The Statue and the Eyes

I grabbed my daughter’s wrist, pulling her away from that spiritual crowd. My voice tore through the field of faithful. “Do not approach that vain veneration, Julia. It is not that idol that will heal you.” Around us, faces froze, filled with reproach. An elderly woman, her head covered with a scarf, let out words I did not catch.

My husband, Samuel, tried to calm the situation, but I was resolved to defend my position. My little seven-year-old, blind from birth, was not going to find salvation in an inert plaster figurine. Only the Messiah held the power to perform true miracles. This October sun was beating down relentlessly on the long procession snaking through the main artery of Campinas—a human river of devotion. I was there, constrained by Samuel, who believed the fresh air would do us good. But for me, it was a grotesque masquerade. People kneeling before mute symbols, imploring help from those who could hear nothing. A flagrant insult to the supreme being I had served with zeal for over a decade.

Julia, deaf to the theological quarrel, only perceived the cacophony and the smells. She asked me the reason for all this tumult. My response was cutting: “Lost souls who have not yet embraced the truth,” I told her. Samuel gave me a disapproving look. He saw clearly that my judgment was excessive, but I didn’t care. My certainty surpassed his discomfort.

The veiled elderly woman approached me after the crowd passed. Her eyes shone with tears. She murmured a prayer asking for God’s mercy for my heart. I let out a short laugh, judging her attitude pathetic. Who was she to judge me? Me, a pastor of a flourishing congregation, preaching before hundreds of souls every week. I knew the Bible from end to end, while she was probably just a blindfolded devotee, reciting learned litanies without grasping their deep meaning.

The return was silent. Samuel kept his muteness. Julia had fallen asleep in the back. I contemplated the landscape passing by the window, at peace with myself. I had held firm. I had been loyal to my conviction that others’ wounded feelings mattered little. The truth is often bitter, and I was ready to be the hero who loses all sympathy.

That night in my bed, a fleeting unease struck me. Not remorse, but a subtle impression: Had I been too harsh? I immediately chased away that thought, classifying it as a spiritual weakness, a sneaky attempt by the adversary to sow doubt. A few minutes of fervent prayer in other tongues and I regained tranquility, convinced I had acted justly.

It had been 12 years since I led the Restoration Assembly Church in Campinas. My sermons were known for their intransigence. I taught that those who followed other traditions were in error, trapped by empty rituals and idol worship. My congregation thrived thanks to this rigor. I was respected because I did not hesitate to confront doctrinal error. Samuel, my husband, supported me, even if he sometimes suggested softening my tone—something I took for timidity.

My vocation had started at age thirty, just after my conversion. Before that, my life was nothing but chaos: alcohol, worldly pursuits, questionable company. Upon discovering the path of faith, I had finally found meaning. The church had shaped me. My oratory talent was undeniable. The faithful were touched, wept, repented. I felt I was accomplishing my mission.

Samuel, a discreet accountant, entered my life when I was already in charge of the youth. We united gradually. He admired my audacity and my unshakable faith. I appreciated his serenity, his ability to listen to me without judgment. We were married in a modest service. Julia was born two years later. Her blindness was an earthquake. The doctors spoke of an incurable congenital malformation. I rejected that verdict with violence. My prayers became an obsession that frightened even Samuel. I fasted three times a week. We applied anointing oil on Julia every evening. I was absolutely convinced the Almighty would restore her because I was faithful. Because I proclaimed His word without fear. I deserved this miracle.

The years passed, but Julia did not recover her sight. She adapted well, read Braille, attended a special school, had friends, but I never capitulated. For me, this blindness was a trial I had to overcome, a divine test for my conviction. My preaching hardened. I relentlessly attacked any doctrinal divergence, other religions, and even evangelicals judged too progressive. Samuel implored me for caution, telling me I was pushing people away. I perceived that as my sacred duty: to separate the wheat from the chaff, to be a light in a world preferring darkness.

Julia grew up amidst my supplications for her healing without ever doubting. She was gentle, obedient, full of faith. Sometimes, looking at her, I felt a sharp pain—not for her, but for myself. Because deep down, I knew my faith was nourished more by my pride than by genuine piety. But I would never have admitted it, not even to my husband. It had never crossed my mind that I could be wrong about anything.

Three months after that procession day, the unthinkable happened. Julia began to convulse. The first seizure erupted at breakfast while she was taking her buttered bread. Her body stiffened, her eyes rolled back, she fell from her chair. I ran. My daughter lay trembling, foam at her lips. I called for help, devastated. Waiting for the ambulance was a suspended eternity.

At the hospital, the parade of exams began: CT scan, MRI, EEG. After anguished hours, the neurologist summoned us. His face was somber. He uttered the words: brain tumor, large, lodged in a critical area. The prognosis was terrible. Surgery was a risky gamble, capable of causing irreversible sequelae, even death. I felt the earth open up. Samuel seized my hand, holding me to reality. How? A tumor? My daughter in mortal danger? Where was the God of my unshakable faith?

