CHRONICLE OF HER EXISTENCE

3. SHADOWS OF DOUDT

With a heavy heart, I poured out my troubles, explaining the challenges I was facing with my parents pressuring me to leave the Catholic Church and outlining their reasons. "Father I feel torn," I confessed, my voice wavering with emotion. "I don't know what to do." he looked at me with concern and inquired "What is it, my daughter?" I was teary but still explaining the situation of things around me and my parent. The priest listened intently, his brow furrowed in concern. After absorbing my plight, he suggested having a conversation with my parents, offering his support in mediating the discussion. However, I couldn't shake the feeling that it would only lead to further conflict. "I appreciate your offer, Father," I replied, my tone tinged with resignation. "But I fear it won't change their minds. It might only make things worse." Understanding my apprehension, the priest nodded thoughtfully. He placed a comforting hand on my shoulder, offering words of wisdom and solace.

"Sometimes, peace comes not from winning battles, but from surrendering to them," he said gently. "Perhaps by agreeing with your parents, you can find peace within yourself. Remember, we all serve the same God, even if our paths differ. Even though you don't find peace there once you get to school you can continue with the Catholic Church. I understand you don't want to miss out on your education as much as your faith." his words made sense but I still had to inquire more, "won't that be me not being proud of my faith? It will mean me hiding it from them" The priest held my hands and said "No my daughter, that will be applying wisdom where it is needed"

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His words resonated with me, offering a glimmer of hope amidst the turmoil. With a grateful nod, I bid the priest farewell and made my way home, the weight of my decision heavy on my shoulders. I know I needed to talk to my parent about the issue on the ground and agree with them since that's the only clear part I could see. Upon arriving, I braced myself for the inevitable confrontation with my parents. As expected, they scolded me for my reluctance to conform to their wishes. Yet, strangely, their words didn't sting as much as they used to. Instead, I found a sense of calm within me, knowing that I had chosen the path of peace, even if it meant sacrificing my desires. In that moment, I realized that true peace doesn't always come from defiance or resistance, but from acceptance and understanding. As I stood before my parents, I knew that, despite our differences, we were all united in our shared devotion to God.

As I anxiously awaited the arrival of nightfall, each passing minute felt like an eternity. I knew that once darkness descended, I would finally have the chance to unload the heavy burden weighing on my heart. The need to speak to my parents, to bridge the growing chasm between us, consumed my thoughts. When nightfall finally graced the sky, I made my way through the familiar corridors of our home, my footsteps echoing in the quiet house. With a sense of determination, I headed towards my parents' room, knowing that this was the opportune moment to confront them. Nighttime had always been the best time for heart-to-heart conversations in our household.

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As I reached their door, I hesitated for a moment, steeling myself for what lay ahead. With a deep breath, I knocked softly, the sound echoing in the silence of the night. Their voices beckoned me to enter, and I pushed the door open slowly. Inside, I found them both seated on the edge of their bed, their expressions unreadable. Yet, I could sense an air of indifference hanging in the room. Swallowing my nerves, I mustered the courage to speak. "Daddy, mummy I...I need to talk to you," I began, my voice trembling with emotion. My father inclined his head slightly, a silent indication for me to proceed, while my mother's response was more reluctant, her movements betraying her lack of enthusiasm. With their body language signaling their readiness to listen, I knelt before them, the weight of my confession pressing down on me like a leaden weight. Tears welled up in my eyes as I struggled to find the right words. "I'm sorry," I choked out, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry for causing you pain by refusing to leave the Catholic Church. I...I want to make things right. I want to be united with you on this." The room fell silent, the weight of my admission hanging heavy in the air. I dared not look up, afraid of what I might see in their eyes. My father made a subtle noise with his throat, then he inquired. "Is this because I threatened not to support your schooling if you continued with that church that's why you are doing this?" "No, Dad. It's not about that. I just want us to have peace in our family." I responded. My mother drew herself a bit closer to the other end of the bed where my father was and said "But do you now truly believe that the Catholic Church's doctrine isn't in line with God's teachings?" I responded with a yes even though it made no sense to me. My father smiled and said "Well, Eloise, we appreciate your apology and your willingness to change. We're happy to see that you're willing to make amends and serve God in the way that we believe is right." my mother nodded in agreement and said "Yes, we forgive you, Eloise. We're proud of you for repenting and being willing to serve God truly." her smiling face encouraged me, "Thank you, Mom, Dad. I appreciate your understanding." my father then said "You can go now, Eloise. We'll talk more about how your life will reflect Christ from now on". With a heavy heart but also a sense of relief, I stood up and left my parents' room, grateful for their acceptance yet still unsure of my convictions.

