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Thank you!
TWO MONTHS BEFORE : Part 5
THE PRAYER I WAS AFRAID TO PRAY
By Month 5, I couldn't sleep properly anymore. I'd lie in bed until 2, 3, or sometimes 4 AM, staring at the ceiling, my mind racing with thoughts I couldn't shut off.
Why doesn't Daddy like him?
Why did Chris react that way when I mentioned the master's program?
Why does he want me away from my family so badly?
Why won't he do premarital counseling?
Am I being paranoid?
Am I self-sabotaging a good thing?
What if I'm wrong?
What if I'm right?
The anxiety was eating me alive. I had gained 7 kilograms in two months from stress eating—chin-chin, puff-puff, and anything I could mindlessly munch on while pretending everything was fine.
My performance at work started slipping. I'd catch myself zoning out during meetings, having to ask colleagues to repeat things. My supervisor pulled me aside once to ask if I was okay.
"I'm fine," I lied. "Just wedding stress."
"Well, take care of yourself," she said kindly. "Marriage is supposed to make you happy, not make you sick."
But I was sick. Sick with doubt. Sick with fear. Sick with this gnawing feeling that I was making a terrible mistake but couldn't admit it.
My parents noticed too, of course. They tiptoed around me like I was made of glass. My mother would make my favorite foods—trying to feed the stress away. My father would just look at me with these sad, knowing eyes that made me want to scream.
Say something! I wanted to yell at him. If you know something I don't, just tell me!
But he didn't. He just prayed. I'd see him in his study sometimes, eyes closed, lips moving silently. Praying for me, probably. Praying for wisdom. Praying that God would open my eyes.
Finally, on a Wednesday afternoon, I couldn't take it anymore.
I left work early, told my supervisor I had a migraine (which wasn't entirely a lie—the stress headaches were constant now), and drove straight to church.
Pastor Mrs. Adeyemi's office was in a small building behind the main sanctuary. I'd been there many times for Back2Eden meetings, but never like this. Never desperate.
I knocked on her door.
"Come in!"
When I opened the door, she looked up from her laptop, and her face immediately changed.
"Omolabake." She stood. "What's wrong?"
That's all it took. Those two words.
I burst into tears.
Not delicate, pretty crying. Ugly, gut-wrenching sobs that shook my whole body. The kind of crying that comes from months of holding everything in.
She came around her desk immediately, pulling me into a hug, letting me soak her shoulder with tears.
"Let it out," she said softly. "Just let it out."
I cried for what felt like hours but was probably only ten minutes. When I finally pulled away, she handed me a box of tissues and sat me down on her couch.
"Tell me everything," she said.
And I did.
I told her about my father's concerns. About Ogo's questions. About the comments Chris made concerning my career. His resistance to counseling. Sister Bimpe. All the little things that were bothering me.
I told her about the sleepless nights, the stress eating, the zoning out at work.
I told her about the voice in my head that kept whispering, Something is wrong, and the other voice that kept shouting, You're just being paranoid.
She listened to everything without interrupting. Just listened, her face calm, her eyes kind.
When I finally ran out of words, she was quiet for a long moment.
Then she asked, "Omolabake, have you prayed about this? Really prayed?"
"Yes," I said immediately. "I pray all the time. I pray for peace. I pray for clarity. I pray for God to bless our marriage."
"That's not what I mean," she interrupted gently. "I mean, have you prayed for the truth? Have you asked God to show you who Chris really is, not who you want him to be?"
I froze.
"No," I admitted quietly. "Because I'm afraid of what God might show me."
She nodded. "That's honest. But Omolabake, you can't marry someone you're afraid to know the truth about."
"But we've already..." I gestured helplessly. "The venue is booked. The gown is being made. The introduction has happened. People are expecting—"
"People aren't marrying him," she said firmly. "You are. And expectations and deposits are not reasons to commit your life to the wrong person."
I started crying again. "What if I'm wrong? What if there's nothing actually wrong with him and I'm just self-sabotaging because I'm scared of commitment?"
"Then God will show you that too," she said. "But Omolabake, listen to me. I've been watching you for the past few months. You used to light up when you came to Back2Eden. You had peace. You had joy. Now? You look exhausted. Anxious. Like you're carrying a weight you can't put down."
