FROM ROAD TO REASON

Where Faith Learned to Breathe

Our house did not look like much to anyone passing by.

It was small and low-roofed, built from mud and patience. The walls carried quiet cracks, the kind that come from age and endurance rather than neglect. The wooden doors had learned the sound of many seasons, and the compound gathered dust faster than comfort ever found its way in. But inside that house lived something stronger than poverty.

Inside that house lived faith.

Faith was not something we spoke about casually. It was not a decoration or a weekend habit. It was woven into how we woke each morning, how we rested at night, and how we survived days when hunger knocked louder than hope. Prayer was as regular as breathing, and sometimes, it felt just as necessary.

My parents were devout Catholics, but my father’s faith stood apart in a quiet, unmistakable way. At St. Anthony’s Catholic Church in Nawfia, he was more than a familiar face—he was a constant presence. Morning or evening, weekday or weekend, he was always there. His life revolved around the church, not out of obligation, but out of conviction.

People noticed.

They gave him a name that followed him wherever he went "Otito Dili Jesu". It was spoken with respect, sometimes with admiration. The name did not fade with time. Even after his passing, it continued to echo within the community, tied to the memory of a man whose devotion was steady and unshakable.

In the evenings, when the village settled into silence and the air cooled, families gathered at different compounds for the Block Rosary. At first, my father joined them faithfully, walking from house to house with his rosary beads in hand. But as time passed and attendance thinned, something changed. Instead of letting the prayers fade, my father brought the rosary home.

That was how the Block Rosary entered our house.

Soon, it was no longer a gathering of many voices. It became just the two of us—father and son kneeling side by side on the bare floor. The beads slid through his calloused fingers with practiced ease. His voice was calm, steady, never rushed. Mine followed, sometimes tired, sometimes distracted, but always present.

Those moments shaped me in ways I did not yet understand.

In that house, faith was not loud. It did not promise instant miracles or easy answers. It simply stayed. It taught us how to endure without bitterness, how to hope without evidence, and how to kneel even when standing felt easier.

Our home became a small sanctuary not because it was holy in appearance, but because belief lived there fully. That was where faith learned to breathe, quietly and consistently, filling the spaces poverty could not reach.

And without knowing it then, I was being prepared for a life that would ask much of me.