IN THE TUNNEL
Chapter One: The Altar
The soft hum of an organ lingered in the air like a memory, its notes threading through the old wooden rafters of the church. The evening sun bled through stained glass windows, casting gentle hues of amber and crimson onto the empty pews. In the quiet heart of a forgotten town, where time itself seemed to walk rather than run, the church stood as a monument to faith and forgotten prayers.
Oluwagbemiga stood at the entrance, his figure silhouetted against the fading light. He was a man of forty-five, tall and worn by the years—each line on his face etched by unfulfilled promises and silent battles. The faint scent of incense greeted him, mingling with the aroma of old wood, wax, and reverence.
He took slow, deliberate steps toward the altar.
It was not his first time here. In fact, this was where it all began—his story, his dedication, his calling. Somewhere between the stone floor and the polished wooden rails of the altar, his parents had once lifted him in consecration, placing his future into the hands of God. But that was long ago. Then, he was just a baby, swaddled in hope and innocence. Now, he was a man wrapped in weariness and self-doubt.
Oluwagbemiga sank to his knees, his breath unsteady.
“Lord…” he began, his voice trembling. “I’ve come back. Back to where it all started. To the altar where my parents handed me over to You.”
He paused, inhaling deeply as memories surged. “I was just a child then, carried in their arms, full of promise and hope. Now…”
His voice cracked. “Look at me, Lord. Forty-five years later. I am not the man I thought I’d be.”
He bowed his head. “I am a father, yes. But am I truly a father?” A bitter chuckle escaped his lips. “Sometimes I think I’m just a shadow, a shell of what a father should be.”
There was no one else in the room to hear him, but that didn’t matter. This was not a confession for men. It was an offering of honesty to the only One who truly knew him.
“I’ve come to speak my mind. Not in anger, no… but in desperation.”
The organ’s melody faded, leaving only his voice, filled with the weight of a father’s regrets.
“There are seven duties every father must fulfill,” he whispered. “Seven sacred responsibilities. Let me list them, Lord. You know them already, but let me say them for myself…”
He raised a trembling hand, as if counting not with fingers but with fragments of his own soul.
“First, to provide for the family.” He sighed, bitter and deep. “I have failed. There is nothing in my hands, Lord. My wife, my daughters… they look to me, but I have nothing to give.”
“Second, to protect them. How do I protect them when I cannot even protect myself from shame?”
“Third, to guide them in Your ways. I’ve tried, Lord. I’ve tried to teach them Your Word, but what do my words mean when my life doesn’t reflect victory?”
“Fourth, to be their example of love. My wife deserves joy. My daughters deserve affection. But all I bring is frustration and worry.”
He paused, drawing a slow breath before continuing. “Fifth, to discipline with wisdom. Sixth, to inspire their dreams. Seventh, to prepare them for life…”
His voice faltered. “Lord, I have failed. In every one of these, I have failed.”
Silence draped the church like a shroud.
Then his voice rose—not in pride, but in passionate grief.
“Why, Lord? Why would You give me the gift of being a father if I can’t live up to it? Why would You allow me to bring three beautiful girls into this world only to leave them wanting, yearning for the father they deserve?”
He knelt lower, head bowed to the floor.
“They deserve better. My wife deserves better.”
Tears carved quiet trails down his face. “I have refused to do things that are not of You. I have stayed on the narrow path, even when it cost me. I have been mocked, humiliated. My life is stagnant, Lord! Stuck in this tunnel of shame and reproach.”
He lifted his head slightly, eyes damp and pleading. “How long, Lord? How long will I stay in this darkness? When will I see the light at the end of this tunnel?”
Only echoes responded.
Still on his knees, he clenched his fists. “I am not tired of living for You. No, Lord, never. But I am tired of living without results.”
His voice cracked again, rising. “I am tired of being the boy who struggles, who carries a name that promises greatness—Oluwagbemiga: God lifts me high.”
He whispered, broken. “Yet, where is the lifting, Lord? Where is the fulfillment of the promise? I am still struggling. Still crawling.”