"But wedding planning is stressful," I protested weakly.
"This isn't wedding stress," she said. "This is soul stress. Your spirit is trying to tell you something, and you're working very hard not to listen."
I wiped my eyes. "So what do I do?"
She leaned forward, taking both my hands. "I want you to pray a dangerous prayer. Ask God to reveal Chris's true character to you. Not the version Chris shows you in public. Not the potential you see in him. But who he really is. And ask God to give you the courage to act on whatever He reveals."
My heart was pounding. "I don't know if I want to know."
"I know," she said gently. "Because knowing the truth might mean doing something hard. But Omolabake, living with a lie is harder. Trust me."
She prayed with me right there in her office. A simple, terrifying prayer:
"Father, show Labake the truth about Chris. Not what she wants to see, but what You want her to see. Give her eyes to see clearly. Give her the courage to act on what You reveal. Remove any blinders she has put up. We trust You with the outcome. In Jesus' name."
When she finished, I whispered, "Amen."
But inside, I was screaming.
That night, I couldn't bring myself to pray that prayer again. I went home, told my parents I wasn't feeling well, and hid in my room.
The wedding was in three months.
Three months.
We'd already paid the first installment on the venue—₦500,000—that we couldn't get back.
My wedding dress was being sewn by one of the best tailors in Ibadan.
The guest list was finalized—248 people.
My aunties had already started buying their aso-ebi.
Chris's extended family from Lagos and Abuja had booked their flights.
And I was supposed to pray a prayer that might unravel all of it?
I looked at my engagement ring, catching the light from my bedside lamp.
It was beautiful.
But wearing it felt like wearing handcuffs.
For three days, I avoided the prayer. I made excuses. I told myself I was too busy. Too tired. That I would pray "when I have time to really focus."
But on the fourth day, I woke up at 3 AM with that familiar knot in my stomach, tighter than ever.
And I knew.
I couldn't keep running.
I got out of bed, knelt on the floor of my room, and whispered the prayer again:
"God, show me the truth about Chris. Even if it hurts. Even if it ruins everything. I need to know."
I didn't feel anything dramatic. No lightning. No audible voice. No sudden revelation.
Just a quiet whisper in my spirit: Watch. And pay attention.
So I decided to fast.
Not for God to change my circumstances—but for God to change my sight.
I told Chris I was doing a 7-day fast for "spiritual growth." He shrugged and said, "Okay, babe. Just don't get too spiritual on me."
I should have heard the warning in those words.
But I was already beginning to see.
And what I was about to discover would change everything.
© Adebimpe Obafemi
#TwoMonthsBefore
#ChristianSingles
#SeekingGod
#Back2Eden
#DangerousPrayers
#GodsWill
Want to share? Just credit the author: Adebimpe Jumoke Obafemi.
Thank you!
TWO MONTHS BEFORE : Part 5
THE PRAYER I WAS AFRAID TO PRAY
By Month 5, I couldn't sleep properly anymore. I'd lie in bed until 2, 3, or sometimes 4 AM, staring at the ceiling, my mind racing with thoughts I couldn't shut off.
Why doesn't Daddy like him?
Why did Chris react that way when I mentioned the master's program?
Why does he want me away from my family so badly?
Why won't he do premarital counseling?
Am I being paranoid?
Am I self-sabotaging a good thing?
What if I'm wrong?
What if I'm right?
The anxiety was eating me alive. I had gained 7 kilograms in two months from stress eating—chin-chin, puff-puff, and anything I could mindlessly munch on while pretending everything was fine.
My performance at work started slipping. I'd catch myself zoning out during meetings, having to ask colleagues to repeat things. My supervisor pulled me aside once to ask if I was okay.
"I'm fine," I lied. "Just wedding stress."
"Well, take care of yourself," she said kindly. "Marriage is supposed to make you happy, not make you sick."
But I was sick. Sick with doubt. Sick with fear. Sick with this gnawing feeling that I was making a terrible mistake but couldn't admit it.
My parents noticed too, of course. They tiptoed around me like I was made of glass. My mother would make my favorite foods—trying to feed the stress away. My father would just look at me with these sad, knowing eyes that made me want to scream.
