The small church was packed that Sabbath morning.
Wooden benches groaned under the weight of believers and visitors, their voices rising together in the opening hymn.
I sat near the back, my hands clammy, my heart hammering.
Today, I had been asked to share my testimony.
Part of me wanted to run — to hide behind the safety of silence, to bury my past where no one could see it.
But the Spirit whispered insistently to my heart:
"Tell them what I have done for you."
When the moment came, I stood slowly, gripping the edge of the pew for support.
I made my way to the front, each step heavy with memories and regret.
The pastor gave me a nod of encouragement, and I turned to face the congregation — faces kind, curious, expectant.
I cleared my throat.
"My name is Neema," I began, my voice trembling.
"And I stand before you today as a woman who nearly lost everything because of pride."
A murmur rippled through the church, but I pressed on.
"Once, I had a good life — a loving husband, beautiful children, a home filled with laughter.
But it wasn't enough for me.
I wanted more — more attention, more admiration, more freedom."
I paused, swallowing the lump rising in my throat.
"I chased after beauty, success, and acceptance.
I flirted with danger, thinking I was invincible.
I trampled on the hearts that loved me most.
And by the time I realised my mistake, my husband was gone.
My family was broken.
And I was left with nothing but the bitter ashes of my choices."
The church was silent — not a cough, not a whisper.
"Pride cost me everything that truly mattered.
It robbed me of peace.
It stole my joy.
It nearly cost me my soul."
I took a deep breath.
"But God... God, in His mercy, didn't leave me there."
My voice cracked, but I smiled through the tears.
"He found me in my brokenness.
He picked me up when I had nothing left to offer.
He taught me that true worth isn't found in outward beauty or status, but in humility, service, and obedience."
I looked out over the congregation, seeing women nodding, men shifting uncomfortably, young people listening wide-eyed.
"Today, I live a different life.
It's not perfect.
I still struggle.
I still fall short.
But my heart is no longer ruled by pride.
It belongs to the One who saved me when I couldn't save myself."
I stepped down from the platform, my legs trembling, but my soul soaring.
The church erupted into warm applause — not the applause of praise, but the applause of shared pain and victory.
Later, many came to me — women with tears in their eyes, men offering firm handshakes, teenagers asking quiet questions about God's forgiveness.
I realised then:
My past wasn't a prison anymore.
It was a testimony — a weapon in the hand of grace.
The price of pride had been high.
But the gift of redemption was priceless.
And I would spend the rest of my life telling anyone who would listen that no pit was too deep for God's love to reach.