She was a threat

I pray I live in such a way that when I take my last breath, even hell itself erupts in cheers—because they will know I am gone. Not because I failed, but because I fought. Because every scar on my soul was proof I refused to bow. Because every trembling prayer in the midnight hour rattled the gates of darkness. Because I made war with my life—war with my obedience, war with my worship, war with the yes I whispered when no one else heard.

I pray the demons rejoice at my death, not because they have won, but because my presence here was torment to them. Because my days were spent dragging souls out of their grasp, wrenching them from the fire. Because I emptied myself in defiance of the kingdom of night, until there was nothing left for me to give but breath—and when that too was gone, they finally sighed relief.

Let it be said of me: She was a threat. She was dangerous to hell. She carried the light like a weapon, and she was unafraid of the dark. Her prayers shook foundations, her praise unsettled shadows, her faith drew blood from every scheme of the enemy. Let me love in a way that drains hatred of its power. Let me serve in a way that mocks selfishness. Let me worship in a way that leaves no room for despair.

And when the book closes on my last day, let the sound of rejoicing rise in hell—not for their victory, but for their relief—that finally, their war against me is over. And may heaven’s sound drown them out—the voice of my Savior whispering, “Well done.”