MY ACCOUNT
I had heard the stories about persecution in Nigeria for years—Christians displaced by violence, families fleeing with nothing, faith tested in ways most of us will never face. But hearing about persecution and standing in it are different things.
Last summer, I spent days in northern Nigeria listening to parents, pastors, and students who now live in camps after fleeing attacks from Boko Haram and other armed groups. Over two million Christians have been displaced across the region, many carrying wounds that don't show on the surface.
I went expecting to meet strangers. I found family.
Our final night together sounded like heaven. No instruments, just hands clapping, voices rising. People who had lost homes and neighbors sang like embers catching wind. In that worship, I heard what hurry makes me forget: we are more similar than different. Parents want safety for their children. Students dream of school. Followers of Jesus learn to sing beyond the wounds.
Zacchaeus has been my companion for years. Not just because we're both short, but because I understand the climbing. He climbed a tree to see Jesus. I climb plans and spreadsheets when I'm anxious. I think the view will help.
But Luke shows us where Jesus actually is: standing at the bottom of the tree, calling us by name.
"When Jesus reached the spot, he looked up and said to him, 'Zacchaeus, come down immediately. I must stay at your house today.'" — Luke 19:5
That's what I witnessed in Nigeria. In a quiet courtyard, Jesus was already there. Gathering the displaced, steadying parents, teaching children to hope again.
I met leaders like Father Maurice, a bridge‑builder who practices Micah 6:8 in public. He partners across church traditions and even with Muslim neighbors to care for families who fled with nothing. His team listens first. Then they walk with parents toward safety and school, with youth toward purpose, with whole communities toward clean water and the slow work of healing.
"What does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God." — Micah 6:8
The stories I heard carried weight I couldn't set down. Women who had been abducted. Children who watched their villages burn. Families separated in the chaos of escape. Northern Nigeria can be one of the hardest places to follow Jesus. Institutional discrimination compounds the danger, and attacks on churches and Christian communities have become tragically common.
But in those same camps: laughter in schoolyards. Youth serving as clinic assistants. Widows running small businesses to feed their families. The Church keeps showing up.
Coming home, Zacchaeus followed me. My climbing—the plans, the problem-solving—can keep me above the crowd and away from the people Jesus is already standing with. I realized: we tend to keep our eyes on the problem, not on Jesus. We try to solve things in our own strength instead of going to Him first. But our Nigerian family showed me a better way. They keep their eyes on Jesus—even when the persecution is crushing. They invited me to come down. Into listening, into mercy, into solidarity. They reminded me that worship isn't escape. It's how the Church breathes when the air is thin and Christian persecution in Nigeria tries to quiet the song.
Nigeria is the deadliest country in the world for Christians. Where persecution burns hottest, I've seen faith burn brightest. And yet even bright faith needs practical help. Nigerian believers like Father Maurice and his team are already on the ground—organizing camp schools and mobile clinics, offering trauma counseling, discipling and training youth, launching income projects for widows, and drilling solar‑powered wells—alongside prayer, Bibles, and faithful pastoral care. Global Christian Relief stands with them so they are never alone and have what they need to endure and shine. That's what drew me there—and what keeps drawing all of us into the story God is writing through His people.
I still hear that courtyard full of clapping hands and rising voices. It sounded like a promise: praise rising where pain tried to settle. It sounded like Jesus at the base of our trees, calling us down from our plans and problems. Down into mercy. Down into courage.
STAND WITH THE NIGERIA CHURCH Your partnership keeps the Nigerian church singing
The worship Jeudy heard in that Nigerian courtyard—the clapping hands, the rising voices, the praise where pain tried to settle—didn't happen by accident. It happened because faithful believers like Father Maurice had partners who made sure displaced families had what they needed to endure and shine.
Right now, over two million Nigerian Christians have been displaced by violence. But leaders on the ground are already responding with:
• Camp schools giving children hope and education
• Mobile clinics bringing healthcare to remote areas
• Trauma counseling helping families heal
• Income projects empowering widows to provide
• Solar-powered wells delivering clean water
• Bibles, discipleship, and pastoral care sustaining faith
Your gift today ensures Nigerian believers are never alone. It provides the practical support and spiritual resources they need to keep singing, keep serving, and keep shining—even in the deadliest country in the world for Christians.