We left that office in heavy silence. Julia was under surveillance. That night, I stayed awake, hypnotized by the regular rise and fall of her chest. I tried to pray, but only tears sprang forth. The following days were a blur. The entire church mobilized. We organized prayer chains, collective fasts, nocturnal vigils. I preached between sobs, imploring divine mercy, demanding His power manifest itself. The faithful wept with me, reassured me, but their eyes betrayed the same gnawing doubt that consumed me.

Julia came home with strong medications to control the seizures while awaiting surgery. She was more fragile, more silent. She complained of constant headaches, sometimes ringing in her ears. I spent my nights near her, terrified at the idea that a new seizure might occur without my being able to intervene.

It was at this precise moment that the dreams began. Julia woke up in the middle of the night, describing the presence of a female figure draped in an azure cloak, offering her a smile of infinite sweetness and extending her hand. The first time she confided this in me, my blood ran cold. I questioned her. How could she perceive anything when she was blind? She assured me that in this vision, her perception was complete. She distinguished colors, shapes, the smallest details. And this woman remained mute, simply there, smiling as if waiting for a sign.

As a pastor, I immediately condemned that thought. I prayed vehemently over Julia, decreeing that no foreign influence would have access to her mind, proclaiming that only divine authority reigned in our home. Samuel, though silent, showed evident discomfort. We did not speak of this episode again, but the vision repeated every night: always the same entity, the same serene air, the same muteness.

I began to be tormented by fear—not fear of an occult manifestation, but fear that my daughter was in full delirium caused by the illness, that the tumor was altering her consciousness and generating hallucinations. I exposed my fears to the neurologist. He admitted the possibility but deemed it unlikely, as the tumor’s location was not supposed to provoke such sensory troubles. I clung to this medical explanation. It was infinitely simpler to accept a cerebral dysfunction than to consider any other eventuality.

The weeks stretched painfully. Julia continued her nocturnal tales. I multiplied prayers, fasts, supplications without any change. The exams showed progression of the malignancy. Surgery was scheduled. And as the deadline approached, I felt my sense of control slipping away. I, who always had an answer for everything, who always knew precisely how to act, found myself completely helpless.

One late night, as Samuel finally slept, Julia called me. She asked me to lie down next to her. I obeyed. She squeezed my hand and declared: “Mom, the woman in my dream doesn’t worry me. She seems benevolent.” A knot strangled my throat. I tried to tell her something, but the words remained blocked. I simply squeezed my daughter against me, crying silently, realizing that something my faith could not decode was happening.

The operation was set for a Tuesday. The day before, I plunged into absolute despair. I locked myself in the bedroom and screamed towards heaven, releasing all the accumulated fury of months. I asked why He inflicted this on me, why my daughter was condemned to suffer. I had devoted my life to His service, faced criticism, sacrificed my comfort. What was my reward? Keeping my child blind? Undergoing a potentially fatal intervention? Samuel knocked on the door, trying to enter. I blocked it, crying my need for isolation. He insisted, pleading for a discussion, but I had no desire to talk. I wanted justifications. I wanted the Divine to appear before me and enlighten me about this chaos. I collapsed on the floor, leaning against the bed, and stayed there for hours—not praying, not touching my Bible—a vast and icy void opening within me.

When I finally opened the door, Samuel was sitting in the hallway. He took me in his arms without a word. We remained embraced, sharing our tears, for there were no more sentences, no more explanations, only the raw pain of two parents facing their daughter on the threshold of death.

During that last night, the idea of sleeping was inconceivable. I lay next to Samuel, attentive to his labored breathing, knowing he wasn’t sleeping any more than I was. We maintained this mutual fiction. It was simpler than confronting the anguish in each other’s gaze.

At four in the morning, I got up and headed to Julia’s room. She was awake, sitting, her hands neatly placed on her knees. “Mom, is that you?” she asked softly.
“Yes, my heart.”
“The lady came back.”
My heart clenched. This time, I did not try to reprimand her. I sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand. “What did she do?”
“Nothing. She just looked at me and smiled, as if to say everything would be alright.”
I couldn’t formulate a response. I only squeezed my daughter’s hand tighter, feeling the total collapse of all control over the situation, over my doctrine, over myself.

We left for the hospital at 6 a.m. The day was cloudy, rainy, enveloped in that wintry cold of São Paulo that pierces the skin. Julia was of a disconcerting calm—an excessive serenity for a seven-year-old about to undergo brain surgery. She held our hands and hummed a melody learned at school. I could neither sing nor even breathe properly. In the waiting room, several faithful from the church were there to pray with us. We formed a circle. The lead pastor prayed for Julia, proclaiming her healing, rebuking the sickness, demanding life. These words reached me as if I were underwater—distant and muffled. Julia thanked each one with a peaceful smile, as if she already knew of an outcome we were still ignorant of.