Say something! I wanted to yell at him. If you know something I don't, just tell me!
But he didn't. He just prayed. I'd see him in his study sometimes, eyes closed, lips moving silently. Praying for me, probably. Praying for wisdom. Praying that God would open my eyes.
Finally, on a Wednesday afternoon, I couldn't take it anymore.
I left work early, told my supervisor I had a migraine (which wasn't entirely a lie—the stress headaches were constant now), and drove straight to church.
Pastor Mrs. Adeyemi's office was in a small building behind the main sanctuary. I'd been there many times for Back2Eden meetings, but never like this. Never desperate.
I knocked on her door.
"Come in!"
When I opened the door, she looked up from her laptop, and her face immediately changed.
"Omolabake." She stood. "What's wrong?"
That's all it took. Those two words.
I burst into tears.
Not delicate, pretty crying. Ugly, gut-wrenching sobs that shook my whole body. The kind of crying that comes from months of holding everything in.
She came around her desk immediately, pulling me into a hug, letting me soak her shoulder with tears.
"Let it out," she said softly. "Just let it out."
I cried for what felt like hours but was probably only ten minutes. When I finally pulled away, she handed me a box of tissues and sat me down on her couch.
"Tell me everything," she said.
And I did.
I told her about my father's concerns. About Ogo's questions. About the comments Chris made concerning my career. His resistance to counseling. Sister Bimpe. All the little things that were bothering me.
I told her about the sleepless nights, the stress eating, the zoning out at work.
I told her about the voice in my head that kept whispering, Something is wrong, and the other voice that kept shouting, You're just being paranoid.
She listened to everything without interrupting. Just listened, her face calm, her eyes kind.
When I finally ran out of words, she was quiet for a long moment.
Then she asked, "Omolabake, have you prayed about this? Really prayed?"
"Yes," I said immediately. "I pray all the time. I pray for peace. I pray for clarity. I pray for God to bless our marriage."
"That's not what I mean," she interrupted gently. "I mean, have you prayed for the truth? Have you asked God to show you who Chris really is, not who you want him to be?"
I froze.
"No," I admitted quietly. "Because I'm afraid of what God might show me."
She nodded. "That's honest. But Omolabake, you can't marry someone you're afraid to know the truth about."
"But we've already..." I gestured helplessly. "The venue is booked. The gown is being made. The introduction has happened. People are expecting—"
"People aren't marrying him," she said firmly. "You are. And expectations and deposits are not reasons to commit your life to the wrong person."
I started crying again. "What if I'm wrong? What if there's nothing actually wrong with him and I'm just self-sabotaging because I'm scared of commitment?"
"Then God will show you that too," she said. "But Omolabake, listen to me. I've been watching you for the past few months. You used to light up when you came to Back2Eden. You had peace. You had joy. Now? You look exhausted. Anxious. Like you're carrying a weight you can't put down."
"But wedding planning is stressful," I protested weakly.
"This isn't wedding stress," she said. "This is soul stress. Your spirit is trying to tell you something, and you're working very hard not to listen."
I wiped my eyes. "So what do I do?"
She leaned forward, taking both my hands. "I want you to pray a dangerous prayer. Ask God to reveal Chris's true character to you. Not the version Chris shows you in public. Not the potential you see in him. But who he really is. And ask God to give you the courage to act on whatever He reveals."
My heart was pounding. "I don't know if I want to know."
"I know," she said gently. "Because knowing the truth might mean doing something hard. But Omolabake, living with a lie is harder. Trust me."
She prayed with me right there in her office. A simple, terrifying prayer:
"Father, show Labake the truth about Chris. Not what she wants to see, but what You want her to see. Give her eyes to see clearly. Give her the courage to act on what You reveal. Remove any blinders she has put up. We trust You with the outcome. In Jesus' name."
When she finished, I whispered, "Amen."
But inside, I was screaming.
That night, I couldn't bring myself to pray that prayer again. I went home, told my parents I wasn't feeling well, and hid in my room.
The wedding was in three months.
Three months.
We'd already paid the first installment on the venue—₦500,000—that we couldn't get back.
My wedding dress was being sewn by one of the best tailors in Ibadan.
The guest list was finalized—248 people.
