My name is Ada, and I am from a small village in Uganda. For many years, my life was marked by shame, rejection, and deep sorrow. I was married, but I could not have children. In my culture, a woman who cannot bear children is considered useless, a disgrace. The elders told my husband that he needed heirs, and they instructed him to put me away. He listened. He left me and married another woman. I was rejected not only by him, but by the community. I was mocked, spoken against, and treated as if my life had no value. When I went back to my family, they refused to take me in. They said I brought shame. I had nowhere to go. I slept on the streets. I cried myself to sleep many nights, hungry, broken, and alone.
In that season, the streets became my reality. I woke each day not knowing if I would eat, where I would sleep, or if I would survive the night. I begged for food with trembling hands, enduring insults from people who looked at me with disgust. Some laughed. Some cursed me. Some pretended I did not exist. Hunger became my constant companion, and shame wrapped itself around me like a Gomesi garment. Nights were the worst. Darkness brought fear, and fear brought danger. I learned quickly that being a woman alone on the streets made me a target. Men saw my weakness and tried to take advantage of it.
I was violated in ways I cannot fully describe, my dignity stripped from me when I had no strength to fight back. Each time, I felt my soul breaking, wondering if God still saw me. To protect myself, I began to disguise my appearance. I wrapped myself in old, torn clothing, covered my head, and walked with a bent posture so I would look like an elderly woman. I rubbed dirt on my face, avoided eye contact, and moved slowly so the street boys would ignore me. Even then, safety was never guaranteed. I slept lightly, always alert, clutching my few belongings close to my body. Many nights I cried silently, asking God why my life had come to this.
The streets tried to erase my identity, but God preserved my soul. Every insult, every rejection, every violation pushed me deeper into prayer. After all, what else did I have left? I did not have a church building, but the ground beneath me became an altar. I did not have a bed, but the night sky became my covering. I held onto one truth with everything in me: if God did not intervene, I would not survive. And so I waited. I endured. I prayed. I trusted—sometimes with strong faith, sometimes with nothing more than a whisper—but I never stopped crying out to God.
I questioned my worth, my future, and whether I would ever be loved again. Yet in those moments—lying on cold ground, hiding behind walls, whispering prayers through tears—I discovered that God was closer than I had ever known. When my body was exhausted and my heart was crushed, God became my refuge. I talked to Him like a child talks to a father. Many would have thought I was a mad woman talking to herself. I told Him everything—my fear, my pain, my anger, my shame. I reminded Him of His promises, even when I could barely believe them myself. There were days I felt invisible to the world, but I sensed God listening. When people passed me by, God stayed. When I felt dirty and broken, His presence reminded me I was still His daughter.
God changed my story in a way only He could orchestrate. One day, while I was still living on the streets—weak, dirty, and barely recognizable—a distant family member passed by and saw me. They almost did not recognize who I was, but something in their spirit would not let them walk away. God softened their heart. They took me in, washed me, clothed me, and gave me a place to sleep. It was the first time in a long while that I felt human again. As my body began to heal, so did my soul. I started attending church, sometimes sitting quietly in the back, still carrying shame and fear. But the Word of God began to wash over me. Worship restored what rejection had stolen. I learned that God had never abandoned me, even when my life looked forgotten. Slowly, my confidence returned. I began to serve, to pray again with hope, and to believe that God still had a future for me.
In time, God restored more than I ever imagined. I reconnected with a man I had known long before my suffering—someone who knew my past and my pain. He loved me not for what I could produce, but for who I was. He told me clearly that even if I never had children, he still wanted to marry me. That love healed places in me that trauma had touched. We married, trusting God with our future. Years passed, and then—against medical history, against cultural judgment, and against human expectation—God opened my womb. Not once, Not twice, but three times. Each child was a testimony, a reminder that God’s timing is perfect and His promises never fail.
Today, I am a wife, a mother of three, and a minister to women who believe their story is over. My life declares this truth: God specializes in reversals. He takes shame and turns it into honor. He takes barrenness and releases fruitfulness. He takes rejection and builds destiny.
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