It started with a simple notification.
I was sorting through my emails after a long afternoon preparing Sabbath School materials when I noticed a name I hadn't seen in years: Brenda L.
I froze.
Brenda… once my close friend, later one of the loudest voices cheering me on in my rebellion. We had danced in nightclubs together, shared secrets about lovers and luxury, encouraged each other to chase the next thrill, the next high. When I got divorced, she was the one who said, "Finally! You're free now, sis!"
We had drifted apart after my fall. After Yona's death. After I changed.
She had never written me before.
The subject line read: "Can we talk?"
The message was brief.
> "Neema,
I know it's been years. You probably don't want to hear from me. But I'm not okay. Life is a mess. I saw a video of you sharing your testimony. It hit me.
Please. I don't know who else to call.
—Brenda."
I sat back slowly.
I hadn't expected this.
But I remembered my own darkest nights — when the silence felt like a cage and grace seemed unreachable. If God could meet me there, couldn't He meet her too?
I replied.
> "Brenda,
I'm here. Let's meet. Anywhere you're comfortable.
—Neema."
We met at a quiet café the next day. She arrived late, wearing oversized sunglasses and carrying the scent of expensive perfume mixed with something else — anxiety.
When she saw me, she hesitated. Then hugged me tightly, as if afraid I'd vanish.
She looked older. Tired. Her once-polished nails were chipped, and her makeup failed to hide the redness in her eyes.
"Thank you," she whispered. "I thought you'd hate me."
"Hate you? Brenda... I used to be you."
She lowered her glasses, and her tears confirmed what her voice couldn't.
We sat in a corner booth, sipping ginger tea.
Her story tumbled out like broken glass.
A string of failed relationships. A career that soared and then collapsed. She had married a wealthy man who cheated on her openly. She had tried therapy, yoga, self-help books — but nothing eased the growing void inside.
"I see you now, Neema," she said bitterly. "You changed. You're... full of peace. I don't get it. I used to mock this church life of yours, remember?"
"I remember," I said softly. "But I mocked it once too."
She stared at me.
"I don't know how to pray," she confessed. "I don't know if God wants me."
I reached for her hands.
"Then let's ask Him together."
That night, for the first time in years, Brenda bowed her head and whispered the simplest, rawest prayer I had ever heard.
"God, if You're there… please don't leave me like this."
Over the next weeks, we met often. I gave her a Bible — the same one I had once used to scribble angry notes and tear-streaked pleas. We read Psalms together. Talked about forgiveness. About grace. About surrender.
One day, she asked, "Do you really believe He's forgiven you for everything?"
"Yes," I said. "Not because I'm worthy. But because He is."
Brenda began journaling her thoughts, just as I had. She started visiting my church quietly, sitting in the back, weeping during worship.
Then came the day I saw her in white — walking forward during an altar call, trembling but determined.
"I want what Neema has," she said through tears. "I want Jesus."
The whole church erupted in praise.
I stood there stunned — not by her decision, but by the mercy of God that allowed me, a former mocker, a fallen wife, to now witness the redemption of someone I once sinned beside.
After service, she hugged me tightly.
"You saved me."
I shook my head.
"No, Brenda. He saved both of us. I just shared my scars."
Redemption, I now understood, wasn't just about being forgiven.
It was about becoming the kind of woman who helps others find their way back — even those who once cheered your fall.
Brenda's transformation didn't happen overnight. While she had taken her first brave step, the journey ahead would be long. And yet, something had changed in her—a tenderness, a willingness to listen. She began to ask deeper questions, questions I had once asked myself: "Why did God still care after all I did?" "How can I forgive myself?"
One day, we sat in my living room, a Bible open between us.
"I feel so fake sometimes," Brenda said, her voice brittle. "I sit in church, but the memories still haunt me. The things I did... I don't think I can ever be clean."
I reached out and pointed to Isaiah 1:18.
"'Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.' That's a promise. Not a suggestion."
She looked down, and her lips trembled as she read the words aloud. Slowly, as if testing whether they applied to her.
Brenda didn't just find comfort in scripture—she began to hunger for it. She messaged me one morning, "I was reading Psalm 51. David's confession... it could have been mine."
"You're beginning to understand grace," I replied. "That's the difference."
Meanwhile, I faced my own challenges. Some people in the church whispered when they saw us together. They remembered who Brenda had been—and who I had been.
"Are you sure she's serious?" someone asked me quietly one afternoon.
I looked them in the eye. "Were you sure about me?"
Redemption doesn't make you immune to judgement. But it gives you the strength to rise above it. Brenda and I leaned into each other during those weeks. We prayed. We studied. We fasted together.
There was a night she called me, sobbing.
"I almost texted him," she said. "One of the men I used to... you know. I felt lonely. Weak."
My heart ached. I knew that temptation well.
"But you didn't," I said gently. "You called me instead. That's victory. That's growth."
Redemption is not about perfection. It's about direction. Every time she chose to call out to God instead of giving in to her old ways, it was a triumph of grace.
We shared laughter too. We would remember silly things from our wild days and shake our heads.
"How were we so blind?" she asked once, giggling and weeping at the same time.
"We wanted to be loved," I said. "But now we know Who truly loves us."
She nodded. "And He doesn't leave when the makeup comes off."
Brenda eventually joined our women's Bible group. She was quiet at first, then slowly began to open up. One day, she stood and shared her testimony.
"I thought I was too far gone," she said. "But then I saw Neema. And I thought, 'If God can change her, maybe He hasn't given up on me.'"
Tears flowed freely in the room. Some women who had judged her softened. Others came forward to embrace her. The Spirit moved that evening, not through a sermon, but through a broken heart made whole.
Months passed. Brenda found a small job at a Christian publishing house. She started designing devotional journals and even wrote short reflections based on her journey.
She brought me one of her first prints.
"Look," she said, eyes gleaming. "I quoted Psalm 40:2 on the cover. 'He lifted me out of the slimy pit…' That's me."
I held the journal in my hands, overwhelmed. This was not the same woman I had once danced with in the dark. This was a new creation.
And I knew now, more than ever, that my story was not just about my own healing—it was meant to be a bridge for others.
Brenda's redemption was proof: God does not waste our pain.
He repurposes it—for His glory and the salvation of others.
And in helping Brenda find her way, I too had been reminded of the depths of grace.