THE MAID’S WHITE COAT | PART TWO
The night was quiet. The parsonage slept beneath a blanket of calm, save for the faint creaks of the wooden ceiling.
Moonlight slipped through the half-open window, painting the narrow laundry room in pale silver.
On a thin mattress beside a bucket and a folded pile of clothes, Sarah knelt—shoulders trembling, breath shivering against the silence.
Her hands were clasped so tight her knuckles whitened. Her lips parted, quivering, ready to pour out her heart before God.
Sarah (whispering):
“Lord Jesus… they say You see the humble. Please, see me tonight. Give me strength to serve without bitterness. I want to love them like You love me—even when it hurts.”
“Lord Jesus… they say You see the humble. Please, see me tonight. Give me strength to serve without bitterness. I want to love them like You love me—even when it hurts.”
Her voice fractured mid-sentence. Tears spilled, darkening the pillow beneath her. She pressed a hand over her mouth, stifling the sobs—desperate not to wake the house.
The faint hum of the night deepened; even the wind seemed to hush as her prayer trembled upward.
But someone heard.
Just beyond the cracked door, a small shadow stirred. Barefoot, teddy bear in hand, Caleb stood frozen—the glow from the room glinting in his wide, wondering eyes.
He watched the maid who always tied his shoelaces, who prayed over his scraped knees, who smiled through exhaustion. The sight pierced his young heart like something sacred yet sad.
He tilted his head, lips barely moving, his voice soft as the night breeze.
Caleb (softly):
“Why is Auntie Sarah crying every night?”
“Why is Auntie Sarah crying every night?”
The child’s words faded into the still air. A flicker of sorrow crossed his face, though he could not name the feeling.
He lingered there, eyes glistening with a tender ache, then quietly tiptoed away—each step gentle, as if not to disturb her pain.
The moonlight followed him down the corridor, brushing his tiny frame with pale warmth.
Sliding back under his blanket, he turned toward the warmth beside him. Joy stirred, her lashes fluttering as sleep still clung to her.
Her lips parted, breath catching softly in the dark.
Joy (softly):
“Caleb… where did you go?”
“Caleb… where did you go?”
Her voice broke the silence softly, carrying the rhythm of a child’s half-dream. The air in the room quivered with innocence and concern.
Caleb’s fingers tightened on the blanket, his voice small and near a whisper.
Caleb (murmuring):
“Auntie Sarah was praying… and crying.”
He pulled the blanket closer, his words hanging heavy between them. Joy shifted, the faint rustle of sheets whispering through the dim.
Her eyelids fluttered, a drowsy breath slipping from her lips before she spoke again.
Joy (quietly):
“Maybe… she misses her home.”
“Maybe… she misses her home.”
Her sleepy tone melted into the dark, but her eyes blinked open just enough to meet his.
Caleb’s gaze drifted upward, his throat tightening slightly before he found the words.
Caleb (slowly):
“No. I think… she’s sad here.”
“No. I think… she’s sad here.”
Silence returned—deep and thoughtful. The ticking of the wall clock sounded like a heartbeat in the night.
Outside, the leaves whispered secrets to the wind, as if heaven itself had paused to listen to two innocent souls trying to understand sorrow.
Morning broke with the sound of the church bell, its echo rolling through sleepy streets like a call from heaven.
Inside the sanctuary, sunlight streamed through polished glass, scattering crimson and gold across the pulpit like divine fire.
The metal-framed, foam-padded chairs gleamed neatly in rows, and the air carried the mild scent of pressed linen.
Sarah stood among the choir, her simple white blouse glowing softly beneath the light. Her lips moved gently, her voice rising in worship, eyes glistening with a quiet surrender.
For the first time in weeks, peace brushed her heart like a dove’s wing. The hymn “Jesus, Keep Me Near the Cross” floated upward, filling the church like sweet incense.
After the choir ministration ended, Pastor Paul rose from his white sofa at the front, shoulders squared, Bible in hand. His calm presence filled the sanctuary.
He took a slow step toward the pulpit, each movement steady and deliberate, the soft echo of his shoes blending with the hush that settled over the congregation.
He drew a quiet breath, lifting his gaze over the congregation before his voice broke the silence—deep, measured, resolute.
Pastor Paul (firmly):
“Brethren, today’s message is simple—love your neighbor as yourself. Not in word only, but in deed.”
“Brethren, today’s message is simple—love your neighbor as yourself. Not in word only, but in deed.”
His voice rang out, steady and full of authority. A wave of “Amens” rippled through the congregation like a gentle wind over still water. The organ hummed softly in the background.
Martha sat proudly in the front row, her hat angled perfectly, her children lined neatly beside her.
Each time her husband’s eyes found hers, she returned the gaze with a serene, self-satisfied smile that gleamed beneath the colored light.
When the final prayer ended, the air outside filled with laughter, warm greetings, and the clatter of polished shoes on gravel.
The Sunday sun gleamed on joyful faces and plates of steaming fried rice.
The church compound came alive—children chasing one another, mothers exchanging blessings, the bell tower echoing faintly above it all.
Sarah lingered behind Martha, holding Caleb and Joy’s Bibles close to her chest. Her smile was small but sincere, a quiet strength hidden beneath humility.
A woman approached Martha, her tone soft and admiring, her steps light upon the gravel.
Woman (warmly):
“Sister Martha! You’re truly a virtuous woman. Your children always look so neat and well-mannered. You must be doing such a wonderful job at home.”
“Sister Martha! You’re truly a virtuous woman. Your children always look so neat and well-mannered. You must be doing such a wonderful job at home.”
The compliment hung in the air like the scent of blooming hibiscus. Martha’s lips curved higher, pride glowing beneath her gentle tone, her posture straightening slightly as she replied.
Martha (gracefully):
“All glory to God, sister. I do my best to keep things in order.”
“All glory to God, sister. I do my best to keep things in order.”
Behind her, Sarah lowered her gaze, a faint smile flickering like a candle’s dying flame. Her hands tightened around the children’s Bibles as if holding onto her place in their world.
Caleb tugged lightly at her dress, and she guided him and Joy into the car—her steps calm, her spirit quiet.
Martha lingered a little longer, basking beneath the sunlight of praise. The church bell gave one last slow toll—deep, clear, and final—as the holy day carried its peace into the open sky.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Written by Agbemawle Atsu Norvishi
© All Rights Reserved. Shared freely to bless and inspire.
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