STAINS ON THE CROSS | LAST PART

Late afternoon light spilled across the wide compound, slanting through mango trees and resting softly on rows of chairs scattered by celebration. 

Dust still hung faintly in the air from dancing feet that had stamped rhythmically on the ground. Hands clapped until palms burned. 

Drums leaned against the wall, their skins warm from use. Women wiped their faces with wrappers, laughter breaking out again and again as the last echoes of ululation faded into satisfied sighs. 

Somewhere near the gate, children clapped out of rhythm, imitating what they had seen. The air itself felt lighter, as though relief had learned how to breathe.

Near the front, the chairman remained standing, shoulders relaxed now, joy creasing his face, sweat glistening on his brow. He lifted one hand, palm open—not to command silence, but to gather attention. 

The breeze brushed the mango leaves overhead as murmurs softened, and expectation pooled across the compound. His voice rose with warmth, carrying easily over the settling crowd.

Chairman (smiling):

“Now that the two of you Jesh—Jimmi have agreed to marry, Jimmi… please, call your parents.”

A ripple of knowing smiles passed through the chairs. The drums seemed to lean closer against the wall, the dust drifting lower, as if the ground itself paused to witness the moment.

The chairman’s tone shifted gently, fuller now, as though blessing itself had found language. His words flowed without strain, steady and affirming.

Chairman (warmly):

“Let them hear this good news with their own ears. Tell them the man God has chosen has found you, and that his family is ready.”

A quiet hum of approval moved through the people. Heads nodded. Somewhere, a woman whispered thanks under her breath, and the late sun warmed the chairman’s open palm before he lowered it.

Jimmi stood still for a moment. Her fingers trembled as she reached into her bag. She drew in a breath that shook her shoulders, then exhaled slowly, steadying her heart as if stepping onto holy ground. 

The phone felt warm in her palm as she dialed. Around her, the noise softened, as though the compound itself leaned in to listen. 

The screen lit her face faintly as the call connected. Her composure cracked into joy; her voice broke through before restraint could catch it.

Jimmi (excitedly):

“Mum… it has happened. The brother who once came to you and Dad—the one I blindly rejected—I’m at their family compound.”

Gasps fluttered lightly across the chairs. A woman clasped her hands. The mango leaves rustled again, and a hush pressed closer, thick with expectancy.

Her tone surged again, brighter, trembling with relief that had waited years to speak.

Jimmi (joyfully):

“He waited. He didn’t give up on me. And now… we’re getting married.”

On the other end, silence lingered—heavy, almost sacred. Jimmi’s eyes filled. The compound seemed to hold its breath, dust settling fully to the ground.

Then suddenly, voices burst through the speaker—shouts, laughter, songs of thanksgiving tumbling over one another, as though a distant house had instantly become an altar. 

Mrs. Levi’s voice rose clear and anchored in Scripture, seasoned with years of prayer.

Mrs. Levi (reverently):

“Truly, ‘This is the LORD’S doing; it is marvellous in our eyes.’”

Tears swept freely across faces nearby. A man wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. The air shimmered with something unseen yet undeniable.

Jimmi hung up the phone and pressed it to her chest. She closed her eyes as tears spilled through her lashes. Around her, people watched quietly, already understanding that this joy ran deeper than marriage. It was restoration made visible. 

Her parents’ hearts overflowed—not merely because a godly man had come, but because the daughter they had prayed over had returned fully to the path of holiness.

A few days later, the compound of Mr. Levi’s house stood freshly swept. The cement floor bore faint water marks from where it had been washed that morning. 

Palm fronds tied to the gate rustled gently as a Land Cruiser rolled in and stopped. Doors opened. Footsteps followed.

When Jesh stepped forward with his family, Mr. and Mrs. Levi froze where they stood—recognition striking them like light breaking through cloud, memory taking human form. 

Mrs. Levi leaned slightly toward her husband, her breath catching before her words found shape.

Mrs. Levi (whispering):

“Do you remember the brother now? The one who came when our daughter was lost? The one who still asked for her?”

