The honeymoon phase of faith, like all honeymoons, eventually faded.
I had thought that baptism would seal my strength, that the joy bubbling in my heart would never waver. But I was wrong.
A few months after that glorious Sabbath morning, the weight of life returned — not as harshly as before, but with a more subtle, intimate pressure.
Loneliness.
That silent, aching emptiness.
It began innocently — or so I told myself.
I met him at the community literacy program where I volunteered. His name was Dennis — smooth voice, polished manner, intelligent, and successful. He had been invited as a guest speaker to talk about entrepreneurship. I admired his eloquence, his vision, and how he praised my work with the women.
"You have leadership in you," he said after the session.
"Most people just show up — you inspire."
I smiled, blushing, heart fluttering in a way I hadn't felt in years.
I told myself it was just appreciation.
But appreciation is a door. And temptation stands just beyond it.
Dennis began calling now and then, asking about projects, offering ideas.
Soon, it wasn't about the work anymore.
"Are you free for coffee?"
"I'd love to get to know you outside these four walls."
I hesitated. I prayed. I knew the warning signs.
But a soft voice inside me — my own voice — whispered:
"What's the harm? You're not a child. You're just talking. Just having coffee."
And yet, that single meeting left me disturbed.
He was charming. He said all the right things. He looked at me like a woman — not a project, not a sinner saved by grace, not a mother weighed down with past mistakes — just... a woman.
A desirable one.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I tossed and turned, heart conflicted.
Was this a door God had opened — or a trap the enemy had baited with my old desires?
I reached for my Bible, but my hands shook.
The verse I opened to felt like a slap and a hug all at once:
"Do not be unequally yoked with unbelievers... What fellowship has light with darkness?"
(2 Corinthians 6:14)
I slammed it shut.
I didn't want verses.
I wanted someone to hold me.
To see me.
Was that so wrong?
Dennis grew more direct.
He texted late. Called often. Flattered with precision.
"You're different from the other women I've met. There's a calm in you... like an old soul. Let's spend some real time together. Just you and me."
His tone was gentle. Not forceful. Respectful.
But behind the calm invitation was a storm I could feel brewing.
One evening, I stood in front of my mirror, choosing a dress to wear for dinner.
Not a work event. Not a church function.
Just dinner with Dennis.
As I ran my hand along the soft fabric, something caught in my throat.
What was I doing?
I sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly hollow.
Images filled my mind — the baptism waters, the children clapping, the promise I had whispered to God:
"I am Yours."
And then a whisper — unmistakable.
"Neema, would you trade Me for this?"
I buried my face in my hands.
Tears came — fierce, hot, shameful.
I had not yet fallen — but I had flirted with the edge.
I cancelled the dinner.
Sent a simple text:
"I'm sorry. I can't continue this. I'm not the woman you're looking for."
He didn't reply.
I deleted his number.
Then I fell to my knees.
And I wept — not because I had lost something — but because I had almost thrown away everything.
I told no one.
Only God.
And I didn't feel holy or strong.
I felt broken.
But this time, my brokenness wasn't defeat — it was surrender.
That Sabbath, as the church sang "I Have Decided to Follow Jesus", I stood quietly in the back, eyes closed, hands trembling.
My voice didn't rise with the others.
But in my heart, I whispered,
"No turning back. No turning back."
The following days were heavy — not with guilt, but with a strange emptiness.
Like I had just walked out of a fire, not burned, but smelling of smoke.
Everywhere I turned, echoes of what almost happened haunted me. The scarf I had ironed for the dinner now lay untouched on the chair. The shoes I had chosen still sat by the door. Even the perfume I had meant to wear seemed to accuse me every morning.
Had I not pulled away… what would I have become again?
At church, I kept to myself. I smiled. I prayed. But inwardly, I wrestled.
I didn't want to become the version of myself who kept secrets.
Not again.
That Sunday, I called Mama Sarah — the older woman who had mentored me after my baptism. She was gentle, discreet, wise.
When she answered, I didn't even greet her properly.
"I need to talk. I nearly fell."
Her voice was calm. "Come."
We sat in her small kitchen, the scent of ginger tea wafting between us.
She listened silently as I poured everything out — from the admiration to the compliments, the invitation, the dress, the hesitation... and finally, the decision to turn away.
When I finished, I braced myself for disappointment or correction.
But all she said was:
"Neema, this is what surrender looks like."
I blinked.
"What?"
She nodded slowly. "The real battle isn't just avoiding sin — it's dying to the desire for it. That's what you did. You said no not just to a man, but to the woman you used to be."
I broke again. But this time, not in shame.
I wept in her arms, deeply relieved.
The next Sabbath, I asked for five minutes at the end of service.
Pastor looked surprised but agreed.
I stood in front of the congregation — not as the strong woman who led children's classes or helped with outreach — but as a sister humbled by grace.
"I come today not to preach," I said, "but to confess."
The room grew still.
"I almost fell. This week. After all God has done in me. I wanted something that wasn't holy, and for a moment, I nearly let my heart lead me away."
Gasps. Stirring. But I continued.
"I didn't fall. But I could have. And I'm not telling you this for pity or praise — I'm telling you because I believe we must be honest about our journeys."
My voice cracked.
"There is no strength in hiding. There's strength in standing — broken, but honest. Weak, but willing."
Silence. Then an Amen. Then another.
Tears filled many eyes — even in the elders.
Afterwards, three young women came to hug me.
One whispered, "I've been struggling with the same temptation... I thought I was alone."
Another said, "Thank you for not pretending."
In the quietness of the following week, I felt peace.
Not perfection. Not pride.
But peace.
I spent more time in Scripture. I fasted once a week. I resumed journaling — pouring out my thoughts to the One who had rescued me from myself again.
One night, I wrote:
> "Lord, I broke before the fall. And You met me in the breaking. That is grace. Keep me near the cross — not out of fear, but because I never want to live far from the Light again."
Zawadi noticed the change.
"You've been... quieter, Mama. But stronger. Like something happened."
I smiled. "Something did. I almost made a mistake. But God caught me."
She looked at me with a maturity beyond her years. "Thank you for telling me. That helps me trust you more."
Those words struck deep.
For the first time in years, my daughter trusted me — not because I was flawless, but because I was real.
Later that month, I was invited to speak at a women's Bible conference. The theme was "Faith Under Fire."
I told them about the fire I had faced. Not the fire of persecution or public shame — but the quiet, seductive flame of desire that almost consumed my renewal.
And I told them about the Spirit that whispered "Turn back" before the ashes came.
I ended with these words:
> "A broken heart is not the end. It can be the beginning — of deeper trust, of greater intimacy with God. And for me, that heartbreak saved my soul."