By the age of fifteen, darkness had settled over my life again like a heavy fog.  For years, my innocence lay in ruins, shattered by predatory  people that crept into my world, menacing and relentless. Darkness wrapped around me like shroud. I had kept my silence, a mute witness to the chaos that invaded my existence. Fear wrapped around me like a cloak, and shame clung to my skin, a constant reminder of the weight I carried, quietly and alone.

 

One day,  courage stirred within me, a flicker of light in the oppressive gloom. I sought out a trusted friend, an adult I believed would listen. I spoke with a trembling voice, recounting the pain that had haunted me for so long. She became angry her response cut deeper than I expected. “You must have misunderstood,” she said flatly. “There are some secrets you take to your grave.” Her words shifted the ground beneath me. I knew the truth of what was happening, yet her words sowed seeds of doubt in my mind. I was left shattered, frightened, and questioning the very fabric of my reality. The desire for escape whispered to me like a distant siren, and I wanted to die. I didn’t know how it would happen but I knew it was going to and even that secret remained locked away, a heavy burden I bore alone, unseen by the world.

 

In the quiet of my heart, I wrestled with the shadows that haunted me. I tried to navigate the darkness, though it threatened to consume me. I held my pain close, a silent companion in a world that refused to acknowledge it. And in that silence, I found a strength I did not know I possessed, a flicker of resolve that would guide me through the storm.

 

It was Good Friday, our youth choir was invited to sing at a nearby church. We arrived early to rehearse, waiting in the basement, the air thick with anticipation.

 

Then, he walked in. A man unlike any I had ever seen. I felt pure holiness around him. At first, I thought he might be an apostle or perhaps an angel. But as he drew closer, I knew—it was Jesus. He was tall, slender but muscular, with long, dark wavy hair that fell down his back. His dark olive skin and deep brown eyes shone with life. When he smiled, a dimple appeared, and my heart melted.

His clothes surprised me. Jeans, a white shirt, and boots. No robes. It felt right. He exuded pure love, humility and kindness, just as I imagined he would.

“Where do I go to sit?” he asked, looking at me. He wanted to know where to place himself for the service. He settled in the chair beside me, still smiling. I was overwhelmed, speechless, dry-mouthed, astonished that Jesus chose to sit next to me.

 

Two women in front of me turned to guide him to a seat in the main church. Others noticed him too. But Jesus kept his gaze on me. “What is happening to you in your life, is happening,” he said, voice warm. “You are not crazy. I love you. I am with you, You are not alone. Don’t be afraid.”

 

He stood then, gently touching the elbow of the woman sitting in front of me who had suffered terribly for many years from arthritis. With his gentle touch, she was healed. The five of us, the four other women and I, still talk about that day. None of the other choir members saw him as he walked upstairs to the main church.

 

Jesus took a seat before a magnificent stained glass window. As we sang “Up to Jerusalem,” I saw the sunlight streaming through the window, illuminating him. I saw him cover his face with his hands and weep. At that moment, I was lost in him, singing with all my heart, oblivious to everyone else.

 

After that encounter, thoughts of ending my life faded. His gentle love healed me. He understood my struggles and affirmed their reality. He gave me the courage to endure.

 

The experience transformed everything. It was as if a light pierced the darkness I had felt for so long. His warmth wrapped around me, offering the safety I needed. I realized I was not alone; someone truly knew and understood my pain.

After that encounter, thoughts of ending my life faded. His love healed me, and I felt understood. I began to share my secret, carefully, piecing together the truth. Vulnerability opened deep wounds but also connected me with others who bore similar burdens.

Music became my refuge. Each note I sang echoed that moment in the church, light streaming through stained glass, illuminating Jesus. Healing is not a straight path; it ebbs and flows. But the memory of his warmth guides me.

Looking back, meeting Jesus was not just a moment; it marked the beginning of a transformation. I learned love’s power, the strength in vulnerability. I emerged no longer lost but renewed, ready to embrace life fully—both the joys and shadows that lay ahead.