Shahbaz and Shahin’s Story

I had to pause and let it all sink in. It was Sabbath morning, and forty years of memories came rushing back at once. I could almost see Pastor Ron Walker walking down the aisle with the elders, lining up at the front, kneeling together. Every Sabbath, without fail. And every time, something sacred happened. It felt as though God Himself was touching the congregation, as if heaven drew near in those quiet moments. That memory opened the door to my own story.

I spent the first twelve years of my life in Iran. My twin and I were raised in a Muslim family, Shia Muslims. Even as a small child—only four or five years old—I would look up at the sky. In winter, as snowflakes drifted down, I wondered, Who is this God who created the snow, the clouds, the deep blue sky? I didn’t just believe He existed—I longed to know Him. I wanted to know what He was like.

After the Iranian Revolution of 1978–79, my father realized we had to leave. Iran was becoming too unstable, and our future was uncertain. So we left our homeland and came to the United States.

Coming to America felt like stepping into a new chapter of life. We settled for a time in Southern California, and everything felt new—open, free, full of promise. My father bought a beautiful four-bedroom, cottage-style home. Those memories are still vivid. I can still see my mother standing in the doorway. They were sweet days. But life took a painful turn.

My brother—who has since passed away—was only eighteen when doctors told us he had schizophrenia. From that moment on, life was no longer normal. His condition grew worse, and our home became heavy with confusion and sorrow.

One day, we begged him to take his medication. For hours, the entire family pleaded with him. He sat silently on the couch, staring at the wall, unmoved. I felt desperate. So I decided to pray.

I looked up and began praying to every imam I knew, calling them by name, begging them to help my brother. Each time I glanced over my shoulder, he was still sitting there. After thirty minutes, my heart sank. I felt defeated. Then, gently but clearly, a thought came: Pray to Jesus. “Jesus?” I thought. It won’t hurt if I try.

So I looked up and said, “Jesus, please make my brother take his medicine.” Instantly, my brother stood up. I watched in disbelief as he walked into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, poured the medicine into a cup, and took it. I stood there stunned. I couldn’t believe what I had just seen.

The following year, my mother took my sick brother back to Iran. We were completely bankrupt. For three months, we were homeless. My sister stayed with friends. My older brother lived in his car. One night, I stayed awake in a restaurant until morning, drinking coffee because I had nowhere else to go.

Eventually, my siblings and I found a small apartment in Walnut Creek. We got jobs at Jack in the Box. It was my first job—I was eighteen—learning to survive long shifts, late nights, and early mornings.

One night, a coworker invited me to a party. Curious about American life, I went along. It turned out to be nothing like I expected. It felt empty and disturbing, and I couldn’t leave. When I finally got home near dawn, guilt overwhelmed me.

I lay on my bed, begging Allah to forgive me. Each time I prayed, I punished myself—biting my hands, biting my tongue. I had never felt such an intense need for forgiveness. I collapsed onto the floor, crying uncontrollably, gasping for air. With my face pressed into the carpet, I cried out, “God, please help me.” The moment those words left my lips, Jesus entered my room.

I couldn’t see Him, but everything changed. The atmosphere became thick and alive. Waves of glory moved through the room, gently pressing against my chest. There was a living energy—something no human language can truly explain. After several minutes, it faded, leaving behind a deep and complete peace. All guilt was gone. I felt forgiven.

From that moment on, my search for God took on a depth I had never known before. Not long after, I was standing by a payphone on Main Street in Walnut Creek when I noticed a group of young Christians nearby. Remembering that my brother wanted to speak with a Christian, I called him and told him to come. The next day, they met at a café. I had promised myself that I would convert this Christian to Islam. Instead, something entirely different happened.

As we walked together, he spoke to me about Jesus—about the cross, about mercy. Suddenly, everything made sense. We prayed together. When I opened my eyes, the world looked different. The sky was deeper blue. The trees were greener. Everything felt alive. I ran back to the café and blurted out, “I’m a Christian now!”

That decision brought conflict and pain. My family was angry. They mocked Jesus. And in the middle of that tension, I realized something profound: I wasn’t fighting my brother—I was fighting God.

Later, I was invited to a church. While I was there, God placed a strong impression on my heart: Pray for the true church. I couldn’t shake it. So I prayed. That prayer led me to books I had never heard of before—The Desire of Ages and The Great Controversy. Through them, truth unfolded before me, including God’s Sabbath, unchanged and sacred.

One night, I prayed, “Lord, if this is truly Your church, make it clear to me. And if You do, I will serve You for the rest of my life.” That night, God answered through a dream. He showed me a church, brick by brick. He led me inside, room by room. In one room, I saw a humble table. Resting on it were two radiant, living treasures—the Bible and the Spirit of Prophecy—glowing with a transparent, living gold. Then I heard the words: Your journey has just begun.

Years later, after much struggle, I fully surrendered to Christ. When I walked out of church that day, the sky was deep blue again. The trees seemed to rejoice. What remains strongest in my heart is the mercy of God—His love for the lost, the broken, and the hurting. He longs to save. And now I understand something beautiful: I may not see God with my physical eyes, but I see Him clearly in His character and in His Word. And He is beautiful.