My aunties had already started buying their aso-ebi.
Chris's extended family from Lagos and Abuja had booked their flights.
And I was supposed to pray a prayer that might unravel all of it?
I looked at my engagement ring, catching the light from my bedside lamp.
It was beautiful.
But wearing it felt like wearing handcuffs.
For three days, I avoided the prayer. I made excuses. I told myself I was too busy. Too tired. That I would pray "when I have time to really focus."
But on the fourth day, I woke up at 3 AM with that familiar knot in my stomach, tighter than ever.
And I knew.
I couldn't keep running.
I got out of bed, knelt on the floor of my room, and whispered the prayer again:
"God, show me the truth about Chris. Even if it hurts. Even if it ruins everything. I need to know."
I didn't feel anything dramatic. No lightning. No audible voice. No sudden revelation.
Just a quiet whisper in my spirit: Watch. And pay attention.
So I decided to fast.
Not for God to change my circumstances—but for God to change my sight.
I told Chris I was doing a 7-day fast for "spiritual growth." He shrugged and said, "Okay, babe. Just don't get too spiritual on me."
I should have heard the warning in those words.
But I was already beginning to see.
And what I was about to discover would change everything.
© Adebimpe Obafemi
#TwoMonthsBefore
#ChristianSingles
#SeekingGod
#Back2Eden
#DangerousPrayers
#GodsWill
Please don't copy, edit, or republish without permission.
Want to share? Just credit the author: Adebimpe Jumoke Obafemi.
Thank you! 💕
TWO MONTHS BEFORE : Part 5
THE PRAYER I WAS AFRAID TO PRAY
By Month 5, I couldn't sleep properly anymore. I'd lie in bed until 2, 3, or sometimes 4 AM, staring at the ceiling, my mind racing with thoughts I couldn't shut off.
Why doesn't Daddy like him?
Why did Chris react that way when I mentioned the master's program?
Why does he want me away from my family so badly?
Why won't he do premarital counseling?
Am I being paranoid?
Am I self-sabotaging a good thing?
What if I'm wrong?
What if I'm right?
The anxiety was eating me alive. I had gained 7 kilograms in two months from stress eating—chin-chin, puff-puff, and anything I could mindlessly munch on while pretending everything was fine.
My performance at work started slipping. I'd catch myself zoning out during meetings, having to ask colleagues to repeat things. My supervisor pulled me aside once to ask if I was okay.
"I'm fine," I lied. "Just wedding stress."
"Well, take care of yourself," she said kindly. "Marriage is supposed to make you happy, not make you sick."
But I was sick. Sick with doubt. Sick with fear. Sick with this gnawing feeling that I was making a terrible mistake but couldn't admit it.
My parents noticed too, of course. They tiptoed around me like I was made of glass. My mother would make my favorite foods—trying to feed the stress away. My father would just look at me with these sad, knowing eyes that made me want to scream.
Say something! I wanted to yell at him. If you know something I don't, just tell me!
But he didn't. He just prayed. I'd see him in his study sometimes, eyes closed, lips moving silently. Praying for me, probably. Praying for wisdom. Praying that God would open my eyes.
Finally, on a Wednesday afternoon, I couldn't take it anymore.
I left work early, told my supervisor I had a migraine (which wasn't entirely a lie—the stress headaches were constant now), and drove straight to church.
Pastor Mrs. Adeyemi's office was in a small building behind the main sanctuary. I'd been there many times for Back2Eden meetings, but never like this. Never desperate.
I knocked on her door.
"Come in!"
When I opened the door, she looked up from her laptop, and her face immediately changed.
"Omolabake." She stood. "What's wrong?"
That's all it took. Those two words.
I burst into tears.
Not delicate, pretty crying. Ugly, gut-wrenching sobs that shook my whole body. The kind of crying that comes from months of holding everything in.
She came around her desk immediately, pulling me into a hug, letting me soak her shoulder with tears.
"Let it out," she said softly. "Just let it out."
I cried for what felt like hours but was probably only ten minutes. When I finally pulled away, she handed me a box of tissues and sat me down on her couch.
"Tell me everything," she said.
And I did.
I told her about my father's concerns. About Ogo's questions. About the comments Chris made concerning my career. His resistance to counseling. Sister Bimpe. All the little things that were bothering me.