He exhaled shakily. “I came here, Lord, because I believe. I believe in Your power. I believe in Your promise. But my faith… my faith is tired…”
A breeze swept through the sanctuary then—soft, like a whisper from heaven. The old wooden rafters creaked. Somewhere, unseen, a windchime stirred.
A sound, barely audible, drifted across the space. The laughter of a child—light, innocent, full of life.
Oluwagbemiga froze, heart pounding. It was a sound that reminded him—of his daughters, of their joy, of the beauty he still had, even in brokenness.
He wept.
“Lord,” he said softly, “I will wait. I will wait for Your light. I don’t know how long it will take, but I will wait. Because even in this tunnel, I am Yours. And You… You are my light.”
The moment hung in the air, heavy yet sacred.
From the rear of the sanctuary came the soft creak of a door opening. Footsteps approached, hesitant yet sure. Oluwagbemiga’s prayer slowed as he turned slightly, wiping his tears.
The figure of a young girl entered the church—perhaps fourteen, with determined eyes and a face both innocent and weary. She wore modest clothes, her hair tied back, and moved with the kind of quiet strength only the broken learn to carry.
Oluwagbemiga’s brow furrowed as irritation rose.
Who is this now? he thought, glancing up from his knees. Who has come to disturb my prayer? He narrowed his eyes. Hope she’s not here to beg for money… because I don’t have a single naira to give anyone.
She stepped closer and noticed him, bowing her head slightly in greeting.
CHAPTER TWO: THE GIRL WHO PRAYED
The heavy wooden door creaked slightly as it opened. Dim rays of twilight filtered in, casting long shadows across the pews of the old church. The scent of candle wax, aged wood, and lingering incense hung thick in the air. Oluwagbemiga remained kneeling near the altar, his eyes closed, his lips moving in a broken whisper of prayer.
Then, a voice—young, gentle—broke the silence.
“Good evening, sir.”
Oluwagbemiga didn’t respond. He heard her, but irritation stirred within him. Can she not see I’m praying? he thought. How can someone walk into God’s house and interrupt another’s time with the Almighty? He shook his head quietly, not turning to look.
“I’ve also come to pray,” the girl continued, unfazed by his silence.
Oluwagbemiga opened one eye, surprised. He studied her discreetly. She was no older than fourteen, modestly dressed, with her hair tied back. A quiet strength radiated from her—a kind not often found in girls her age.
“Oh,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “She’s here to pray?” He blinked in awe. “What a good thing for a girl her age to do.”
Turning his face slightly toward her, he spoke louder. “It’s good that you’ve come to pray. Very good. You’re doing the right thing. Pray, my dear. Talk to God.”
The girl flashed a grateful smile. “Thank you, sir.”
She walked toward a corner of the church, knelt gracefully, and clasped her hands together. What followed stunned Oluwagbemiga.
Her voice, though soft, rang clear in the quiet sanctuary.
“Father Lord,” she began, joy threading through her words. “I thank You for life. Thank You for waking me up today. Thank You for making me the firstborn of my family.”
She paused and smiled, eyes closed in gratitude.
“Thank You for giving me the strength to carry my younger siblings’ burdens, for making me a shoulder they can lean on. Thank You for providing food, clothes, and shelter, even when it’s hard. Thank You for blessing my hawking business.”
Oluwagbemiga’s heart stirred. Hawking? he thought. This young girl sells on the streets?
“I know some people might laugh at a girl like me hawking oranges,” she continued with a soft laugh, “but I’m grateful for the kind customers You’ve given me. They make me feel valued.”
Her laugh was light, almost musical. But then her tone shifted, dropping lower, more serious.
“Lord, You know what almost happened last week. I laugh now because I know You were there with me. I know I was wrong to hawk oranges at night. What was I even thinking? A girl like me—beautiful, blessed, and endowed—walking alone in the dark.” She shook her head at herself. “I should’ve known better.”
She paused, her voice trembling slightly. “Someone almost tried to harm me… but You made a way of escape. You reminded me that You are my ultimate protector. I’ve learned my lesson, Lord. No more hawking at night. I’ll trust You completely.”
Another pause. A tear rolled down her cheek, but she wiped it away with a smile.