Mr. Levi’s shoulders sagged with awe. The gate creaked softly behind the visitors, and the compound seemed to widen, making room for mercy fulfilled.

Jimmi guided Jesh and his family to the arranged chairs as they sat together. Jemimah settled among them. Jimmi walked slowly and took her seat beside her parents.

A soft sob escaped Mrs. Levi’s lips. At that moment, Pastor Zaccai rose from his seat. He adjusted his stance, eyes moist, conviction steadying his tone as he addressed Jesh and the parents, his voice carrying the weight of witness.

Pastor Zaccai (solemnly):

“Jesh… I remember your brokenness, your sincerity. This is the doing of God. Let no one take glory in this.”

Tears traced silent paths down faces long acquainted with prayer and waiting. The years—mistakes, intercessions, silence—lifted at once. They saw it plainly: the careful hand of God weaving what human effort could never design. 

Broken pieces had become a testimony, glowing with quiet beauty.

Time moved forward with purpose. Traditional rites followed in proper order. Elders spoke. Hands were shaken. Blessings filled the space like incense. Bride price was counted carefully. Prayers were offered deliberately. 

And before heaven and earth, Jimmi and Jesh were joined—not hurriedly, not casually, but as those whose paths had been aligned by mercy.

Joy spilled from one household to another. Songs rose again. Gratitude returned to the One who turns ashes into beauty.

Jesh and his family returned to their hometown with Jimmi and her parents. Pastor Zaccai joined them to complete the final day of Jesh’s family program. 

The sky was clear. The compound filled as neighbors gathered, voices layering into a gentle roar of expectancy.

Jimmi and Jesh stood at the front, asked to lead the closing prayer and worship. Their hands did not clasp, but their shoulders aligned, their breathing synchronized. 

Jimmi closed her eyes briefly, lips moving in silent surrender. Jesh lifted his head, eyes fixed ahead, his voice poised.

As their voices joined—steady, united, sincere—the sound stretched beyond the compound walls. The air thickened, weighty. Worship rose—not forced, not rehearsed.

Heaven responded.

The presence of God descended, not as noise, but as pressure—like oil poured slowly from heaven’s altar, saturating everything it touched. 

People wept. Some sank to their knees; others pressed hands to their chests as conviction pierced deep. Confessions spilled in whispers and cries. Hearts bowed low before the Lord.

A woman at the back dropped to the floor, sobbing. A man trembled, shaking his head as though waking from long sleep. 

Bodies were healed. 

Chains shattered unseen. 

Charms were brought forward and abandoned. 

Voices once aligned with darkness now called on the name of the Lord.

As the sun lowered, casting long shadows across the compound, peace settled like evening dew. By the time the gathering drew to a close, one truth rested firmly in every heart: 

“In God, all things are still possible.”

Jimmi stood quietly beside Jesh, her face calm, her heart anchored. The breeze softened, and her voice slipped out like a prayer finally answered.

Jimmi (softly):

“Father… thank You for Your waiting love.”

A gentle stillness followed. Jesh’s response came low and certain, sealing the moment.

Jesh (reverently):

“Amen.”

The compound rested in quiet light, carrying the testimony of a story rewritten by grace. People drifted away in small groups. The breeze stirred the trees again. Somewhere, a bird called. Footsteps faded.

The same God who worked wonders in days past was present still. Where men saw impossibility, God saw destiny. Where others gave up, heaven continued writing. And in the end, His purpose stood unshaken.

Even when we drift, His love waits.

Even when we fail, His mercy calls.

Even when the way seems hidden, His hand is already moving.

If the path has been lost, this truth remains: God’s waiting love is still calling.

Not waiting with judgment—but with grace.

Not waiting for perfection—but ready to transform.

Return.

Rise.

Be restored.

Because in Christ, no story ends in shame—only in glory.

May the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be sufficient for us, and may His strength carry us along this journey to heaven. May we never forget: His waiting love is still alive—just for you, just for me.

Amen.

The End.

Written by Agbemawle Atsu Norvishi

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