I had barely finished hanging the laundry when my phone rang — an unfamiliar number blinking on the screen.
Wiping my hands on my skirt, I hesitated for a moment before answering.
"Hello?" I said cautiously.
"Is this Neema?" a deep, businesslike voice asked.
"Yes, speaking."
"My name is Mr. Kamau. I'm calling on behalf of Global Solutions Limited. We received your CV through a contact at the NGO you work for. We'd like to invite you for an interview."
My heart skipped a beat.
Global Solutions was a major firm — their salaries were five, six times what I currently earned.
Opportunities like this didn't come knocking every day.
I scheduled the interview for the following week and hung up, my hands trembling slightly.
This could change everything — better schools for my children, a proper house, dignity restored.
I let myself dream for a few minutes, feeling a forgotten spark of hope reignite.
At the interview, the office gleamed with polished marble floors and sleek glass panels.
Men and women in tailored suits strode down the hallways with confident steps.
When my turn came, Mr. Kamau smiled warmly across the table.
"Neema, your experience in community projects is exactly what we need for our Corporate Social Responsibility program," he said.
"The salary is generous, and there are travel benefits as well. Of course, sometimes you'll need to be available for weekend events. Fundraisers, client meetings, team-building trips... you understand."
Weekend events.
I froze.
Weekends were sacred now.
Sabbath was not a suggestion; it was a covenant I had entered with my Lord.
From Friday sunset to Saturday sunset, I had learned to rest, to worship, to reconnect.
"Would there be flexibility for religious observances?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
Mr. Kamau frowned slightly, shifting in his seat.
"Well, we expect full commitment from our team. Occasionally missing a Saturday might be excused, but we need someone who can be fully available."
The rest of the interview blurred after that.
I left with a folder in my hand and a storm in my heart.
That evening, after putting the children to bed, I sat alone at the kitchen table.
The offer letter lay open in front of me, a beacon of hope and a trap all at once.
I thought about the new clothes I could buy, the better food, the vacations...
But I also thought about the quiet peace that had filled my life since I chose faith over frenzy.
Would I really trade the Sabbath — my oasis in this parched world — for a paycheck?
Tears welled up in my eyes.
I had chased money before.
I had chased beauty, admiration, approval.
And each time, it had left me emptier than before.
Slowly, with trembling hands, I folded the letter neatly and placed it back in its envelope.
I whispered a prayer.
"Lord, I choose You.
Even if it means less on this earth, I know it means more in Your Kingdom."
The next morning, I called Mr. Kamau.
"I'm grateful for the offer," I said, voice firm despite the pounding of my heart, "but I must respectfully decline."
There was a long silence on the other end before he wished me well.
I hung up and smiled through my tears.
It wasn't easy.
It wasn't logical by the world's standards.
But it was right.
Faith, I realised, often meant choosing the unseen over the visible, the eternal over the temporary.
And I was determined — with God's help — to keep walking by faith, not by sight.
The days that followed were not easy.
Doubt gnawed at the edges of my mind like a silent thief.
Every time I opened the empty pantry, every time my children came home with holes in their shoes, the voice whispered:
"You could have fixed all this. You could have given them more."
Sometimes at night, lying awake in the dark, I wrestled with regret.
Had I made the right choice?
Had I doomed my family to years of struggle for the sake of a principle they were too young to understand?
One evening, after a particularly painful day — the landlord had hinted at raising the rent — I sat on the porch, head bowed in prayer.
I told God everything: my fears, my worries, my weariness.
I didn't hide the ugly parts.
I didn't pretend to be strong.
"Lord," I whispered, "I chose You. But I'm scared. Help me believe You will provide."
The next morning, a letter came.
It was from the NGO where I worked — a small organisation with barely enough funds to pay salaries, let alone give bonuses.
Inside was a handwritten note:
"Dear Neema,
Your commitment and spirit have not gone unnoticed.
We have secured a small grant to expand our work, and as a result, we are able to offer you a modest raise.
It's not much, but we hope it helps.
Thank you for being a light in this place."
I blinked back tears.
It wasn't the fortune that Global Solutions had promised.
But it was enough — enough to cover the rent increase, enough to buy new shoes for the children, enough to remind me that God saw.
God provided.
Not in riches.
Not in grandeur.
But in faithfulness.
That Sabbath, as I stood in the little church, singing with the congregation, I felt a peace that no salary could have bought.
My life was still fragile, my future still uncertain.
But my soul — my soul was anchored.
And for the first time in a long, long while, I knew I was exactly where I was meant to be.