Faith That Bleeds, Yet Still Believes

Today, I do not write about my usual things.
Not about my healing. Not about motherhood.
Today, I write with a heart that feels like it has been torn open… again.

Because somewhere across the ocean, in the soil that first held my footsteps, my brothers and sisters are bleeding.
And I cannot look away.

My identity has always been rooted deeply, unapologetically in my faith. I have never been quiet about my love for Jesus Christ. But there is something about knowing that people who carry that same name, that same hope, that same light… are being killed because of it.
It does something to your soul.
It breaks you in places you didn’t even know existed.

And maybe what hurts me the most… is this:
I am a fixer. I like to mend things, to bring order, to find solutions.
But this?
This is beyond my hands.
And the helplessness… it is suffocating.

If you are reading this and you do not fully understand, I beg you, pause. Look it up. Sit with it. Let your heart feel it, even if just for a moment. Because for years now, Christians in Nigeria have been slaughtered quietly but now loudly, painfully, repeatedly. And just this past Sunday, Palm Sunday… a day meant to remember peace, humility, and a King riding on a donkey…
blood flowed again in Jos.

I watched videos I wish I could unsee.
Mothers clutching their children.
Voices cracking as they cried out to God for mercy.
Grief so loud, yet somehow wrapped in faith so deep.

And here is the mystery that leaves me undone,
even in the face of death… they still believe.
They still call His name.
They still worship.

I recently learned something that has stayed with me:
that even as darkness tries to silence us, the sound of our faith only grows louder.
Because this gospel… it cannot be buried.
If we are silent, even the stones will cry out.

So as we remember the death of our Saviour and celebrate the resurrection of our King, we must also remember those who have died proclaiming His name. Their blood is not forgotten. Their faith is not wasted.

This week, I am reminding myself and you,
we are the salt of the earth.
And this is not the time to lose our flavour.

The world is hurting. Bleeding. Groaning.
It needs believers who will stand.

So let us be bold, but never lose our kindness.
Let us mourn deeply with those who mourn, yet carry a joy that cannot be extinguished.
Let us give, even when it feels like we have nothing left.
Let us stand united, yet wholly set apart for His purpose.

And more than anything…
let us pray.

Not casually. Not occasionally.
But like people who understand that heaven still responds to earth.
Let us war in the place of prayer not just for Nigeria, but for a world that is crying out for light.

Because even now… God is still moving.
Even now… faith is still alive.
Even now… love has not lost.

Love always,
Ife