The two hurried home and poured the fish into the water tank, their hands moving quickly before the water could spill over the rim.
"Where have you two been?" Rose asked, her voice tight with worry. She had been searching for them for hours, pacing the yard, calling their names into the growing afternoon.
There was no way to send word ahead. No pen, no paper, no phone. The communication towers had fallen in the last war, and silence stretched across the land like a wound that refused to heal. Motors were forbidden—cars and motorcycles seized by the government—leaving only bullock carts and donkeys for travel, and even those demanded money they rarely had.
JB worked only part-time. Permanent labor was scarce. Earthquakes and war had thinned the population, leaving behind a country that once struggled but now barely breathed.
Those who had been poor before were crushed further into the dirt, with nothing left to fall back on.
For the uneducated, survival was merciless. They spoke of luck, but in truth, they had only God.
Rose did not yet see it—that it was God's provision, not chance, that carried them from one day to the next. In the quiet struggle to survive, blessings came unannounced, often in forms she did not expect.
Earlier that morning, she had opened the grain jar and found only a few cups left at the bottom. The sight had hollowed her chest. How could a family of four endure like this? Yet now her heart raced as she stared at the buckets her children carried.
Fish swam within—carp, bass, even shrimp. A basket brimmed with fruit.
"Where did you get all this?" she asked, her eyes moving from one bucket to the next.
"There's a river in the forest," Kaliyah said softly. "We asked God for provision, and He provided. Praise be to God for His goodness and grace."
She set the basket down. Fruits spilled into view—fresh, full, and impossibly out of season. Rose's breath caught.
"These shouldn't be bearing fruit yet…"
She fell silent, then nodded to herself.
With God, nothing was impossible.
Kaliyah's strength did not come from her hands or her endurance, but from her Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, her shield—and from the Father, her faithful Provider. What could she fear?
Rose stored the fruits carefully and poured most of the fish into the tank. One bucket she set aside to bring to the church the next morning.
"What would you like to eat?" she asked.
"Jackfruit in coconut milk," Kaliyah replied without hesitation, "and fried fish."
JB only remained silent. He was content to follow his sister's lead.
They gathered coconuts from the tree beside their home. Rose prepared the ingredients while JB and Kaliyah drained the milk and lit the stone stoves. By late afternoon, the house was alive with motion. Ronald, their father, watched quietly from the side, saying little.
Rose crouched beside the fire, stirring young jackfruit as it simmered in thick coconut milk. The flames crackled beneath the clay pot, and a rich, comforting scent drifted through the yard. Her movements were slow and practiced, steady as prayer.
A few steps away, Kaliyah knelt beside her own stove. She lowered the bass fish into hot oil, and it answered with a sharp hiss. The oil leapt and scorched her skin.
She sucked in her breath. "Oh Lord—"
Her hand trembled, but she did not curse. She gritted her teeth, flipped the fish with a flat piece of wood, and shielded herself with the pan's metal cover. Still, the oil popped again, stinging her arm.
"Father God," she whispered, "please give me patience."
As if in answer, the fire flared higher.
The rice threatened to burn. The water jar stood empty, demanding another trip to the well. She struck her foot against the corner of the wall, pain flashing through her toes.
Her jaw tightened. Her lips pressed together.
Each time she prayed for patience, more trials arrived—not to break her, but to stretch her. To teach her how to hold still under pressure. To strengthen what she asked for.
She breathed in slowly. Then again.
Lord, help me endure.
By the time the food was ready, her hands ached and her patience had been worn thin—but it had not snapped.
That night, she learned not to ask God for more patience—but for wisdom and discernment instead.
She finally understood why seasoned believers never asked to be tested, nor prayed lightly for patience. Every request carried weight. Every prayer invited the fire.
God was a smith, she realized, and His people were the metal. He placed them in the furnace not to destroy them, but to refine them—turning, heating, striking—until every impurity rose to the surface and was burned away. Only then could the metal become a mirror, reflecting His image.
God was good. God was fair. And because of that goodness, He could not leave His people imperfect.
So He tested them.
Through trials, He shaped them into what He is—kind, patient, steadfast in love. A love that endured without bitterness, that forgave without keeping record, that stood firmly in truth.
And in the heat of it all, she understood: the fire was not punishment.
It was proof that He was still at work.
Before they ate, Kaliyah led them in prayer.
"Father God in heaven, with grateful hearts we thank You for Your guidance, healing, and provision. We owe this meal—and the days to come—to You, Lord, our Provider. Your mercy has no bounds. We thank You, Jesus Christ, for Your sacrifice, love, and goodness. May our lives worship You always. In Your mighty name we pray, Amen."
They served the rice, jackfruit, and fish. For the first time in seven years, they were not merely half-full—they were satisfied.
JB ate three cups of rice, then two more. Kaliyah matched him. Their parents ate less, mindful of age and digestion.
When night fell, they lit the oil lamp and retreated to their rooms. Kaliyah lay awake, marveling at how they survived without electricity.
Even in hardship, she thanked God.
She had shelter. She had rest. She had Christ.
And in time—God's time—she would have what she needed.