Ebiere cried to her mother the way only a daughter can—without strategy, without polish, without strength left to conserve.
“Mama,” she said, her voice breaking, “my marriage is under attack. Something is wrong. Evil forces are controlling your son-in-law. The man I married is not the man I’m living with. I pray, I fast, I endure—but it keeps getting worse. Mama, I am afraid.”
Her mother listened without interrupting. She did not rush to agree, and she did not rush to dismiss her daughter’s pain. She let the silence do its work first. Then she spoke—slowly, firmly, like a woman who had seen storms and learned where not to stand.
“My daughter,” Mama said, “come closer. Sit. Let me talk to you properly.
I hear your fear, and I will not shame your tears. A woman can cry and still be standing. But I must correct your understanding before fear teaches you the wrong lessons.
Do not be too quick to name everything evil forces. Not every attack is possession. Not every struggle means control. Some seasons are not about demons taking over a man; they are about pressure testing the ground beneath a marriage.”
She reached for Ebiere’s hands and held them tightly.
“Scripture already prepared us for seasons like this. It calls them the evil day—not because God has left, but because resistance is required. And in the evil day, God does not tell His children to panic, scatter, or collapse inward. He gives a command that sounds simple but is very demanding: withstand.
To withstand does not mean to suffer quietly. It does not mean to deny your pain or pretend that everything is fine. You are allowed to cry. You are allowed to grieve what your marriage does not look like right now. But hear me clearly: withstanding is not about feelings—it is about position.
To withstand means to stand against pressure deliberately. It means refusing to yield ground just because obedience has become costly. It means saying, ‘I will not step out of alignment just to find relief.’”
Mama’s voice grew steadier, not louder.
“The enemy’s aim is not always to destroy loudly. Often, his aim is to displace quietly—to move you off your footing, to push you into bitterness, suspicion, exhaustion, or despair. If he can get you to abandon truth, erode your convictions, or act out of fatigue, he has gained ground without ever breaking the marriage openly.
That is why Scripture tells us to put on armor before it tells us to withstand. You do not withstand by emotion. You withstand by structure.
Truth must steady your thinking so fear does not rewrite reality.
Righteousness must guard your heart so anger does not harden you.
Peace must anchor your steps so chaos does not dictate your reactions.
Faith must rise to block accusations—against God, against yourself, against your husband.
Salvation must remind you who you are, so you do not shrink into helplessness.
And the Word must remain in your mouth, not conclusions formed in pain.”
She paused, then added quietly, “My daughter, maturity is not when life stops testing you. Maturity is when you stop moving every time pressure moves.
Infants cry only for rescue.
Soldiers are trained to hold ground.
Do not keep asking first, ‘Why is this happening to me?’ Ask instead, ‘What position must I keep?’ God does not always remove pressure immediately because some pressures reveal what truly holds you upright.”
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Mama squeezed her hands again.
“Heaven’s measure of success is not comfort. It is continuity. Scripture does not promise that after the evil day you will feel better. It says, ‘Having done all, stand.’
If your confession is still intact,
if your obedience has not fractured,
if your identity is preserved,
if your faith posture has not shifted—
then you are not losing, Ebiere.
You are withstanding.
And hear this well: the evil day passes. But the position you keep during it determines what remains standing after it is gone.
Stand, my daughter. Stand.”
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