“And Lord, You didn’t just protect me—you blessed me! Two days later, I sold oranges to a man who became my destiny helper.” Her voice lifted with excitement. “He paid for my father’s surgery. My little effort wouldn’t have done much, but You stepped in. Now my father is in the theatre, and I know You’ll complete what You’ve started.”
She inhaled deeply, her joy dimming just a little.
“Father, I also want to talk to You about my studies. I failed five subjects—math, biology, economics, geography, and commerce. I used to be a brilliant student… but the weight of everything is too much.”
Oluwagbemiga felt his own throat tighten.
“I know I shouldn’t make excuses,” she whispered, “but I’m struggling. The burden is heavy. I’m sorry, Lord. I’ll try harder. I won’t disappoint You. I still have two more terms.”
She began to cry softly but quickly composed herself.
“I’m not here to complain,” she added, her voice resolute. “But I won’t stay in this tunnel. No, I will not stay! I know there’s light at the end, and I’ll walk until I see it.”
She stood slowly, gathering her composure, and smiled once more.
“Now, I’m going back to the hospital to hear the good news of my father’s successful surgery. Thank You, Lord.”
As she turned to leave, Oluwagbemiga’s voice broke through the stillness.
“Wait… my dear, please… wait.”
She turned, surprised but kind. “Yes, sir?”
Oluwagbemiga rose to his feet, humbled and unsure.
“I… I overheard your prayer,” he said slowly. “And I… I don’t even know where to begin. You’re just a child, but your faith… your strength—it’s more than I’ve ever had.”
The girl’s smile was gentle. “It’s all God, sir. Without Him, I’m nothing.”
“What’s your name?” he asked, his voice trembling slightly.
“Lydia, sir.”
“Lydia. Beautiful name.” He paused. “And how old are you?”
“Fourteen.”
His brows lifted in disbelief. “Fourteen? You speak with wisdom far beyond your years.”
Lydia’s expression softened. “Life has thrown me into situations bigger than my age, sir. But I’ve been taught a secret—one that keeps me going.”
Oluwagbemiga leaned in, his curiosity piqued. “A secret? Please, tell me.”
“It’s Psalm 23,” she replied.
He blinked. “‘The Lord is my shepherd’?”
“Yes,” she said, nodding. “God is the Shepherd. We are the sheep. And sheep must let the Shepherd lead. He leads us beside still waters, restores our soul, and guides us in righteousness for His name’s sake.”
She paused, her voice growing passionate.
“Why should God heal my father if not for the sake of His name? When my father recovers, people will testify. Someone might even come to Christ. It’s not about me—it’s about His name being glorified.”
Oluwagbemiga stared at her, his heart swelling with conviction.
“You… you’re not even concerned about yourself?”
She smiled. “Why should I be, sir? God is always faithful.”
Oluwagbemiga shook his head slowly. “I feel like I’m the baby here, and you’re the adult.”
Lydia giggled. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you’ve found a secret I haven’t.”
Then she leaned closer, her gaze steady and sincere.
“Sir, may I ask you something?”
He nodded.
“When will you leave the tunnel?”
His mouth opened slightly. “Leave the tunnel? I… I don’t know. I’m waiting on God to have mercy on me.”
“It’s not mercy you need, sir,” she said gently. “You need to take action—based on the leadership of God.”
Oluwagbemiga frowned. “What do you mean?”
She opened her small Bible, flipping quickly to a marked page. “Let me show you.”
Her finger rested on a passage. “James 2:14-26. It says, ‘What does it profit, my brethren, if someone says he has faith but does not have works? Can faith save him?’”
She looked up, meeting his eyes.
“‘If a brother or sister is naked and destitute of daily food…’” she continued, “‘…and you say to them, “Go in peace, be warm and filled,” but don’t give them the things they need, what good is it? Faith without works is dead.’”
Oluwagbemiga leaned back, stunned. “Faith… without works… is dead?”
Lydia closed her Bible and nodded. “Yes, sir. Faith is believing. But works are the proof. When I needed help, I prayed—but I also acted. God met me halfway.”
He looked at her, something dawning in his expression.
“You’re saying praying and waiting isn’t enough?”
“Not by itself,” Lydia said. “Faith needs fuel. It’s like a lamp—you need oil. Without oil, the lamp holds potential but never lights up.”
