I never thought peace could come so quietly.
No trumpet blast. No grand awakening. Just a soft stirring in the early mornings, when the world still clung to its last shreds of sleep. I would sit by the cracked window, Bible open on my lap, the sky bruised with the first colours of dawn, and feel something deep inside me whisper: Stay.
It was fragile, like a butterfly landing on an outstretched hand. One harsh breath, one careless movement, and I feared it would disappear.
There were days I didn't trust it. I would go about my work at the NGO, greet my colleagues, type my reports, sit through meetings, all the while thinking: Surely this isn't real. Surely life will crush me again, like it always has.
But somehow, it didn't.
Each evening, I tried to read a little more. First a chapter, then two. Some nights, I didn't understand a word. Other nights, verses would cling to my heart like lifelines. I began jotting them down in a battered journal I kept hidden in the kitchen drawer, between unpaid bills and old receipts.
"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."
Matthew 11:28.
I must have written it twenty times. Maybe more.
At home, the changes were slower.
Subira was the first to notice. One evening, after I set down a simple dinner of rice and beans, she lingered at the table, staring at me with those big eyes that always saw too much.
"Why are you smiling, Mama?" she asked, suspicious, as if joy was a stranger in our house.
I shrugged. "I don't know. I just… I feel thankful."
She wrinkled her nose. "For rice and beans?"
I laughed — a real laugh, not the brittle ones I used to fake. "Yes. Even for rice and beans."
Subira blinked, unsure whether to laugh with me or flee the table.
But then, slowly, almost shyly, she smiled back.
It was the first smile we had shared in a long time.
The boys were harder.
Zawadi had grown colder since the move to the public school. He came home angry, his uniform torn, his notebooks scrawled with graffiti.
Amani, sweet and sensitive, followed his brother's lead, pulling away from me in silent protest.
One evening, after another shouting match over chores and missed homework, Zawadi slammed the bedroom door so hard the hinges rattled.
I sat on the floor outside their room, head in my hands, wondering if this new life of mine could heal what I had broken.
God, how do I reach them?
How do I fix this mess I made?
I didn't hear an answer. Not that night. But the next morning, when I opened my Bible, my eyes fell on a passage that felt handwritten for me:
"Restore us, O God; make your face shine upon us, that we may be saved."
Psalm 80:3.
Tears blurred the words, but I kept reading, desperate for the restoration I had once thought impossible.
Some Sundays, I still felt the pull of my old life.
The loneliness hit hardest then — when I saw my old friends on social media, laughing at rooftop bars, posing in tight dresses and flashing new boyfriends like trophies.
Sometimes, my fingers hovered over the "like" button. Sometimes, I clicked it without thinking.
And then shame would flood me — a cold, bitter tide.
I'm not that person anymore, I reminded myself, setting the phone aside, breathing through the ache.
I don't want to be.
I wasn't sure if I believed it yet. But I wanted to.
And sometimes, wanting was enough to keep me moving forward.
A few weeks after I started attending the Bible studies regularly, one of the older women — a kind, wrinkled soul named Sister Agnes — approached me after the lesson.
"You should consider baptism, my dear," she said, pressing my hand warmly. "When you are ready."
The word baptism scared me. It felt too heavy, too serious.
Was I ready to make such a promise? To wash away my past and step fully into this strange, tender new life?
I didn't know.
But for the first time in years, the idea didn't terrify me.
It stirred something in me — something like hope.
One Saturday afternoon, after a long Sabbath service, Subira and I sat under the mango tree in the churchyard, eating chapati and talking quietly.
She watched the other children play, her school shoes scuffed and her dress a little too short after last year's growth spurt.
"Mama," she said, picking at the grass. "Do you think God still loves us?"
I swallowed hard.
"I know He does," I whispered. "Even when we don't feel it. Even when we make mistakes. He never stops loving."
Subira nodded slowly, her face solemn in the fading light.
Then she leaned her head against my arm, and we sat there in the golden silence, the warm wind stirring the dust around us like a whispered promise:
The winds of change are blowing.
And this time, I wasn't running from them.
But growth was never a straight line.
Some days, I stumbled.
One Friday evening, just before Sabbath, I was closing up at the NGO when I ran into Patrick — an old friend from my past life.
He was leaning against the wall, phone in hand, that same lazy grin that used to make my heart race for all the wrong reasons.
"Neema," he said, his voice syrupy and smooth. "Long time. You're looking good."
I stiffened. Part of me wanted to bask in the compliment. To feel beautiful and wanted again, if only for a moment.
Another part of me — the newer, quieter part — whispered: Be careful.
He laughed, stepping closer. "We should catch up sometime. Drinks? Just like old times."
Old times.
The words tasted bitter in my mouth.
I smiled politely. "Thank you, Patrick. But I don't go to bars anymore."
He raised an eyebrow, amused. "Since when?"
"Since I found something better," I said simply.
And for the first time, I meant it.
Patrick shrugged, unconcerned, and sauntered off, texting someone as he went.
But I stood there for a long time, breathing in the cool evening air, letting the small victory settle in my bones.
Maybe no one else would notice.
But I knew.
I had just taken another step away from who I used to be.
At home, the victories were even smaller — but somehow, they mattered more.
One evening, after a long day of work, I found Zawadi studying quietly in the living room.
Amani sat beside him, doodling in a notebook.
No shouting. No slammed doors. Just... peace.
I didn't dare interrupt.
I simply sat in the corner with my Bible, letting the quiet wrap around me like a blanket.
Maybe we were all healing, in our own slow, stubborn ways.
Sabbath became my anchor.
Friday nights, we lit a small candle on the kitchen table — not fancy, just an old tea-light we had lying around.
We sang simple songs, our voices rough and uneven, and read a Psalm together.
Sometimes, Subira rolled her eyes.
Sometimes, Zawadi muttered under his breath.
Sometimes, Amani fell asleep halfway through.
But every time, without fail, we did it together.
And slowly, without realising it, we were stitching something back together — a family torn and bruised, but not destroyed.
One night, after the others had gone to bed, I sat by the window with my journal open.
The moon hung low and heavy over the city, casting silver patterns across the cracked floor.
I dipped my pen into the shadows of my heart and wrote:
"Today, I chose faith over fear."
"Today, I chose patience over anger."
"Today, I chose hope over despair."
I didn't write because I was perfect.
I wrote because I wasn't — and still, somehow, I was loved.
The winds outside stirred the trees, carrying the scent of distant rain.
I closed my journal, pressed it to my chest, and whispered into the silence:
"Thank You. For not giving up on me."