When her name was called, my legs weakened. Samuel held me up. The nurse came to get her. Julia let go of our hands and advanced alone, guided by the professional’s voice. Before crossing the double doors, she turned towards us and waved: “Goodbye, Mom! Goodbye, Dad!” Then she disappeared.

Those hours were the eternity of my life. The intervention was scheduled to last 6 to 8 hours. We remained, Samuel and I, surrounded by church members who took turns so as not to leave us alone. I tried to concentrate on a prayer, on the Bible, but the only image that persisted was my daughter’s face, her blind eyes, her tranquil smile, and that blue figure she kept evoking.

Mid-afternoon, the neurosurgeon came out for an update. He said everything was proceeding well, but it was complex, the mass was more imposing than the scans indicated. They were doing their best. He left. I felt struck in the stomach. Samuel wept. I was dry of tears, alone facing an icy void settling in my heart.

The doctor finally returned. It was night. He removed his mask, took a deep breath before speaking. “We managed to remove the majority of the tumor, but we couldn’t excise it entirely. There are zones too critical; if touched, they would compromise vital functions. Julia is in the recovery room. She survived, but the coming days will be decisive.” She had survived, but she wasn’t healed. The malignant residue remained, a threatening charge in my daughter’s head. I thanked the doctor mechanically. I no longer know what I said. He squeezed my shoulder and walked away.

The wait to see her was interminable. When they finally allowed us into the intensive care unit, I almost fainted. Julia was submerged by machines, tubing, and monitors. Her head was bandaged, her face swollen. She was unconscious, deeply asleep under sedatives. Samuel held my hand. We stayed by her side, mute, dismayed.

We returned home late at night. The house was cold and silent. I headed to our bedroom and locked myself inside. I no longer wanted to talk, or pray, or anything. I just wanted the nightmare to end. I lay down and stared at the ceiling. It was at that instant that the revelation imposed itself.

For the first time in 12 years of ministry, I had the sensation that the Divine was absent, that the heavens were empty, that all my vows, all my fasts, all my faith had served no purpose. I began to sob, a profound grief emerging from an unknown region of my being. I wept for Julia, for my own shipwreck, for the arrogance that had made me believe I exercised any authority over destiny. I wept for the rigidity of my heart, for those I had wounded with my words, for the pride that had allowed me to judge the spirituality of others while my own collapsed.

Samuel entered without knocking. He lay down beside me and embraced me from behind. We remained thus entwined, weeping together without a single word spoken, for no word could repair what was irreparably broken.

The days that followed were a dizzying alternation of terror and faint glimmers of hope. Julia emerged from artificial sleep on the second day. She was disoriented, prey to a dull pain, with no memory of the intervention. She asked where she was. I held her hand firmly, whispering words of reassurance, though I knew perfectly well nothing was alright. The malignant mass persisted, continuing its silent destructive work inside my daughter’s skull.

The medical team then discussed the options: chemotherapy, radiotherapy, experimental protocols. Each implied heavy sequelae with a derisory success prognosis. With each spoken word, I felt buried underground. No way out, no luminous perspective, just the painful anticipation of the inevitable.

Julia was able to leave the hospital a week later. She returned home, strangely fragile and mute. The operation had left functional traces. She struggled to coordinate certain gestures. Simple words escaped her at times. She lay for hours, drained of all vitality. I cared for her like a robot, administering medications, changing dressings, preparing meals. But inwardly, I was in ruins.

It was one afternoon, about two weeks after her return, that Julia called me. I was absorbed by the dishes in the kitchen. She screamed my name with an intensity that froze my blood. I abandoned everything and sprinted to her room. She was sitting in her bed, eyes wide open.
“Mom, she’s here.”
“Who, my heart?”
“The lady from my dream. She’s here now.”
A cold shiver ran down my spine. I scanned the room. There was no one. Just us two.
“But Julia… no one is there.”
“Yes, Mom. She’s right in front of the window, draped in her blue cloak. She’s smiling at me.”
My pulse accelerated. Was it simple confusion? A side effect of the medication? Or a spiritual manifestation? All I knew was that my daughter was perceiving a presence invisible to me. For the very first time, instead of reasoning with her or correcting her, I simply asked, “What does she want?”
“I don’t know. She just stays there, as if waiting.”

That evening, once Julia was asleep, I recounted this incident to Samuel. He remained silent for a long minute. Then he uttered a sentence that stunned me: “And if it were true?”
“What?”
“And if she really perceives something, a reality that escapes us?”
My first reflex was to reject this idea as absurd, but the words stuck in my throat. Deep down, I too was beginning to consider that possibility.

The days stretched. Julia, though still weak, continued to affirm seeing the lady in the azure cloak. She appeared daily at the same location, with the same serene expression. Slowly, a change operated within me. The initial anger transformed into profound distress, which gave way to an existential void. And that void generated a terrifying question: What if I was wrong about everything? What if the totality of what I had taught for years was only a narrow reading of a Creator infinitely greater than my rigid theology could admit?

It was at this precise moment that everything shifted.