Oluwagbemiga exhaled deeply. A lamp with no oil. That was exactly how he felt.
Chapter: The End of the Tunnel
The church was quiet, the kind of quiet that only came late at night when even the echoes of the city outside seemed to show reverence for sacred ground. Oluwagbemiga sat alone, head bowed in silent prayer, or rather, silent contemplation. His lips moved, but his heart felt distant. The weight of waiting on God had begun to feel like wandering in darkness.
A gentle voice broke the silence.
“Good evening, sir.”
He didn’t look up. Instead, he whispered to himself, slightly annoyed. She doesn’t know I’m praying. How can someone come into God’s house and disturb another person’s time with God? He shook his head in quiet frustration.
“I’ve also come to pray,” the girl said, her voice warm and unbothered by his silence.
Oluwagbemiga glanced up, surprised by the sincerity in her voice. The girl looked no older than her early teens, yet she spoke with calm assurance.
“Oh… she’s here to pray?” he whispered to himself. That’s… surprising. What a good thing for a girl her age to do.
Clearing his throat, he turned slightly toward her. “It’s good that you’ve come to pray. Very good. You’re doing the right thing. Pray, my dear. Talk to God.”
She smiled brightly. “Thank you, sir.”
Walking to a quiet corner of the church, she knelt and clasped her hands together. Her voice rose in soft, clear tones, speaking into the stillness.
“Father Lord, I thank You for life. Thank You for waking me up today. Thank You for making me the firstborn of my family…”
Oluwagbemiga listened, first politely, then intently. The girl’s prayer wasn’t superficial. It was deep, reflective, raw with emotion, and laced with sincere gratitude. She thanked God for provision, for strength, and even for her small business hawking oranges. Her laughter, light and genuine, echoed off the stone walls as she recounted a dangerous night when she hawked after dark, and how God had saved her from harm.
“And Lord,” she said, her voice trembling, “someone almost tried to harm me… but You made a way of escape. I’ve learned my lesson, Lord. No more hawking at night. I’ll trust You completely from now on.”
She wiped a tear from her cheek but smiled again. “Two days later, I sold oranges to a man who became my destiny helper. He paid for my father’s surgery. I know You’ll complete what You started.”
Oluwagbemiga’s heart stirred as he listened. He had never heard someone so young pray with such clarity and faith.
She continued, this time speaking of school. “I failed five subjects this term,” she admitted with a soft chuckle. “I used to be brilliant in junior secondary, but the burden is heavy, Lord. I’m sorry. I’ll try harder.”
She cried again, gently, and her voice firmed with hope. “I will not stay in this tunnel, Lord. No, I will not stay! I know there’s light at the end of it. Thank You for being my strength.”
Then she stood, drying her eyes with the sleeve of her dress, and made for the door.
Moved beyond words, Oluwagbemiga called after her.
“Wait… my dear, please… wait.”
She paused, turning with a curious, kind expression.
“Yes, sir?”
He walked toward her, visibly shaken. “I overheard your prayer,” he confessed. “And I… I don’t even know where to begin. You’re just a child… and yet your faith, your gratitude, your strength… it’s more than I’ve ever had.”
“It’s all God, sir,” she said gently. “Without Him, I’m nothing.”
He studied her for a moment, then asked, “What’s your name?”
“Lydia, sir.”
“Lydia. Beautiful name. How old are you?”
“I’m fourteen.”
He blinked. “Fourteen? You speak with wisdom far beyond your years.”
Lydia smiled thoughtfully. “It’s because life has thrown me into situations bigger than my age. But I’ve been taught a secret—one that keeps me going.”
He leaned in. “A secret? What secret?”
“Psalm 23.”
He raised his brows. “‘The Lord is my shepherd’?”
She nodded. “Yes. God is the Shepherd. And as sheep, we must let Him lead.”
Then, with piercing sincerity, she added, “Sir, why should God heal my father if not for the sake of His name? His testimony will encourage others to believe. It’s not just about us—it’s about God’s name being glorified.”
“You’re not even concerned about yourself?” he asked, stunned.
“Why should I be? God is always faithful.”
