Lily stood silent before the steely sanctum of Methodist Glory, a woman known in the village for speaking in the voice of reason wrapped in mercy. Her presence, though gentle, carried an air of accountability. Lily had been summoned—not as a criminal in chains, but as a soul entangled in torment.
Inside, the chapel was still. The stained glass filtered light like fragile forgiveness.
Glory, in her composed grace, broke the silence. “Lily, why did you leave your child on the outskirts of the village?”
The question pierced like a cold wind. Lily looked away, her lips pursed, the flood of her past swirling beneath her silence.
Glory’s voice softened. “Do you believe in God? He has been with you all through your life and has been a witness to your deeds.”
Something shifted. Lily turned, eyes brimming, her gaze locking with Glory’s. A quiet storm began within her—a stirring of the soul long silenced.
“I never meant to kill her,” Lily whispered, her voice cracking open like a dam. “I left her there because I felt abandoned. Joe… he left me. He said he loved me. Promised me spring weddings and a white fence and Sunday dinners. I believed him. Foolishly. Wholeheartedly.”
Her thoughts spilled like pages turning.
She had once been happy—vividly so. Joe had eyes that smiled first, hands that lingered gently, and words that fell like petals. For months, they met beneath the flame trees, drawing dreams in the dust. She had imagined vows, imagined motherhood wrapped in acceptance, not shame. But dreams fracture when reality doesn’t follow the script. Joe’s charm began to falter, his visits irregular, his gaze distracted. Rumours of his affairs reached her ears, first like whispers, then like sirens.
When she told him about the child, he laughed—a cruel, mocking laugh. “You think I’m ready for that? You think this”—he had gestured dismissively—“was ever more than a dalliance?”
Lily had returned home that night and sat in silence until the stars blinked wearily. Morning brought no clarity. Only dread. Her parents, strict and God-fearing, would see only disgrace.
“I was afraid,” she confessed to Glory, her voice trembling. “Afraid of my parents’ wrath. Afraid of being cast out. Afraid of being a mother when I didn’t know how to carry my own brokenness. But I thought… I thought someone would find her. A kind soul. Maybe a couple who couldn’t have children. I left her wrapped, warm on the edge of the village. I waited. I waited for hours. And then I ran.”
She crumbled into sobs. “I didn’t know she’d die crying.”
Glory stepped forward and held her, not as a judge, but as a witness to pain. The warmth of her embrace was a balm Lily hadn’t known she craved.
“You must confess, Lily. Only then can punishment carve the path to peace. God hears the penitent heart,” she said gently.
“Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow–Isaiah 1:18,” she said.
Lily nodded through tears. The weight on her chest had a name now: remorse—raw, sincere, unburdened.
“Will God forgive me?” she asked, fragile as a child again.
“Yes,” Glory smiled, her voice firm, yet forgiving. “Forgiveness follows the confession of truth. Redemption walks behind repentance.”
Lily knelt right there, whispered a prayer only heaven heard—asking that her child be given a cradle in the clouds, asking that God stitch grace into the tattered hem of her soul.
When she rose, her face bore the softness of someone who had touched the hem of healing. She embraced Glory one last time and turned toward the prison gates—not in fear, but with the quiet strength of a woman walking through fire, towards light.
Glory watched her go, a silent sentinel of God’s mercy. Through her, Lily had finally seen that even in the ashes of abandonment, embers of grace could still burn.
Dr.Ritu Kamra Kumar
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