The morning air smelled of fresh rain and blooming hibiscus.
I sat by the window, Bible open on my lap, rereading the words I had underlined the night before:
"Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come."
(2 Corinthians 5:17)
I closed my eyes and pressed the pages against my chest.
Could it really be true?
Could I truly become new?
It had been months since I first entered the small Seventh-day Adventist church on the dusty corner of our neighbourhood.
At first, I went out of politeness — after a kind sister named Mama Ruth invited me.
But week after week, the sermons seemed to pierce straight into the hollow spaces of my soul.
The songs — simple, sometimes off-key — wrapped around me like a blanket.
The smiles were genuine, not coated in judgement or curiosity.
There were no grand choirs or dazzling robes.
Just simple, struggling people, broken like me, worshipping a God who loved broken people.
One Sabbath afternoon, as the sun slanted golden through the windows, Pastor Emmanuel made a quiet announcement.
"If any among you feel God calling you to surrender your life to Him fully through baptism, speak to me after the service.
The water is ready. The angels are ready. Are you ready?"
I sat frozen in my seat, my heart pounding in my ears.
Ready?
No.
Surely not.
I was too stained, too damaged.
But the Spirit whispered gently inside me:
"Come."
That evening, I couldn't sleep.
I sat on the edge of my bed, hugging my knees.
My mind replayed every mistake, every betrayal, every regret.
Would God really wash it all away?
Was there truly such a thing as a second chance?
A knock on the door startled me.
It was Subira, her hair braided neatly for bed.
"Mama," she said, hesitating. "I saw you crying during church."
I looked at her, not bothering to deny it.
"I'm scared," I admitted. "I want to be better. I want to belong to God. But... what if I fail again?"
She came and sat beside me, tucking her head against my shoulder.
"I think God already knows you're going to fall sometimes," she said simply.
"But He still wants you."
Her words — childish yet profound — broke the last defenses around my heart.
I wept.
And I knew:
It was time.
The next Sabbath, after worship, I approached Pastor Emmanuel with trembling hands.
"I... I want to be baptised," I said.
His face broke into a wide smile.
"Praise God!" he said, embracing me warmly.
"There will be Bible studies to prepare your heart. And don't worry — baptism isn't a graduation for perfect people.
It's the beginning of a new life of growth."
I nodded, tears blurring my vision.
The journey had begun.
Every Thursday evening, I walked to the small church office, notebook in hand.
Mama Ruth, patient and wise, led the sessions alongside Pastor Emmanuel.
We studied topics I had never truly understood before:
The love of God
The Ten Commandments
The Sabbath
Salvation by grace
The Second Coming
The call to live differently
Sometimes, I wrestled with the teachings.
The Sabbath, especially, was a challenge.
What about work?
What about the expectations of others?
Would I lose opportunities again?
Mama Ruth smiled gently whenever I struggled.
"Obedience always costs something, child," she said. "But disobedience costs more."
Slowly, day by day, faith was chiseling a new shape in my heart.
I learned to pray — not stiff, rehearsed prayers — but honest conversations with God.
I learned to rest — not laziness, but trusting God to provide even when I wasn't striving.
I learned to forgive — including myself.
Two weeks before the baptism date, Pastor Emmanuel called me in for a personal talk.
We sat in the small wooden office, the only sound the ceiling fan whirring overhead.
"Neema," he said warmly, "do you understand the meaning of baptism?"
"I think so," I said nervously. "It's like... dying to the old life and being raised into a new one."
He nodded.
"Exactly. It's a public declaration that you belong to Jesus now. That you accept His forgiveness and His leadership."
He asked me a series of simple but profound questions.
Do you believe Jesus is the Son of God?
Do you accept Him as your personal Savior?
Do you choose to follow His teachings, even when it's hard?
With each answer, I felt the chains around my heart falling away.
The church was buzzing with excitement.
Six of us were scheduled to be baptised.
Children, elderly women, teenagers — all choosing new life.
I invited my children to witness the baptism.
At first, they seemed unsure.
Would it change anything?
Would I change again?
"I'm not asking you to believe because of me," I said.
"I'm asking you to come and see what God is doing in my life."
After a long silence, Subira agreed.
"We'll come," she said.
My heart soared.
The morning dawned crisp and clear, the air filled with birdsong.
I wore a simple white robe over my clothes — the same as everyone else.
No jewelry.
No makeup.
No pretense.
Just a soul, bare before God.
The baptismal pool was set up behind the church, a large metal basin filled with cool, clean water.
I stood in line, trembling but determined.
When my turn came, Pastor Emmanuel smiled at me.
"Neema, because you have confessed Jesus Christ as your Savior and Lord,
I now baptise you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit."
He lowered me gently into the water.
As I went under, a flood of emotions washed over me:
Fear.
Grief.
Hope.
Joy.
When I rose again, water streaming down my face, it felt as if the heavens themselves had opened.
I was a new creation.
The old Neema was buried.
The new Neema was alive.
The congregation sang joyfully.
My children rushed to hug me, their eyes wide.
"You look... different," Zawadi said, wonder in his voice.
I laughed.
"I feel different."
And I did.
Not perfect.
Not free from struggles.
But anchored.
Rooted.
Beloved.
After baptism, life didn't magically become easy.
Bills still needed paying.
Temptations still whispered.
Old habits still tried to resurface.
But now, I faced them with a Companion beside me.
When I grew weary, I prayed.
When I doubted, I turned to Scripture.
When I stumbled, I rose again — not alone, but in His strength.
I began teaching children's Sabbath School, telling Bible stories with all the passion I once reserved for worldly things.
I volunteered at the local orphanage, tutoring children who reminded me of Amani.
I prayed openly with my kids before meals, before bed, before big decisions.
The change was slow but real.
One morning, Subira slipped a note into my Bible.
"Thank you for showing us what real strength looks like."
I wept.
Not because I deserved such words.
But because they testified to what God had done — and was still doing — in me.
Faith was not a lightning bolt.
It was a gentle, relentless tide, reshaping the shoreline of my soul.
Day after day.
Wave after wave.
And so I embraced it —
Not with perfection.
But with perseverance.
Not with pride.
But with praise.
Not with fear.
But with faith.
The old life had ended.
A new journey had begun.
And I was ready to walk it — hand in hand with the One who had loved me all along.