One Thursday afternoon, Julia made an unexpected request. She was lying on the couch, bundled in a blanket, watching a children’s program. I was right next to her, distracted by my phone, my mind elsewhere. She turned off the television and turned towards me.
“Mom, I want to visit that church.”
My heart stopped in my chest.
“What church, Julia?”
“The church of the lady in my dream. The one we pass by, where her statue is.”
I had the sensation the ground gave way beneath my feet.
“Julia, you don’t even know the exact place.”
“Yes, I do. The lady showed me. It’s near the bakery.”

She was talking about the Church of Our Lady of Aparecida, two blocks from home, the very place of worship I had publicly denigrated during the procession.
“Why insist so much on going there?”
“Because she asks me to.”
“She asks you?”
“Not with words, but I feel it. She wants me to go, and I want to go. Please, Mom.”

I stared at my daughter, a seven-year-old child, blinded by a congenital condition, begging to enter a Catholic temple. Every fiber of my being screamed to refuse. But when my eyes met hers—her pupils, without shine, without perception—I discerned something that annihilated me. I saw a faith there. An authentic faith, exempt from ecclesiastical belonging. A conviction built on a personal connection with a power far beyond her ability to explain it.

At that instant, I capitulated. I yielded because I no longer had the strength to oppose. I yielded because I no longer had any certainty. I yielded because for the first time in 12 years of ministry, I was ready to concede that maybe—just maybe—my knowledge was not absolute.
“Alright, Julia. We will go.”

Samuel returned from work an hour later. I told him of Julia’s request. He showed no surprise, simply nodded. “Tomorrow morning, before her appointment with the oncologist.”

I didn’t sleep a wink that night. My mind was obsessed with the idea of crossing the threshold of that church. Would I be recognized? Would the elderly woman with the scarf be there? What would I do in the face of a confrontation? But above all, the fear of failure paralyzed me. For if nothing happened, if Julia’s healing did not occur, if the Eternal persisted in His silence, I didn’t know if my already faltering faith could survive.

In the morning, I got up, my stomach in knots. I prepared Julia with extreme slowness, helping her dress, brushing her hair delicately. She displayed a liveliness I hadn’t seen in months. Samuel, him, had put on a dress shirt as if we were attending a capital ceremony. And perhaps that’s what it was.

We left the house. The building was only two streets away, but we took the car due to Julia’s persistent weakness. Parked in front, I observed the edifice. It was a modest brick church, topped by a simple cross and adorned with stained-glass windows on the sides. Far from the opulence of the National Sanctuary of Aparecida that I knew in images. Nevertheless, this place exuded a sort of warmth that only intensified my nervousness.
“Let’s go, Mom.” Julia extended her hand towards me. I seized her fingers, and we got out of the car. Samuel followed closely, silent and visibly anxious.

We climbed the three steps leading to the entrance. I pushed the heavy wooden door. It creaked loudly. The smell of incense immediately enveloped me. This perfume that once would have profoundly irritated me now only provoked a dull dread. The interior was deserted. It was a weekday in mid-morning, no mass, only absolute silence and the soft light filtering through the stained glass. The walls were covered in pale tiles. The polished granite floor reflected our distorted image. On the altar, the statue of Our Lady of Aparecida reigned on a pedestal, illuminated by two candles.

Julia squeezed my hand. “It’s here, Mom. She’s here.”
Another shiver. “Where, Julia?”
“There, near the statue. It’s her.”
I stared at the altar. I saw nothing other than the sculpture. But Julia was radiant. That serene smile overflowing with a peace I had forgotten for ages. She released my hand and began to advance alone towards the dais. My heart raced. Samuel grabbed my arm, holding me back from intervening. Julia stumbled once, regained her balance, and continued her walk. She laboriously climbed the two steps of the altar and stopped, facing the image. She raised her hand, feeling the space before her, searching… Her fingers finally touched the feet of the Virgin.

At that precise instant, an interior dam broke. All the ramparts I had erected over the years collapsed. Intellectual arrogance, false assurance, doctrinal rigidity—everything shattered into pieces. I fell to my knees right in the middle of the nave and closed my eyes. Words failed me for prayer. I simply felt my smallness, my ignorance, my desperate need for something infinitely vaster than what I had tried to circumscribe or master.

Then I heard a scream—Julia’s cry. I opened my eyes, terrified. She had turned towards me. Her pupils—her lifeless eyes that had never captured anything—were fixed on me. They were focused. It wasn’t the wandering gaze of the blind; it was the concentration of one who sees.
“Mom… I see you.”

The world suspended. Literally, I heard nothing more. I perceived nothing more. There was only that gaze. My daughter’s eyes seeing me for the first time in her life. I collapsed. It was the only possible reaction. I crumpled onto the floor, submerged by a wave of tears I had never known.

