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A Changed Mind. A Changed Life. And Survivor’s Guilt.

This is the first time I have told this.

Something life-changing happened to me nearly five years ago in 2021. But the foundation was laid the day I was born – in a city with the largest Muslim population in the world outside the Middle East at that time – Dearborn, MI. By the time I graduated from high school, my 700-member class was 1/3 Catholic, 1/3 Jew, 1/3 Muslim. Me? I was none of them. I was just a simple Christian.
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Fast forward to 2001. The unthinkable happened. A shocked America was invaded by Muslim extremists who destroyed the Twin Towers in NYC, killing thousands of us. Ten years later, fear, pain, and distrust from that Muslim invasion still felt just like yesterday.
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.That is when I became an international teacher of English over the internet. Applicants were Christians, Hindus, Buddhists, atheists, and a trickling of Muslims. But who was brave enough to teach our enemy Muslim invaders?

Well, “brave” me took the 2 or 3 a week that registered at first. By the end of 2001, we were getting 25 Muslim applicants a day. We used the Bible as a textbook. Most applicants had no idea what the Bible was, could care less what was in the Bible, but if they wanted to learn English free bad enough, they tolerated the Bible.
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Today, after 16 years and nearly 10,000 Muslims, God has granted me converts to Christianity in Iran, Iraq, Lebanon, Jordan, Gaza, Yemen, and Afghanistan. But mostly Afghanistan.
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One day, one of the other English teachers and I asked each other, ”How can we expect them to be willing to risk their lives to be Christians and not be willing to do it ourselves?” It took us about two months to work through it. Finally, I contacted him and said four words. “I can do it.” He replied with two words. “Me too.”
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Even during the 2010s, it was dangerous for any Muslim to convert. My English students and I communicated over a secret message system. If anyone began thinking about becoming a Christian, I gave them a secret-code name. My Afghan converts and I became close. They called me Mum Katheryn.
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We shared dreams.
We shared pictures.
We shared our prayers. Then…

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ALONG CAME THE TALIBAN

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Little by little they took over this province and that one, Little by little they drew closer to where our frantic Afghan Christians lived, now desperately looking for hiding places.
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They asked me why.
They felt trapped.
They were frightened.
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They told me so. I checked on them daily. They wrote back daily, sometimes far into the night. Still fast-beating hearts reached from the other side of the world to mine.
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“What are we going to do?”
They’re getting closer!”
“Help us!”
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Then it happened. Invaded by their own people.
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Some scrambled to the mountains to hide.
Some tried too late to cross the border.
Most huddled in their homes wondering if they’d be alive tomorrow.
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“Mum, help us! Help us!”
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I had become more than a teacher to them. They needed their Mum. It only took me days to decide what I had to do.

Not promise to pray for them.
Not advise them to arm themselves.
Not notify all the Christians I knew on Facebook.
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I made out my will, sold my house, and gave away my furniture. I gave away my clothes, sold my car, and boarded a plane to Kabul. I knew I would never come back alive.

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KILLING MUM IN KABUL
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In Kabul, I lived in the home of my first convert Afghan convert. He had a wife and children from teen down to just-born. We were so happy. My students came from all over Afghanistan to meet their Mum Katheryn.
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Then one day the older children went to school, and returned home an hour later. “The Taliban are here!” They had arrived in Kabul during the night. From then on, we relied on the teenagers – constantly on Facebook and BBC – to tell us what was going on “out there”.
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The Taliban entered the palace a few days later on Sunday. We were assembled in worship in a secret place at that time. I knew what everyone was thinking and it had to be said. So, after a thick silence crawling around he room, I said, “You know, even if the Taliban kick down our door and shoot us, those Taliban bullets will do just the opposite of what they intend – killing us. Instead, we will close our eyes here and open them at the gates of heaven where we will be more alive than ever!”
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They paused.
Their eyes brightened. A Little.
They smiled. A little.
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We stood, said our goodbyes, then everyone left and went out into what could be their final sunset. That evening, our teenage “news reporter” kept us up to date. “The Taliban are painting over all signs on buildings and billboards about the former government and women.” Another time, “They are taking an ax to all music stores.” Another time, “They shot and killed a woman for wearing western clothes.”
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A few days after that in early evening, our teenage Facebook reporter turned off his cell phone and gave us a confused stare. “The Taliban are in our neighborhood.”
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We all stood still trying to absorb what he was saying. “They are pulling people out of their houses and killing them in the street.”
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The time had arrived.
Did that time stand still?
I do not remember.
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We immediately turned off all lights and gathered in a circle in one room. The only time we spoke was in a whisper. Mostly we did not. We sat there in the dark until nearly midnight, then went to bed – all but the oldest son who went up to their flat roof and stood over us all night, his only defense a ten-foot 2” x 4” board. As I fell asleep, I wondered if I would wake up in the middle of the night to a Taliban at the end of my bed pointing his rifle at me. But daylight came and we were still all alive.

