Grace was the kind of woman who prayed with her whole body, hands lifted, voice cracking on the high notes of “Great Are You Lord.” At thirty-two, she knew the weight of being unmarried in a Pentecostal megachurch in Nigeria, where women’s worth was measured in wedding bands and baby bumps. But she had her career at the bank and her quiet flat in Ikeja, with the stubborn efirin plant on the balcony that refused to die, no matter how often she forgot to water it.
Then the trouble started.
The Orphanage Funds That Broke Her Trust
It was the orphanage funds that did it. The Makoko children hadn’t received their monthly supplies in three months, yet Pastor Elijah’s new Lexus gleamed in the church car park like a spit in the face of God. Grace had only asked politely for transparency in an email.
“Sister Grace,” the pastor had said, his smile smooth as oiled leather, “You must learn to trust your spiritual leaders.”
The next Sunday, his sermon was on “Rebellious Women in the Bible.”
The women who used to save her seats suddenly found reasons to look away. Sister Ngozi, the widowed leader of the women’s fellowship, began every meeting with pointed prayers about “those who sow discord among brethren.” The worst was Ezinne, her supposed best friend, who stopped returning her calls after whispering, “Why can’t you just let it go?”
Grace stopped going to church.
For months, her mother’s calls went unanswered. Sundays now meant bitter coffee and old Nollywood films where the villains always repented in the end. At work, male colleagues smirked when she corrected their reports.
“Ah, Grace and her sharp mouth!” They discussed behind her back. She began to wonder if the world only loved women who kept quiet.
The Chapel That Whispered ‘Welcome Home‘
During a walk to clear her mind one rainy evening, she stumbled into a dusty Surulere chapel to escape the downpour. The walls were peeling blue, the wooden pews worn smooth by generations of restless hands. An old priest, Father Anselm, as his name tag read, was bent over a pot of jollof rice in the back, feeding a group of street children.
“You look like you could use a plate,” he said, pushing one toward her.
She ate in silence, watching him tease the children in fluent Yoruba. No performative holiness here. No Lexus parked outside.
Later, she found herself standing outside the Makoko orphanage. Little Adaora, who’d grown two inches since she last saw her, came running.
“Aunty Grace! We prayed for you every night!”
That night, on her balcony, Grace finally spoke to God again. Not in tongues or scripture, but in the raw, ragged language of a wounded heart while tears poured unhindered from her eyes.
“I don’t know how to trust them. But I miss you.”
The wind stirred the efirin leaves. Somewhere in the distance, a neighbour’s radio played “Onyedikagi” Who is like you?
And for the first time in months, Grace lifted her hands, not in performance, but in surrender and sang. The efirin thrived. So would her faith.
Commentary On Grace’s Story
Her story of church hurt and spiritual trauma became a testimony. Like the efirin plant on her balcony, thriving against odds. Grace rediscovered a faith that wasn’t about performance, but surrender.
Church hurt is a silent epidemic in Nigerian Christian communities. For Grace, a 32-year-old banker in Lagos, it took one question about missing orphanage funds to turn her church from sanctuary to source of pain. This is the story of how she found healing and not in a megachurch’s spotlight, but in a dusty Surulere chapel, through the laughter of street children and the stubborn resilience of an efirin plant.
To read another article that encourages you on your Christian walk, read this
