He willingly laid down His life for us. That’s what the cross is all about.

🗨️ As Dr. Michael Youssef once said:

“Only in the Cross of Christ will we receive power when we are powerless. We will find strength when we are weak. We will experience hope when our situation is hopeless. Only in the Cross is there peace for our troubled hearts.”

🌍 That Little Cross Went Everywhere

That small cross traveled the world with me. I carried it while preaching in jails and prisons—even in places like Belize and El Salvador. It was in my pocket as I did street witnessing across cities both here and abroad. It went with me to South America, Central America, the Caribbean, Europe, and Africa.

I didn’t just carry that cross—it carried me. In unfamiliar cities, foreign airports, remote villages, and prison walls lined with razor wire, that little symbol in my pocket reminded me I was never truly alone. It was more than tradition—it was testimony. Every time I reached for it, I was reminded that the same Jesus who conquered the grave was walking beside me, opening doors, softening hearts, and giving me boldness to preach. That small gold cross may not have had any power of its own—but it always pointed me to the One who does.

That little gold cross had become a faithful companion, always pointing me back to Christ in the middle of every spiritual battle.

💔 The Cross Disappears

Then, one day, I lost it.

I was heartbroken. It truly felt like I had lost a dear friend. That cross had been with me through thick and thin. I searched everywhere—under furniture, in my car, in the laundry, in every pocket of every pair of pants I owned.

But it was gone.
Gone for good.

I always thought about buying another one, but I just never got around to it. Deep down, I knew: no cross could ever replace that one. It had been through the fire with me.

✈️ A New Cross, a New Mission

Then one day, my good friend and missionary co-worker, Roy, called.

“We’re putting together a team for an open-air crusade in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania,” he said. “We’ll be performing Heaven’s Gates and Hell’s Flames. Are you in?”

“Count me in, brother!” I replied.

Soon, about 40 of us were assembled from across the U.S., some meeting in Amsterdam, where we visited Corrie ten Boom’s home and the secret room where her family hid Jews during the Holocaust. From there, we flew to Nairobi, then on to Dar es Salaam.

The crusade was powerful. Tens of thousands came to watch the drama. Thousands were saved. We split into small teams and visited local churches on Sunday mornings. We hit the streets to share the gospel.

One team member had brought a big plastic bag full of inexpensive pot metal crosses. He encouraged us all to take a handful and hand them out.

So I did.
But I kept one.
Not because it was pretty—it wasn’t.
But because it was a cross. And once again, it felt good to have a cross in my pocket.

🇦🇫 Trapped in Afghanistan, Longing for Jesus

Her friend was the daughter of a Baptist pastor in South Carolina. A believer. Raised in the faith. After high school, she went to college and fell in love with an Afghani Muslim man who was studying in the United States on a student visa. Against the heartfelt pleas of her family and friends, she married him. He seemed gentle and persuasive—promising a life of love. Before long, he convinced her to leave everything she knew and follow him back to Afghanistan.

At first, he was kind. But it wasn’t long before the abuse began. She was forced to convert to Islam, stripped of her identity, her freedom, her voice. In a culture foreign and oppressive, she found herself completely under her husband’s control. She bore him three sons—the oldest now 18. Her sons had known no other life than that of Muslim Afghan men. They were raised to believe that Christians are infidels. The United States was a mystery to them, an alien place they neither understood nor desired.

She wanted to go home. She longed to worship freely in a Christian church again, to lift her voice in praise without fear, to raise her children in the love of Jesus. More than anything, she wanted to escape—to take her boys and flee back to the safety of her family and her faith. But the price was too high. Her husband had threatened to kill her if she ever tried to leave. And heartbreakingly, her older sons didn’t want to go. They had no interest in a land or a faith they had never known.

She was utterly trapped. Hopeless. Forgotten. Afraid. Hidden behind cultural walls and spiritual chains. But somewhere deep inside, the light had not fully gone out. Her heart still beat for the Savior she once loved. And though she was surrounded by darkness… she had not been forgotten by God. 🙏🕊️

📖 “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”
— John 1:5 ✨🕯️🌌

That promise is still true today—for her, and for every hidden believer crying out for freedom and light.

🙏 A Cross, a Prayer, and a Glimmer of Hope

I didn’t know what to do.

But I knew I could pray.
And I knew I had that little pot metal cross in my pocket.

So I reached into my pocket and handed it to the woman next to me.

“Please,” I said, “send this to your friend in Afghanistan.
Tell her there are 40 missionaries praying for her.
Let this cross remind her that God loves her, and she is not forgotten.”

She promised she would.

I never saw her again. And I’ll probably never know what happened to that pastor’s daughter in Afghanistan. But I do know this: If God didn’t bring her home, then He’s using her right where she is—as a light in a dark place.

And if her heart still yearns to worship Jesus, then her soul never truly converted to Islam. She still loves Jesus.
She is still His.

🪙 The Cross Returns… Miraculously

One week after I returned home from Africa, I was vacuuming. I moved the sofa—and there it was.

My little gold pocket cross.

After all that time. After all that searching. After all those tears.

It was right there under the sofa, waiting.