I told my pastor my husband was killing me with juju, and he said pray and fast seven days, calling it spiritual warfare. I trusted him completely, believing obedience would save my marriage.

I went home trembling yet determined, began a dry fast immediately, no food, no water, only prayers whispered through cracked lips, kneeling daily, begging God to expose hidden darkness allegedly attacking my life.

By the third day my body weakened terribly, my head spun, my legs failed, and I collapsed on the floor, consciousness fading while prayers echoed uselessly inside my chest like trapped birds.

It was my husband who found me unconscious, panicked, lifting me into the car, driving fast, breaking traffic rules, shouting my name, tears streaming, begging me not to leave him alone.

At the hospital he paid everything, signed forms, bought medicines, stayed awake nights holding my hand, crying softly, asking why I was hurting myself, worrying about our children’s future without me.

I stared at him weakly, confused beyond words, because this was the same man my pastor said buried a live chicken with my name, visiting herbalists monthly to destroy me.

I searched his face for cruelty, for evil confidence, but all I saw was fear, love, exhaustion, a man breaking quietly beside my hospital bed, praying silently for my recovery.

Discharged days later, I avoided church completely, ignored calls, and went straight to my mother’s house, carrying questions heavier than my body, desperate for clarity and wisdom beyond fear.

My mother listened calmly, eyes steady, heart prayerful yet sharp, then asked gently who told me such terrible things, and whether I personally saw my husband performing those rituals.

I told her it was my pastor, the same man whose prophecies once came true, visas approved, barren wombs opened, miracles witnessed, making doubt feel like rebellion against God.

My mother sighed deeply and said even the devil sometimes speaks truth to plant confidence for bigger lies, warning discernment matters more than dramatic revelations shouted from pulpits.

She told me to return home, stop fasting against my husband, and instead pray quietly for clarity, observe actions, seek evidence, and allow truth to reveal itself patiently.

I obeyed her advice, returned home quietly, and watched my husband closely for two weeks, studying habits, moods, silences, kindness, and inconsistencies, searching for darkness honestly.

I checked his phone while he slept, scanned messages, emails, contacts, but found nothing suspicious, only job alerts, family chats, encouragement notes, and reminders about bills and children.

I searched his pockets, bags, shoes, even his car, finding receipts, grocery lists, borrowed money notes, and stress scribbles, but nothing resembling charms, herbs, or secret rituals.

I went to the backyard one afternoon and dug where the pastor described, my hands shaking, heart pounding, expecting horror, but found only dry soil and stubborn roots.

No chicken bones appeared, no papers, no symbols, only dirt under my nails and shame rising inside me, forcing uncomfortable questions about trust, fear, and manipulation.

One evening my husband returned home early, face troubled, shoulders slumped, and asked me to sit, his voice heavy, eyes avoiding mine, clearly burdened by something serious.

My heart raced wildly, convinced confession was coming, expecting dark secrets finally revealed, preparing mentally for betrayal, fear, anger, and justification of everything my pastor claimed.

Instead he confessed losing his job three months earlier, hiding it to protect me from worry, borrowing money secretly, pretending daily to work while searching desperately for employment.

I sat frozen, mouth open, realizing the man I prayed against carried silent responsibility, shielding me from anxiety, while I was accusing him spiritually, emotionally, and mentally.

He explained exhaustion, shame, and pressure, apologizing for secrecy, saying he feared disappointing me, yet tried maintaining normalcy, even as life felt like collapsing walls.

Guilt crushed me instantly, because while he battled reality alone, I was adding imaginary spiritual battles, starving my body, poisoning my mind, and nearly orphaning our children.

That night I cried uncontrollably, apologizing repeatedly, yet words felt inadequate, because suspicion had already wounded him deeply, even if unspoken, changing how I saw myself.

The following Sunday I returned to church, heart burning, not for worship, but for confrontation, determined to reclaim my voice after nearly losing everything to fear disguised as prophecy.

During testimony time I stood up, ignored the microphone, walked directly to my pastor’s seat, eyes steady, hands shaking, and spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear.

I told him God would judge him for nearly destroying my home with false prophecy, for planting fear instead of wisdom, and for exploiting trust under spiritual authority.

The church fell silent, shocked, uncomfortable, uncertain, while I turned away calmly and walked out, feeling lighter, freer, yet grieving lost faith in leadership I once revered.

At home I cooked my husband’s favorite meal carefully, every spice measured with intention, every stir a prayer of repentance, gratitude, and commitment to rebuild broken trust.

When he began eating, I knelt beside him, held his legs, cried openly, and confessed everything, including the pastor’s accusations, the fasting, fear, and doubt poisoning me.

He lifted me gently, hugged me tightly, forgave without shouting, saying marriage means unity against storms, not separation by voices, reminding me God values love, not fear.

He said no pastor could separate what God joined, and that truth lives in actions, not dramatic words, strengthening me with patience I had nearly destroyed.

Slowly our home healed, conversations deepened, laughter returned, and suspicion faded, replaced by honesty, teamwork, and renewed commitment to face challenges together without outside interference.

Weeks later he received a better job offer, unexpected and stable, restoring dignity, peace, and hope, proving hardship was temporary, while trust remained our greatest victory.

I share this story because many homes collapse chasing spiritual shadows, ignoring reality, surrendering critical thinking, and trusting voices that profit from fear rather than healing.

Not every man of God hears from God, and not every prophecy deserves obedience, especially when it breeds hatred, division, suspicion, or harm within families.

Wisdom requires discernment, observation, and courage to question authority respectfully, remembering that love, truth, and evidence must align before sacrifice becomes faith.

Today I am healthier, stronger, and wiser, grateful for survival, truth, and restoration, knowing God was present all along, not in fear, but in quiet clarity.

The devil tried using fear disguised as faith, but God opened my eyes through wisdom, love, and reality, reminding me He is not asleep, and truth always wins.