Julia

On a calm Sabbath afternoon, as Sunday school let out, a little girl approached me, her face drawn with concern. “Sir, Julia wants to see you—she’s very ill,” she whispered. Aware of Julia’s meek, gentle nature, I immediately promised to visit. I remembered her: a child with a rosy face who rarely sought attention, yet spoke deeply through her actions. She was like a rose, lovely and serene, but now wilting in illness. My heart ached as I thought of her suffering, and I knew it was my duty to go.

When I arrived at her humble home, her mother greeted me, sadness clouding her eyes. “The doctor says there’s little hope,” she shared. I followed her up the narrow stairs and opened the door to find Julia lying in bed, her once-rosy face flushed with fever. At the foot of her bed, two schoolmates sat—one reading quietly from a Bible, while the other wiped away tears. They glanced up, startled, as I entered. I greeted them warmly, then sat beside Julia.

“How are you feeling, Julia?” I asked gently. She looked at me, her voice trembling. “I’m afraid, Sir. I’ve been a great sinner, and now I’m afraid to die.” Her words were simple but sincere, and I knew her fears were genuine. I assured her that knowing our faults is the first step to forgiveness. “Julia,” I said, “have you heard of a Savior who loves sinners like us?” She nodded slowly, confessing her fear that her prayers might go unheard. I prayed with her, feeling a deep connection as I asked for comfort and mercy for this gentle child.

After I left, I could not shake the image of her friends’ devotion. It was a beautiful reminder of the impact of compassion, and I found myself praying for all my students, hoping they would grow in faith and kindness.

Weeks later, Julia’s illness turned, and she miraculously recovered. She returned to school, her eyes carrying a quiet wisdom. I watched her, hoping her brush with death had left a lasting impression. But just as I felt our bond growing, her family moved far away. Years passed, and though I often wondered about her, I heard no news.

Then, one radiant Sunday, as I stood at the back of a crowded church, I saw her face. Now grown, Julia entered, a Bible in her hand, and joined the service with an air of quiet reverence. Afterward, she noticed me, her eyes brightening as she greeted me with a polite smile. She shared her life with modest grace, telling of her struggles with ridicule for her beliefs but standing firm with the support of a fellow servant.

Our parting was bittersweet. As we said goodbye, I felt an overwhelming joy at seeing the fruits of her early faith. Watching her walk away, I thought of the saying, “Cast thy bread upon the waters, and thou shalt find it after many days.” Indeed, Julia’s journey had come full circle—a testament to the quiet strength and love she carried all along.