By Nela Jaye

Last night, I had the kind of conversation that stays with you. I met a woman from the Middle East—she spoke fluent Arabic, and we instantly connected at a Bible study. There’s something powerful about meeting someone who understands the layers of your story, even if you’ve only just met. As we talked, switching between English and Arabic, I saw her eyes widen at my testimony. She showed me her arms, “I have goosebumps,” she said in amazement. She wasn’t expecting it. But then again, neither was I—because even in sharing my story, I often forget just how far I’ve come.

Today, that conversation took me back—to Egypt, to Milwaukee, to street corners, train stations, and unexpected living rooms where my past collided with glimpses of another truth I wasn’t ready to receive.

Tea with Mary and Jesus in Cairo

In 1997, while living in Cairo, I had one of my first real encounters with an Egyptian Christian. Dressed like everyone else—long skirt, scarf, modest top—she didn’t stand out in any religious way. Muslims and Christians dressed the same, lived side by side, and yet bore unspoken tensions from past conflicts. ,,,

We were lost, looking for an address, and she guided us through twisting backstreets like she’d known us forever. That’s how we ended up in her living room, drinking tea. That’s how I saw the portrait of Mary and baby Jesus on her wall. That was her quiet way of telling me who she was. She didn’t say it out loud at first—there was hesitation, caution. But when I told her I was from America, she relaxed. We smiled, and in that moment, it didn’t matter that we believed different things.nn

What I remember most wasn’t the theology or the doctrine—it was the tea, the warmth, the way her home opened to us like an offering.

The Milwaukee Encounter That Exposed My Hard Heart

A few years later, in 1999, I was standing outside a mall in Milwaukee, covered in black from head to toe. I was a practicing Sunni Muslim, living by strict codes of modesty, gender interaction, and belief. A Christian couple approached me—handing out tracts, smiling.

The woman spoke first. “Do you know about Jesus?”

What came next was a storm. I hit her with ayah after ayah, verse after verse from the Quran—about Isa (Jesus), about salvation, about hell. My tone wasn’t calm or curious—it was combative, righteous, cutting. She stepped back. I saw her fear. And then her husband spoke. I looked him in the face for the first time and froze. He was Arab.

“Where are you from?” I asked.

“Egypt,” he said. “I used to be Muslim too.”

And I lost it. I let him have it with full force—reciting Quran, rejecting everything he stood for. But he didn’t flinch. Instead, he gently quoted a verse I had always known but never truly heard:

“If you are in doubt about what We have revealed, ask those who have been reading the Book before you.”
—Surah Yunus (10:94)

He asked, “Why would your Quran tell you to ask us—the Christians—if you doubt?”

I couldn’t take it in. My entire identity was wrapped up in defending Islam. My heart wasn’t open. My ears weren’t listening. I threw more verses, more doctrine. Finally, he turned to his wife and said, “You see how the Muslims are? That’s why I left.”

They walked away. I was left standing there—angry, victorious, but somehow empty.

When You Realize You Were the Pharisee

Years later, reading the Gospel of John, I came face to face with myself. The religious leaders Jesus confronted—those who knew the law, who followed every rule, but missed the heart of God—I saw myself in them.

“You study the Scriptures diligently because you think that in them you have eternal life. These are the very Scriptures that testify about me, yet you refuse to come to me to have life.”
—John 5:39-40

My speech, my arguments, my pride—they weren’t fruit of the Spirit. They were the product of fear and indoctrination. I was so sure I was defending truth, but in reality, I was protecting a version of myself that couldn’t afford to be wrong.

Healing the Hardness

Religious trauma isn’t always about abuse or manipulation. Sometimes, it’s about how deeply we internalize dogma—how we build our identity around being right and lose the softness of spirit that allows for grace, curiosity, and love.

It took years to heal the parts of me that had calcified under the weight of religious certainty. But healing started with honesty—with revisiting stories like these and seeing them through new eyes.

Reflection + Journaling Prompt

“Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.”
—Proverbs 4:23

Prompt:
Have you ever found yourself more focused on being “right” than being loving? What moments from your past reveal a hard heart—and what would healing look like for that part of you?

I do not tell these stories simply for entertainment. I share because I am certain that others have struggled with the same experience. I am holding a torchlight for you at the end of the tunnel.

Nela

nelajaye@gmail.com