Oluwagbemiga shook his head, a wry smile on his lips. “I feel like I’m the baby here, and you’re the adult.”
She giggled. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you’ve found a secret I don’t know.”
Her tone shifted, now serious. “Sir, let me ask you something. When will you leave the tunnel?”
He looked confused. “Leave the tunnel? I… I don’t know. I’m waiting on God to have mercy on me.”
She replied, gently but firmly, “It’s not mercy you need, sir. You need to take action—based on the leadership of God.”
Intrigued, he nodded slowly. “Please, go ahead.”
Lydia opened her Bible and pointed to James 2.
“‘What does it profit… if someone says he has faith but does not have works?’” she read. “‘Faith by itself, if it does not have works, is dead.’”
She explained it in simple terms. “Faith is believing God will do what He promised. But without action, that faith is dead. When I needed money for my father’s surgery, I prayed—but I also sold oranges. It was through that, God sent help.”
Oluwagbemiga was quiet, processing it all.
“Praying and waiting are important,” Lydia added, “but they’re just the beginning. Faith requires movement.”
He sighed deeply. “I’ve just been… waiting.”
“That’s where the problem lies. God never intended for us to wait forever.”
She leaned forward, her tone pressing now with urgency. “Faith without works is dead. Like a lamp without oil. It can never shine.”
Oluwagbemiga lowered his head again. Lydia noticed and softened her voice.
“Sir, don’t be discouraged. God still honors your faith. But He’s waiting for you to trust Him enough to take the first step.”
Looking up, something in his eyes had shifted—resolve had begun to stir.
“You’re right, Lydia. I’ve been sitting in the dark, waiting for God to move the light to me. But now I see—I need to move toward the light.”
Lydia beamed. “That’s it, sir! The light is always at the end of the tunnel—but you won’t see it until you walk toward it.”
He nodded. “Thank you, Lydia. Your wisdom is beyond your years.”
She smiled. “I give it to my dad. He brought me up this way. Even in the ups and downs of life, my parents never forgot: ‘Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old, he will not depart from it.’”
“What a father you’ve got.”
“Thank you, sir.”
She glanced around the church, as if sensing something beyond the physical.
“Sir, are you feeling the heat in the church?”
He fanned himself lightly. “Yes, I am.”
“Do you believe that if you step outside, you’ll feel a breeze?”
“Of course.”
“Then follow me.”
She led him out, and the moment they stepped into the open, a refreshing breeze greeted them. Lydia turned with a knowing smile.
“Now that we’re outside, can you feel the breeze?”
“Yes.”
“But if you had stayed inside, with all the windows closed, would you feel it?”
“No.”
She paused, her voice now deliberate.
“Sir, at the end of the tunnel is light. But you won’t see it if you remain in the tunnel. To leave the tunnel, you must be led out—and you must take a step.”
She let the truth of her words linger.
“The tunnel is not a home, sir. It’s just a place to wait upon God, to receive direction. But you’ve stayed too long. Don’t make the tunnel your home.”
Oluwagbemiga’s eyes welled with a quiet storm of emotion—conviction, humility, and new hope.
“I need to go now,” Lydia said. “My father is waiting for me at the hospital, and I can’t wait to witness the healing God has started.”
His voice trembled. “Thank you, Lydia. Thank you for teaching me what I didn’t know.”
She smiled warmly. “It’s all God, sir. Just remember—faith and action go hand in hand. Let God lead, and then take the steps He shows you.”
With a gentle bow, she turned and walked away, her steps light with confidence.
Oluwagbemiga watched her go, a renewed sense of purpose rising in him. He whispered aloud to the night air, “I’ve stayed too long in this tunnel. It’s time to take a step.”
Narrator’s Reflection
Sometimes, God sends wisdom through the least expected vessels. In life’s tunnel, it is easy to feel stuck, as though the light will never come. But the truth is, the light waits for us to step forward in faith.
Faith without works is dead (James 2:17).
We must rise. We must act.
Let us not be mere hearers but doers—laborers who till the field God has given us.
Jesus worked while it was day; so must we.
So, beloved, step out of the tunnel.
Take the first step.
And trust God for the light.
Amen.
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