the conviction that something greater exists, unseen yet profoundly felt. It grows from personal experiences, cultural teachings, and, sometimes, inexplicable moments that change our lives forever. This is how belief guided me from despair to the fulfillment of my heart’s deepest longing.

Seven years into my marriage, I still waited for a child to call my own. I had always loved children, dreaming of cradling a baby that was a part of me. But as the years passed, my dream felt increasingly out of reach. At 33 years old, I was burdened by my fears and frustrations and the relentless pressure and whispers of family and society.

I tried everything within my power—fertility treatments, medications, and intrauterine inseminations (IUIs). My parents and I followed every suggestion, no matter how far-fetched. We traveled to distant temples, prayed before fertility idols, and observed rituals and fasts that we hoped would invoke divine favor. But nothing worked. With time, my hope began to wither, and I reluctantly resigned myself to the possibility that I might never become a mother.

Longing for solace and clarity, I visited my parents in Bangalore. One quiet morning, as we sipped tea and leafed through the Thursday edition of the Deccan Herald, my mother pointed out the “Infant Jesus Thanksgiving” section. It was a column filled with testimonies of miracles attributed to prayers at the Infant Jesus Church. Sensing my despair, she gently suggested, “Let’s start going to Infant Jesus Church every Thursday.”

It was on our fifth Thursday visit to the church that my life took an extraordinary turn. As was customary, we purchased candles and garlands from outside vendors and handed small coins to the beggars near the compound. Walking toward the church steps, I noticed an older man sitting quietly. He wore a soiled white robe, his frail frame resting on a crooked wooden stick.