She was a child.
She was small.
She was unarmed.
And the Church remembers her as Little Li, martyr.
Little Li lived in Communist China in the early 1950s — a time when God was forbidden, churches were watched, and faith could cost you your life. Belief was treated like a crime. Prayer like rebellion.
When Li made her First Communion, she whispered a simple request to Jesus:
“Give me this daily bread, so my soul can live.”
She meant it.
From that day on, she received Holy Communion every morning — knowing full well it could all be taken away at any moment.
And one day, it was.
The police stormed the village and forced everyone into the tiny church. They mocked the people’s faith. They laughed at the idea that God could be present in bread.
Then the inspector gave the order.
The soldiers fired at the tabernacle.
The ciborium was seized.
The Sacred Hosts were thrown onto the floor.
Jesus — scattered, trampled, desecrated.
Little Li froze. Her heart broke.
Before leaving, the Communists locked the priest, Father Luke, inside a coal bunker. Through a small opening, he could see the sanctuary — and the Hosts lying on the tiles. He could do nothing but pray.
“Stop this sacrilege, Lord Jesus.”
The next morning, someone came.
A small figure slipped silently into the church.
It was Li.
Father Luke trembled as he watched, helpless. She could be killed at any second.
She knelt.
She adored.
She stayed for one full hour — preparing her heart, just as she had been taught.
Then she lowered herself, bent down, and with her tongue, received one Host.
Just one.
She left quietly.
The next day, she returned.
And the next.
And the next.
Always one hour.
Always one Host.
She never took more — because she knew Jesus was not something to be taken… but received.
There were thirty-two Hosts.
On the final day, Li came again — before sunrise. She knelt close to the altar, praying.
Then the door opened.
A soldier entered.
A gun was raised.
One shot rang out — followed by laughter.
Li collapsed.
Father Luke thought it was over.
But it wasn’t.
Wounded and dying, the little girl crawled across the floor — toward Jesus. With her last strength, she received the final Host with her tongue.
And then she died.
A child.
A believer.
A martyr.
The soldier stood in shock… then fled.
Later, Father Luke was released. He buried Li with reverence and escaped the country — carrying her story with him.
That is why we know her name.
Little Li did not preach.
She did not fight.
She did not shout.
She simply loved Jesus more than her own life.
If you think holiness is only for the strong…
If you think courage requires power…
If you think children cannot teach the Church…
Remember Little Li.
She shows us that reverence can be braver than bullets — and that even the smallest heart can defend heaven itself.
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