The midday sun cast harsh shadows across the cramped alleyway behind St. Bridget’s Convent. Sister Marie, a white nun in her late 30s, had slipped out the back door to find some air and a moment of quiet. She’d been tending to the church’s humble garden all morning, hoping the routine would ease the heavy ache that still lingered in her life.
She had once been married, but an abusive relationship and multiple surgeries had robbed her of the ability to have children of her own. Her decision to become a nun wasn’t just a calling it was a refuge from the pain and shame she’d carried for years.
That day, as she pushed a battered trash bin aside in search of extra plastic pots, Sister Marie heard something a faint cry, like a wounded kitten. She froze, heart pounding, and peered deeper into the dimly lit alley. There, wrapped in a thin blanket and wedged between torn cardboard boxes, was a baby boy. He was tiny, with dark skin and tear-streaked cheeks, no more than a few days old. Her first instinct was to scoop him up, to cradle him as…..Read Full Story Here……………………
