How I Met Jesus at 10, Hummed into Confusion, and Found the Real Light

I didn’t come to Christ at a fiery crusade altar call or during a thunderstorm where the heavens opened and angels descended with trumpets. Nope. My journey started at ten years old, in a theater-style church event with dramatic lighting and fake fire. And somehow, it changed my life.

It was a regular weekend, and my mum — who, to be honest, I’d never really seen attend church herself — bundled us into the car and dropped us off at Sunday School as usual. That was her routine. But this particular Sunday was different. She took us to CITAM Valley Road to watch Heaven’s Gates, Hell’s Flames.

Now, if you’ve never seen this Christian drama, let me explain: it’s like Lion King meets Left Behind. There’s music, flashing lights, people dying in scenes, angels in dazzling white, and demons in very convincing costumes. I sat there, wide-eyed, trying not to breathe too loud.

One scene hit me like a lightning bolt. People who had “died” were being judged — some went to Heaven, complete with harps and hallelujahs. But the others… oh, the others. They were met by a devil so dramatic and intense, I genuinely thought the flames behind him were real. I watched him drag someone screaming offstage while a fake casket was being lowered.

Something inside me said, “Nope. That’s not for me.” And just like that, I gave my life to Christ. Ten years old, terrified, and fully convinced. It wasn’t the most theological decision — it was more “fire insurance” than faith at that point — but it was real.

Years passed.

I tried to walk the straight and narrow path. I read my Bible, followed the commandments (well, most), and tried to “be a good Christian.” But as time passed, I realized I was mostly following God like a child following a teacher on a field trip — obediently, but without really knowing Him. Life became complicated. I grew up. I got hurt. I made mistakes. And before I knew it, I was an adult… in pieces.

Depression hit like a thick, dark fog. I felt empty. Not broken like a glass that can be glued back — more like smoke that can’t be grasped. I couldn’t see clearly. I couldn’t hear properly. Everything was numb. All I had were questions: “God, are you still here? You said you’d never leave me nor forsake me. Why do I feel so alone?”

And that’s when I got invited to a “spiritual group.”

They said they could see the heavenly realms. They spoke of light, energy, alignment, vibration — all in the same sentence. I was desperate for peace, for God, for something to hold on to. So I said yes.

Red flag number one: We were told to imagine things — and whatever we saw, that was it. That was “truth.”

Dragons? That’s it.
A swirling galaxy birthing the world? That’s it.
A random portal opening behind someone’s head? That’s it too.

It was like we were rewriting the Bible using Marvel and science fiction. But at the time, I didn’t have the discernment. I just wanted relief from the noise in my head.

During one of the sessions, we sat in a circle, humming along to some soft worship music. Not singing — just humming. My depression had already numbed my senses, and as I joined in, it was like the world melted away. I couldn’t see or hear much — not because of a supernatural high, but because my soul was heavy and my body was tired.

But then — something happened.

I started hearing music. Real, layered, majestic music. And it wasn’t from the speaker or the people around me. It felt like the music was being produced by the angels themselves. Like the angels were the harps — vibrating with sound, echoing heaven, surrounding me in beauty. It felt peaceful… but not in the way the Holy Spirit brings peace. This was… confusing. A little too perfect. A little too strange.

When the session ended, I opened my eyes — and immediately felt awkward. People were staring at me like I had grown a third arm.

I nervously asked, “Uhh… what’s going on?”

One of them whispered, wide-eyed, “There’s something behind you. A massive angel. Glowing. Like a guardian warrior.”

Now, part of me was stunned. I mean — who wouldn’t want a glowing heavenly bodyguard? But deep inside, something didn’t feel right. I wasn’t flooded with joy or clarity. I felt… unsettled. Foggy. Like I had just walked through a dream I wasn’t supposed to be in.

Here’s where it gets wild — and divine.

That very day, two ministers I had previously invited (just for company, not even for intervention) had attended the same session. They pulled me aside afterward.

One of them said plainly, “This isn’t God. This is New Age. You need to come out of it.”

The other added, “It looks spiritual. It feels powerful. But it’s not holy. Not everything that glows is God.”

Suddenly, it clicked. That entire space had been filled with talk of light, energy, alignment, vibrations — but never Jesus. Not the Cross. Not repentance. Not the resurrection. Just vague peace, cosmic experiences, and pretty angels.

And yet, despite all that confusion, I remembered a verse:

“The angel of the LORD encampeth round about them that fear him, and delivereth them.”
(Psalm 34:7)

Could it be… that the angel they saw wasn’t summoned by our humming, or by our imagination? Could it be that God, in His mercy, still sent His angel to cover me — even in that mess?

Looking back now, I see it clearly.

The devil doesn’t come in red horns anymore. He shows up in white robes, burning incense, and speaks softly about “divine consciousness.” He sings worship songs too — as long as you don’t mention the name Jesus. But if the focus isn’t Christ — crucified, risen, and reigning — then it’s deception dressed in spirituality.

I walked out of that group. No drama. No shouting. Just walked away — straight back into the arms of the real Jesus.

Not vibrations.
Not imaginary dragons.
Not energy fields.

Jesus.

The One who found a confused, depressed daughter in the middle of a spiritual circus and still sent His angel to stand guard.

And to that Jesus — I owe my life.