Samuel rushed towards Julia. She looked at him—truly looked—and a mixture of pure laughter and sobs erupted. He squeezed her against him and joined me on the floor. We remained there, entwined on the cold pavement of the church, an amalgam of sobs and hilarity, totally overwhelmed by the unreality of the moment. For how long? Minutes, perhaps hours. Time no longer had any hold on us.

Finally, I managed to get up. But Julia, she never stopped devouring space with her eyes. She absorbed everything: the shimmering stained glass, the dancing gleams of the candles, faces—our faces. Her small hands traversed our features, comparing what she felt with what she now discovered visually, and she laughed. An innocent laugh, that of a child touching the world for the very first time.

We left the sanctuary in a daze. Outside, the world continued its ordinary rhythm: car horns, indifferent passersby. But for us, the universe’s calendar had just reset. The next step was obligatory: the hospital. We needed tangible validation of this event.

Julia saw with perfect clarity. Every color, every nuance, every movement was registered by eyes that had never functioned. At the hospital, the bewildered health professionals multiplied exams. Julia identified letters, numbers, shapes, chromatic nuances without fail. Our usual neurologist remained petrified before the initial results. A long silence. Then he ordered a new MRI without delay.

The two hours of waiting were a silent torture. Julia never ceased exploring her environment with insatiable fascination. Samuel and I floated in a bubble of incredulity, of terrified hope. When the imagery was ready, the neurologist called us. He projected the recent images, juxtaposing them with the old ones. He remained immobile, comparing the two series. I felt like I was going to faint. Samuel held my hand with a strength that hurt me.

He pointed to the screen. “The tumor mass… is gone.”
I didn’t understand the scope of those words.
“Gone? How is that possible?”
“It’s no longer there,” he affirmed, showing the new scan. “There is no longer any sign of the tumor. Nothing. As if it had never existed.”
“But… is that possible?”
He sighed deeply. “It’s not supposed to happen. In 30 years of practice, I have never witnessed such an erasure. Brain tumors of this size and in this location do not evaporate. There exists no scientific justification for what has occurred.”

Samuel let out sobs of relief. I was a statue, my mind refusing to assemble the pieces. The doctor continued, “I will submit these images to other specialists and order additional tests. But what I see here indicates that your daughter is completely cured—both of the tumor and of her blindness. Medically speaking, it’s an impossible event.”

We left that office staggering. Julia skipped between us, delighted, showing us every object. And I couldn’t integrate the news. Our daughter had been healed integrally in a place I had denigrated, by an intervention my pride had always rejected. It was the miracle so implored, but offered in a form my rational mind refused to accept.

That evening, putting Julia to bed, she insisted on keeping her eyelids open, fearing sleep would dissolve this new reality. I promised her she would wake up still seeing, that everything was fine. She finally fell asleep, a smile on her lips.

I joined Samuel in the living room. He was slumped on the couch, his face buried in his hands. I sat beside him, and for the first time, I uttered aloud the thought hammering my mind since we had crossed the threshold of that church: “I was wrong.”
“Wrong about what?” Samuel lifted his eyes towards me.
“About what is essential. I believed I held God in a box, knew His methods, had the right to judge the faith of others. I was in error.”

He squeezed me in his arms. We wept again, but these tears were different—no longer of pain, but of gratitude, of immense relief, and of humility.

The following Sunday, I returned alone to the church. I needed to dissect the event, to try to understand. I took a seat on the last pew, trying to go unnoticed, incapable of listening to the homily. I only stared at the statue of Our Lady of Aparecida, reliving the instant Julia had touched it.

At the end of the service, I was still seated, unable to move. It was then I felt a presence. Turning my head, I recognized the lady with the scarf—the one from the procession. My heart raced.
“Good day,” she said to me with that same benevolent smile.
“Good day,” I replied, my voice trembling.
“You are the pastor, aren’t you? The one at the procession with her little girl.”
I felt my face redden. “Yes.”
She remained silent a moment. Then she took my hand. “Your daughter is better.”
Tears flowed without me being able to hold them back.
“She is healed. Completely. Here, in this church. I have no explanation.”
The lady smiled—not with superiority, but with a deep understanding. “My daughter, God does not fit into our compartments.”

Those words struck me like lightning. That was exactly it. I had tried to circumscribe the Divine to a doctrine, to a denomination, and He had just shown me He was infinitely vaster.
“I must apologize for all I said and did,” I murmured.
She squeezed my hand. “You don’t have to apologize to me. Perhaps to Him.” She gestured towards the altar. “And to yourself.”

We remained seated in silence for long minutes. Then she rose, gave me a warm hug, and left. I stayed alone in the sanctuary, and for the first time in 12 years of ministry, I truly prayed—not with learned formulas, but with an exposed heart, acknowledging my smallness, my arrogance, my judgments.

In the days that followed, I continued to attend mass—not by immediate conversion to Catholicism, but because I felt a visceral need to understand, to learn, to deconstruct all I thought I knew. Samuel accompanied me sometimes. Julia came with enthusiasm, pointing out everything she saw.