I told her about the sleepless nights, the stress eating, the zoning out at work.
I told her about the voice in my head that kept whispering, Something is wrong, and the other voice that kept shouting, You're just being paranoid.
She listened to everything without interrupting. Just listened, her face calm, her eyes kind.
When I finally ran out of words, she was quiet for a long moment.
Then she asked, "Omolabake, have you prayed about this? Really prayed?"
"Yes," I said immediately. "I pray all the time. I pray for peace. I pray for clarity. I pray for God to bless our marriage."
"That's not what I mean," she interrupted gently. "I mean, have you prayed for the truth? Have you asked God to show you who Chris really is, not who you want him to be?"
I froze.
"No," I admitted quietly. "Because I'm afraid of what God might show me."
She nodded. "That's honest. But Omolabake, you can't marry someone you're afraid to know the truth about."
"But we've already..." I gestured helplessly. "The venue is booked. The gown is being made. The introduction has happened. People are expecting—"
"People aren't marrying him," she said firmly. "You are. And expectations and deposits are not reasons to commit your life to the wrong person."
I started crying again. "What if I'm wrong? What if there's nothing actually wrong with him and I'm just self-sabotaging because I'm scared of commitment?"
"Then God will show you that too," she said. "But Omolabake, listen to me. I've been watching you for the past few months. You used to light up when you came to Back2Eden. You had peace. You had joy. Now? You look exhausted. Anxious. Like you're carrying a weight you can't put down."
"But wedding planning is stressful," I protested weakly.
"This isn't wedding stress," she said. "This is soul stress. Your spirit is trying to tell you something, and you're working very hard not to listen."
I wiped my eyes. "So what do I do?"
She leaned forward, taking both my hands. "I want you to pray a dangerous prayer. Ask God to reveal Chris's true character to you. Not the version Chris shows you in public. Not the potential you see in him. But who he really is. And ask God to give you the courage to act on whatever He reveals."
My heart was pounding. "I don't know if I want to know."
"I know," she said gently. "Because knowing the truth might mean doing something hard. But Omolabake, living with a lie is harder. Trust me."
She prayed with me right there in her office. A simple, terrifying prayer:
"Father, show Labake the truth about Chris. Not what she wants to see, but what You want her to see. Give her eyes to see clearly. Give her the courage to act on what You reveal. Remove any blinders she has put up. We trust You with the outcome. In Jesus' name."
When she finished, I whispered, "Amen."
But inside, I was screaming.
That night, I couldn't bring myself to pray that prayer again. I went home, told my parents I wasn't feeling well, and hid in my room.
The wedding was in three months.
Three months.
We'd already paid the first installment on the venue—₦500,000—that we couldn't get back.
My wedding dress was being sewn by one of the best tailors in Ibadan.
The guest list was finalized—248 people.
My aunties had already started buying their aso-ebi.
Chris's extended family from Lagos and Abuja had booked their flights.
And I was supposed to pray a prayer that might unravel all of it?
I looked at my engagement ring, catching the light from my bedside lamp.
It was beautiful.
But wearing it felt like wearing handcuffs.
For three days, I avoided the prayer. I made excuses. I told myself I was too busy. Too tired. That I would pray "when I have time to really focus."
But on the fourth day, I woke up at 3 AM with that familiar knot in my stomach, tighter than ever.
And I knew.
I couldn't keep running.
I got out of bed, knelt on the floor of my room, and whispered the prayer again:
"God, show me the truth about Chris. Even if it hurts. Even if it ruins everything. I need to know."
I didn't feel anything dramatic. No lightning. No audible voice. No sudden revelation.
Just a quiet whisper in my spirit: Watch. And pay attention.
So I decided to fast.
Not for God to change my circumstances—but for God to change my sight.
I told Chris I was doing a 7-day fast for "spiritual growth." He shrugged and said, "Okay, babe. Just don't get too spiritual on me."
I should have heard the warning in those words.
But I was already beginning to see.
And what I was about to discover would change everything.
© Adebimpe Obafemi
#TwoMonthsBefore
#ChristianSingles
#SeekingGod
#Back2Eden
#DangerousPrayers
#GodsWill
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