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The following Sunday arrived, and I accompanied my parents to their church. Stepping through the doors, they directed me to the side where the women sat, a custom meant to prevent any temptation or sin by segregating the genders. As I settled into my designated spot, instead of feeling the anticipated sense of joy at being in God's presence, I felt deeply unsettled. Throughout the service, the pastor's words cut through the air, sharp and critical, especially towards other denominations, particularly the Catholic Church. I couldn't help but realize why my parents' hearts seemed poisoned with disdain. Was this the rhetoric they were exposed to every Sunday? My discomfort grew with each passing moment, and I silently prayed for the service to conclude so I could escape the suffocating atmosphere. Every Sunday became a trial, a torment to endure. I felt as though I were enduring a living hell within the confines of that church. My respect for the senior pastor, once held in reserve, dwindled further after an incident that shattered the last remnants of admiration I harbored for him. Then came the day when my mother traveled for a church conference, leaving me to shoulder the burden of household chores. With my schedule stretched thin, I found myself unable to attend the choir practice my mother had encouraged me to join. At that moment, I realized that if left to my own devices, I would simply be a churchgoer in name only. On the evening of that Saturday, my mother was supposed to come back, I was free because I finished every work I had in hand before the evening. With my brothers at home, because it was the weekend and no school that day. They assisted with the household chores, and the burden of responsibilities was lightened, granting me a precious window of respite. Since I was free I decided to go to church that evening for choir practice and the pastor was there. He called me and I went. He complained and asked why I had not been coming to church for practice then I explained to him that it wasn't intentional, that I was the only one at home handling everything since mother left. I explained to him that I wasn't able to meet up because of a heavy load of work at home. He responded positively like he understood me and I left. I realized that the little conversation I heard with the pastor blew into something else when my mother came back. My mother came back that Saturday night, we all welcomed her and everyone was happy. After Sunday service that week the energy my mum was giving to me was different. She no longer answers my greetings and forcefully answers questions I ask her. I couldn't place my hands on it but I knew she was not pleased with me. In the cozy living room, tension hung thick in the air as my parents sat on the couch, and I nervously perched on the edge of a chair. My mother's face was etched with frustration, her eyes narrowing as she looked at me.

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"Why did you lie to Pastor Johnson about why you're missing choir practice? I can't believe you'd blame me for it!" I stammered, "Mum, I didn't lie. I just told him that you're not around much, and I have more chores to handle, making it hard for me to attend practice regularly." Her voice rose sharply, "That's the same as blaming me! You should have defended me instead of making me look bad in front of the pastor. I tried to explain, "I didn't mean to make you look bad. I just wanted him to understand why I've been struggling to make it to practice. It's not your fault, but I needed him to know the situation." My father, sensing the escalating tension, spoke calmly, "Let's hear her out, dear. Maybe there's a misunderstanding." My mother huffed, "Misunderstanding? She told the pastor I was the reason she couldn't go to practice. How is that a misunderstanding?" I interjected, my eyes pleading, "Mom, please listen. I never said it was your fault. I just explained that with you gone, I have more responsibilities at home. Pastor Johnson must have misunderstood." She crossed her arms, clearly unconvinced. "Misunderstood or not, you should have been more careful with your words."

My father, my mediator for that day, interceded, "Maybe the pastor misinterpreted her words. We should give her the benefit

of the doubt, dear. Our daughter wouldn't intentionally say something like that about you." My mom softened slightly, but her frustration lingered. "I just don't want people thinking I'm neglecting my duties at home." Dad reassured her, "No one will think that, but we should trust our daughter. She wouldn't do anything to harm our family's reputation." instantly I grew a dislike for the pastor, why would you insinuate that I said that when I didn't? Because of him, I had to go through this with my mum. It's even more painful she believes him more than she believes me. As the conversation continued, my father's understanding and support were a comforting contrast to my mom's initial anger. Being that we had reached an end to the conversation I excused myself and went to my room. Immediately I shot the door behind me I cried and cried. I was tired of home and desperately wanted to leave. All I did that night was cry and pray.

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Prayer works, it has worked for me so many times. I believe that there is a supreme being who watches over everything that happens on earth.am a believer in Christ Jesus and it's evidenced in how I run to him for help each time the troubles of this world distress me. Every night in my room, I did the same.....