But I knew the most difficult step awaited me. I had to return to my own church and tell the unthinkable. I feared rejection, but I couldn’t keep silent. I organized a meeting with the lead pastor and the other leaders. I related the entirety of my journey—from my initial judgment during the procession to Julia’s incredible healing. I confessed my arrogance, my hardness, my capacity to judge others, and I asked for their public pardon.

The silence that followed was stifling. Some leaders showed evident disapproval; others were simply confused. The lead pastor finally broke the silence. “We must pray about this and discern what really happened.” I understood. He refused to believe it, or worse, couldn’t accept it, because admitting this miracle implied questioning the very essence of their theology. And that was too frightening.

The following Sunday, I went up to the pulpit. I delivered my story to the entire assembly, omitting nothing. I spoke of the procession, of my haughty attitude, of Julia’s healing in a church I despised, and I asked pardon from all those I had wounded with my words over the years. The reactions were mixed. Some wept; others left the room in the middle of my account.

After the service, several members came to see me—some to offer a hug, others to warn me that I had deviated, that I had been deceived, and that this event did not come from God. In the weeks that followed, many people left the community because of me. I was accused of preaching ecumenism, of mixing doctrines, of opening the door to error.

The lead pastor summoned me for a private conversation. He suggested that a temporary withdrawal would be prudent—time for spirits to calm. I understood. I had shaken the foundations of what this community held as certain, and that had a cost. But I felt no regret. I couldn’t, because I had witnessed a miracle. And that miracle had taught me a fundamental truth: God is greater than all we can conceive.

I accepted this setting aside, which lasted three months. During that period, far from being an exile, it transformed into an intense spiritual quest. I crossed the threshold of the Catholic church without fear, then that of several other Protestant assemblies. I conversed with priests, nuns, deacons, and pastors of all doctrinal horizons. And the observation was staggering. Beneath the surface of distinct rituals and dogmas, all these believers aspired to the same divine communion. Their paths diverged, perhaps, but the destination—the thirst for the Eternal—was universal.

When I reintegrated my congregation, it was a new person crossing the door. Less quick to judge, more attentive, I had exchanged my former rigidity for sincere humility. The lead pastor gave me back access to the pulpit, not without an explicit warning about the necessity to measure my words. I acquiesced, understanding that the stake was no longer to defend an exclusive truth, but to announce a message of unconditional charity, of profound humility, and of welcoming the unfathomable mystery.

Three years have flown by since that seismic event. I continue my pastoral service within the Restoration Assembly, but the echo of my sermons is radically different. I have dismantled attacks against other confessions. I now refuse to be the arbiter of others’ faith. My heart beats to proclaim a God who escapes all our attempts to confine Him within human frameworks—a supreme being who acts freely, unhampered by our dogmas.

Of course, this mutation had a price. Many reproached me for having lost my fervor, calling me lukewarm. Yet, those who stayed grasped the essence of the change. Our church is less numerous, certainly, but it radiates with an affection and a cohesion much more faithful to Christ’s teaching.

Julia, now ten years old, enjoys perfect vision. Medicine catalogues this recovery as an unforeseen remission. For me, it’s the evidence of a miracle. Julia, with her child’s wisdom, declares she wants to explore every temple, every cathedral, every orthodox assembly. “Because,” she says, “God is everywhere.” I can only agree with her. I witnessed it. I lived this truth in my flesh. I was reduced to nothing, demolished by my certainties, then rebuilt in a manner I could never have imagined.

From time to time, I return to that Catholic church. I sit on the exact pew where the healing took place. Not to worship the statue, but to thank the power that manifested there. It offered me the most crucial of lessons: He is infinitely greater, and the more I accept this immensity, the more my bond with Him becomes palpable.

This upheaval was not instantaneous. It was a long journey strewn with obstacles. In the first months post-miracle, I struggled with the question of my deep identity. The inflexible pastoral figure, known to all, had vanished, leaving in its place a woman filled with doubts, questioning the edifice of an entire ministerial life. Samuel was my unshakable rock during this tempest. Never a word of reproach, never an “I told you so.” He simply stood there, squeezing my hand when tears rose, lending an attentive ear, or praying in silence when words escaped me. He too was digesting the shockwave. Julia’s healing had shaken his own certainties, but he approached the process with a more introspective discretion.

Julia herself was a daily explosion of joy. Each day was a new marvel: the blue of the sky, the texture of clouds, faces… She spent long moments simply observing, absorbing the world her eyes captured. When questioned about her healing, she answered with disconcerting clarity: “It’s the lady in the blue cloak who helped me.”

On my side, I began frequenting Bible study circles with Catholic faithful. At first, the atmosphere was tense, almost hostile for me. I forced myself to suspend all judgment, to abstain from correcting what I perceived as errors, seeking only to listen. The more I opened my heart, the more I realized their devotion to Christ equaled mine. They prayed with the same fervor, sought holiness with the same ardor, but their expression was different.

