Isla Murphy

I grew up in a strict Pentecostal household with my single mother after my parents divorced. Our life in Oshawa, Canada, revolved around the church; the services often felt like a mix of fervent esotericism and financial coercion. The preachers promised miracles for generous donations, and my mother, deeply connected to the church because it had supported her during hard times, never questioned it. For her, the church was a source of hope and community.

I, on the other hand, was a silent observer, always a bit skeptical of the promises made from the pulpit. At 16, my passions lay far from the church. I was obsessed with music and was part of a rap and singing group, dreaming of recording a demo tape in a studio. Money was always tight, and despite my constant pleas, my mother prioritized her donations over my musical ambitions.

One Sunday, my mother, too ill to attend service, handed me an envelope with a substantial donation and asked me to take it to church. Annoyed by the church's relentless push for money and desperate to fund my demo tape, I made a choice. I kept the envelope. Guilt gnawed at me, but it felt like the only way to pursue my dream.

That decision paid off. The demo tape led to a record deal, and my career took off. I sold millions of albums, and with the success, I bought my mother a house, freeing her from the need to work. Despite my success, I carried the guilt of that stolen donation for years.

Now, at 32, I finally confessed to my mother. Her eyes widened in shock, and I could see the disbelief on her face. But after a moment, she calmed down, listened to my story, and hugged me. She forgave me, understanding that my intentions, though misguided, had led us to a better life.

It’s ironic and somewhat absurd that the money I took for my music, instead of donating to the church, ultimately brought us the prosperity we had always prayed for.