The next time our little underground congregation sneaked over and met, I told them, “If the Taliban come rushing through our door, you are to run. I will distract them, and you will run.” They replied, “No, Mum. No!” I said it again; and again they refused. No, Mum!” So finally, I said, “I am your mother and you are going to do as I say.” They jerked their heads up and stared at me. “Now promise me you will run! The church must live on through you younger people. I will be all right You must run!” Reluctantly, they looked down at the floor and raised their hands – but just a little.

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THEN THE MOST DANGEROUS – THE NEIGHBORS

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One afternoon, “You have a lady living in your house. We don’t recognize her.”
A couple of days later, two more neighbor ladies. “We’re curious who that strange lady is.”
Two days after that, two neighbor men. “We want to know who she is!”
Two days later, two more neighbor ladies. “We demand to know!”
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The next evening, my host – the man who had been my student twelve years earlier – hung up his phone and looked at me with a look I dreaded. I knew. I knew! Holding back unwanted tears trying to invade his black eyes, this man said, “You have to leave. Our neighbors have decided we are harboring an American spy. They are getting ready to turn our family in to the Taliban.”
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….After three terrible tries (stories in themselves) I finally got inside the gun-pointing- Marine-protected airport, sat on unforgiving concrete in the hot August sun for seven ghastly hours, and at midnight boarded one of those cargo planes you saw on the news. It was the hardest decision of my life.
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I felt like a failure.
I felt like a traitor,
I felt like a deserter slinking away.
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I had gone to protect them. And give my life for them if it was ever necessary. Instead, on August 21, 2021, I was saving my life and leaving theirs in danger.
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That feeling of guilt has never left me, even though my secret Afghan Christians and I continue to talk in our secret message group, and now worship together via Zoom every Sunday. They still call me Mum. And the love still flows between us.
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It has only been in the past few weeks that I have been able to identify my terrible, shadowy feelings.

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SURVIVOR’S GUILT

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Now, each day even in 2026, the Taliban squeeze the life out of my beloved Afghans secret Christians who I left behind. More and more, the Taliban are requiring men to wear beards and turbans. Of course, women are not allowed to leave home without a direct male relative and with full burqa head to toe. But now, a woman’s hand cannot even show and a woman’s voice cannot be heard. Hardly any jobs available to anyone, so they live in unbelievable poverty. Hospitals rely on worn-out medical equipment, and are staffed by doctors just grateful to at least have a job. Fathers are selling their daughters to the highest bidder down to age six to “get by”. What next?

MAY I INVITE YOU TO JOIN ME?

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EMERGENCY FUNDS FOR AFGHANS. I would like to have funds available for medical emergencies, enough coal to get through the winter, fixing a Christian’s house with only three walls, etc.
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BOOK GIVEAWAY. I have written YOU CAN BE A HERO ALONE for isolated Christians. I want pay for and send my books free to young people in the military. The first half is 26 simple stories of Bible people who stood alone. The second half is 52 simple Sunday Worship Guides if they need to worship alone.

.ONE-DOLLAR BIBLES. I am also formatting an updated KJ Bible in easy English with as few pages as possible to fit into a looseleaf notebook or box . It could be printed (single copy at a time) by any village printer anywhere in the world for $1 USD. I went to India for two years after Afghanistan. Many are poor, and I could give a Bible to every member of some poor congregations. Africa too. A coverless Bible, but at least they would have a Bible of their own.

AND ME. And sometimes I need it for me. I am up until 2:00 AM every night (their daytime) and even until 4:00 AM (although I was up to 5:00 AM last night). When they need to talk, I cannot turn them away!. Maybe I can hire a temporary virtual assistant sometimes. Also, I returned to the US two years ago with nothing but a few clothes and a computer. It has been difficult starting over when I did not expect to return at all.

GO HERE FOR THE ORIGINAL ON “SUBSTACK” where you can pledge $5/mo for monthly short deep-dive into a scripture. https://betweenyouandgod.substack.com/p/a-changed-mind-a-changed-life-and