It was during one of these sessions that I met Father Antonio, a man in his sixties with silver hair and a lively gaze. Intrigued by my story, he invited me to chat over coffee. Our conversation stretched over hours, addressing his own theological uncertainties. I understood his faith was also a dynamic journey, not a fixed certainty. At one point, he confided this phrase that marked me indelibly: “Pastor, the greatest revelation of my existence was to understand that God has no need for lawyers. He doesn’t expect me to defend Him from other confessions. He doesn’t ask me to build ramparts. He wishes for me to build bridges.”

Bridges, not walls. Those words resonated in me for days. I had devoted over ten years to erecting fortifications, to excluding, to judging—all in the name of defending truth. But what truth could do without love?

I returned to my congregation with the firm intention of changing course, knowing the enterprise perilous. Defiance remained palpable. Some members had left definitively; others stayed but maintained a prudent distance. I understood them. It was I who had implanted this culture of exclusion, and I was now the one trying to deconstruct it.

In my homilies, I insisted on humility, on accepting our cognitive limits, on respecting diverse manifestations of faith. The reactions were violent. Some Sundays, half the assembly rose and left the temple in the middle of my preaching. The most heart-wrenching trial was my confrontation with Sister Martha, my former spiritual mentor. A woman of solid faith, she summoned me after service, her face closed. “You have gone astray,” she launched without detour. “The adversary uses your daughter’s healing to turn you from the right path.” The pain was lancinating, but I took a deep breath. “Sister Martha, I respect your concern. But Julia’s recovery was real, and it taught me in a fraction of a second what 12 years of rigid ministry could not teach me: God surpasses the entirety of our doctrinal schemes.” She shook her head with disappointment and left, leaving me alone with my tears. Disapproval, especially from those we admire, is poison. Yet, an unprecedented interior tranquility inhabited me—the peace of authenticity.

Samuel then encouraged me to consult a professional. I needed space to dissect the superposition of events: the initial trauma, the miraculous healing, the collapse of my past identity, and the emergence of a new worldview. My therapist helped me name this process: I was traversing the mourning of the person I had been, and it was natural to feel sorrow.

Julia remained my moral compass. She made no distinction between rites. She attended mass with me some days and evangelical worship with Samuel others, singing and praying everywhere with the same candor and without a shadow of judgment. One afternoon, returning from school, she asked me a simple question that made all my theology diplomas tremble: “Mom, why do people argue because of God? Isn’t He the same for everyone?” I reflected an instant. “Yes, my love, it’s the same God. Sometimes people forget.”
She smiled. “Then they must remember.”

It was this necessity for memory that pushed me to accept invitations to speak in churches of various obediences—Protestant, Catholic, ecumenical. I recounted my path, Julia’s healing, my journey towards respect for expressions of faith. The audiences were varied, but after each intervention, there was always someone to thank me for expressing this weariness with division.

It was during one of these conferences that I met Pastor Jean, from a Protestant church in the suburbs of Campinas. At the end of my talk, he came to me, eyes misty with tears. He revealed that a personal drama had broken him, pulling him from a once rigid and intolerant posture just like me. He insisted: “It’s imperative to speak about it. We must disseminate these stories. So many people suffer from this inflexibility, feel marginalized, or abandon their spiritual path because they don’t fit into the molds we have imagined.” I immediately adhered to his plea. A sincere friendship and collaboration were born that day.

Our first initiative was to set up meetings reuniting leaders from various confessions. The sole objective was not to debate theological points or dogma, but to meet, to share our experiences, to weave bonds. We wanted to recognize each other simply as human beings and brothers.

Three years after Julia’s healing, I look back and struggle to identify the person I was. The former pastor, filled with unshakable assurance and unfailing rigidity, has vanished. She gave way to a simpler woman, open to learning and traversed by multiple questions. Paradoxically, my spiritual conviction has intensified like never before, because it no longer rests on the fierce defense of precepts. It anchors itself in a concrete experience with the Divine—a force that surpasses all human capacity for conceptualization.

The church I led, the Restoration Assembly, has also mutated. Certainly, the assembly has diminished in number; many left. But those who remained developed a remarkable cohesion and benevolence. Their priority is no longer to be right, but to love authentically. We launched charitable initiatives in close collaboration with the Catholic church in the neighborhood. We share the effort of food distribution, visit the sick in hospitals, organize activities for the youth together. This shared service made our old fortifications fall.

Julia has turned ten and wishes to become an ambassador. Her dream is to travel the planet to testify of her story, to prove that the divine essence is prisoner of no confessional label, acting according to its will. I contemplate her often, submerged by emotion. She incarnates a freedom to believe that it took me decades to brush against—a faith without chains or preconceived judgment.

Samuel has regained his smile. He was exhausted by the incessant conflicts, the gossip, and the severity that characterized our past pastoral functions. He now confides that we have finally discovered the path traced by the Master—that of charity, modesty, and unconditional welcome. He has become a fervent promoter of this new ecclesial approach. Our union solidified because we ceased striving to defend rigid dogmas to concentrate on love of neighbor and the Creator.

That lady with the scarf, seen during the procession, became a precious friend. Her name is Maria. Aged, she possesses that serene wisdom that comes only with a long existence lived under the sign of benevolence. We share a meal monthly. She unveils fragments of her history; I share mine. I always leave these moments more appeased, more grateful, more humble.

Father Antonio became my spiritual guide. I know how disconcerting this can seem—a Protestant minister under the mentorship of a Catholic priest. Yet, he transmitted knowledge my initial formation had completely occulted: the importance of recollection, contemplation, acceptance of the unknown, and the audacity to not possess all the answers.

I was traversed by waves of despondency where the desire to let everything fall was intense. The pressure was crushing, the criticisms cutting, the accusations of doctrinal deviation wounding. Some nights, I wept to exhaustion, questioning the correctness of my orientation. But each time doubt assailed me, my eyes rested on Julia, on the radiance of her regained vitality. I remembered the prodigy. How the Supreme Being had chosen an environment I disdained to restore my daughter and soften my hardened heart. And the light returned. Building bridges is infinitely superior to erecting ramparts. Affection trumps reason. Modesty outclasses sufficiency.

Today, when I take the floor, I am no longer afraid to affirm my ignorance. I accept that there exist arcane matters I am incapable of elucidating. I dare admit that other religious traditions conceal treasures of teaching. Strangely, this transparency and vulnerability touch the public more than my old posture of infallibility ever did.

Julia, in her simplicity, showed me that faith is not a quest for exhaustive answers. It’s a matter of trust, of letting go, of welcoming what surpasses us, and that it is absolutely legitimate to not grasp everything. Because our mission is not to understand the universe, but to love.

Recently, we were returning from one of her semestral medical checkups. The specialists are always perplexed before her case, qualifying it as an unforeseen remission. For me, it’s clearly a miracle. Julia observed the landscape passing by the window, then turned to me. “Mom, do you think the lady in the azure cloak still appears to others?”
“I don’t know, my heart. Why this question?”
“Because so many people suffer, are sad, or argue because of religion. She should show herself to them too.”
I smiled. “Perhaps she does, but under different appearances. Perhaps through a gesture, a word, or a testimony like ours.”
She reflected an instant. “Then we must tell our story to as many as possible.”
“You’re right. Let’s do it, Mom. Let’s tell everyone that the Supreme Being is far too vast to be locked in the little boxes we build.”
I could only laugh. My ten-year-old daughter had just synthesized in one sentence what it took me years to integrate.

Back home that day, I withdrew to the bedroom, kneeling near the bed. My prayer was neither formal nor dictated by doctrine, but an open-hearted conversation with the Invisible. I expressed my gratitude for Julia’s healing, for the collapse of my oversized ego. I thanked those who had supported me and those who had abandoned me, because their departure had liberated me from the need for universal approval. I thanked for the enigma, for the ambiguity, for the right to not hold all the keys.

In that silence, I felt something I had experienced only once before—that precise day in the Catholic church: a simple presence. No words, no image, just a soft warmth in the chest, a tranquil certainty that I was where I should be, that each trial had its meaning, that my sufferings had not been sterile. I rose, my face flooded with tears. But it was no longer sadness; it was recognition, surrender, serenity.

Examining my trajectory today, I clearly distinguish two eras: before and after Julia’s healing. Once, I was a woman saturated with certainty but devoid of true love. Now, I am full of questions, but overflowing with compassion. I would not exchange this state for anything in the world.

Julia demonstrated to me that miracles don’t only serve to heal bodies; they serve to restore souls. My daughter recovered physical sight, but it was I who was delivered from spiritual blindness. This transformation was so radical that it redefined not only my existence but that of my entourage.

If, in reading or listening to these words, you recognize yourself in some way, I wish for you to retain this: Have no fear to question. Have no shame to admit your lack of knowledge. Have the audacity to build bridges rather than walls. Because it was at the precise moment I accepted my fragility, my vulnerability, and the immensity of the mystery that I truly discovered the Supreme Being. He is infinitely greater, more magnificent, and more loving than all theologies combined.

Julia is now ten. She sees perfectly, without the slightest sequela, without a trace of the illness. It’s as if she had never known blindness or brushed against death. The doctors are speechless. I have no need for explanation. I thank each day for this favor, for the profound change, for this opportunity for rebirth. And when I am questioned about the woman in the blue cloak, my answer is always the same: I am incapable of saying if she was concrete or pure allegory, if it was an apparition or a simple symbolic manifestation. What I am certain of is that the Supreme Being used an element I once disdained to teach me the essential lesson of my existence. For that, my gratitude will be eternal.

Because in the end, what counts is not the label stuck on the building you frequent, nor the affiliation inscribed on your badge. What has value is the fervor you carry within you, the empathy you accord to others, the modesty to admit your own shortcomings, and the unshakable trust in a Divinity too vast to be confined in the narrow boxes we try to build for Him.