Passionate Grace

At nineteen years of age, I’ve lived in five countries, thirteen houses, and attended seven different schools, including homeschooling. Compared to some MKs (missionary kids), my life has been fairly stable. We’ve always lived in first-world countries, i.e. Germany, Israel, US, The Netherlands, and UK, with access to “Western culture.” I suppose I’ve grown up with a cross-cultural awareness. I don’t remember any moment of revelation where I tugged at Mama’s skirts and asked why those people looked so different from us. Actually, I was encouraged to search out different cultures and strive to better understand the people by embracing who they are as created by Christ. People were created to live, thrive and grow in relationships with one another; in that sense, as I have discovered, there are no boundaries, cultural or otherwise, besides the walls we ourselves erect. The following is an account of one of my most recent cross-cultural experiences:


I want to tell you the story of a man called Samuel, but my knowledge of his life is limited to a fifteen minute exchange in an alleyway in Accra, Ghana. We (Thomas, our Ghanaian pastor, myself and a team of students recently arrived from the UK) were driving home from a prayer meeting at the church when Thomas decided to show us the church’s first sanctuary. He stopped adjacent to a dimly lit, narrow street in the heart of the Okaishie Market. Here, the congregation had worshipped, studied and prayed. Preparations for the morning service had included shoveling out the piles of refuse, which had accumulated during the week.

Thomas parked, hopped out of the car, and walked over to talk with some people sitting on a tabletop, who were eyeing us curiously. I followed, along with one other student. After introducing myself to a young woman and one of the men seated nearby, I wandered over to the group that had initially grabbed my attention. A man holding an old, manual Canon camera with a large flash attachment was photographing a man in a wheelchair holding a baby girl. His studio was a white cloth thrown over a support beam under the awning at the entrance of a dilapidated factory building. Lighting was a single bulb dangling low overhead. The wheelchair-bound man was clearly another of the multitude of polio sufferers in Ghana. His body was completely withered from the hip down and he sat with his legs curled beneath his thin frame. My eyes were drawn upwards, however, to a pleasant face and a ready smile. I asked him his name. “It’s Samuel,” he said.

The photographer asked if I would be in the picture with Samuel and the little girl. I agreed with pleasure, kneeling beside Samuel and taking the baby’s hand in mine. The camera flashed and Samuel smilingly relinquished the petite, wide-eyed infant named Grace. Making herself at home, she nestled into my arms and took a generous handful of my red curls with a firm purpose to explore and discover. I’m not sure what she intended to find, but her eyes were unblinking as she examined every line of my face and routinely stroked my tresses. This was probably her first exposure to a white face, and though barely a year old, her desire to make sense of this puzzling apparition was evident in every crease of her thoughtful little brow.

It was getting late, and Thomas indicated that we had to leave. As I began to say my goodbyes and restore Grace to Samuel, a man in his early twenties walked up and introduced himself as Grace’s father. He had seen her in my arms, and noted my obvious pleasure in holding her. As I attempted to loosen my curls from Grace’s clutching hand and return her to Samuel, her father asked repeatedly if I would like to take Grace with me. Of course, that wasn’t possible. It’s the unconscious response we all would make in a similar situation. But in the car, on the way home to a bed, shelter, and food, I couldn’t help but note the stark contrasts of my life and that of Grace’s. I felt that I had denied her a “better life.” But then I checked myself. God had not said I was to remove her from that alleyway in Accra. He determined exactly where she was to be born and He knows the type of life she will lead. I am to pray over her and trust that He holds her securely in His hands. I believe the key in such situations is to be prepared at all times to act according to His voice, and never question it, no matter how ludicrous His commission may sound. If He had said, “Take Grace home,” I would have somehow found a way.


I returned home from Ghana three weeks later, and was approached by many well-meaning people with this question: “What did you learn?” Well... Where would I begin? How do I describe the young girls selling bananas on the streets? Or the elderly men kneeling on a strip of cloth praying to Allah at sunset? Or the joy in the eyes of the street children when you smile and wave to them? What about the beggars with polio, literally crawling among the cars, asking for change? There aren’t any words to describe what happens in your Spirit when you come face to face with the broken heart of Christ. Please don’t limit what I’m saying to the boundaries of Ghana, or even within Africa. His blood was spilled for all. And that includes the next-door neighbour with a Mercedes, the Mexican girl working at McDonalds, and the commander of the Taliban soldier in Afghanistan; the brothel owner in India, the sheik in Dubai, and the child who bullies your children at school. They all are God’s people.

During one of our Sunday services in Accra, the pastor made this statement: “Our real capacity as followers of Jesus Christ lies not in how much we retain, but in how much is poured out.” We are not saved so that we might live with the assurance of heaven and Christ’s blessings or grace. We are saved because we are loved by Him. And because all are loved by Him, we have been commissioned as His children to love as He loved. This love will never spring from emotion or by reasoning. He has given us His capacity to love through the gift of the Holy Spirit. Hanging on that cross, Jesus was not enraged at the soldiers who drove the nails through His hands; He was moved with such love and compassion for them in their blinded state, that the anger created within drove Him to usurp war and simply offer Himself to the enemy before the first arrow was drawn.


Yes, there is pain on earth. Yes, there is death. Yes, there is injustice. But we were called to be in the world, not of it. We are to love as if there is no hatred, live as if there is no death, and to be just in the face of oppression. To love so intensely requires an attitude of selfless intent to reach the nations (and our neighbours) with the message of Jesus Christ. Every word He spoke was truth, no matter how hard, or radical, or politically incorrect. Paul gave us a good idea of what the life of a follower of Jesus Christ will look like:

“But in all things, we commend ourselves as ministers of God: in much patience, in tribulations, in needs, in distresses, in stripes, in imprisonments, in tumults, in labours, in sleeplessness, in fastings; by purity, by knowledge, by longsuffering, by kindness, by the Holy Spirit, by sincere love, by the Word of Truth, by the Power of God, by the armour of righteousness on the right hand and on the left, by honour and dishonour, by evil report and good; as deceivers, and yet true, as unknown, and yet well-known; as dying, and behold we live; as chastened, and yet not killed; as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, and yet possessing all things.” 2 Corinthians 6 : 4 -10


If we choose to live this way, we will come into contact with some of the “least of these.” It may be messy and a little scary at first, but this is exactly where Christ said He would be. Look past the sorrow and despair - as followers of Jesus, we have the Truth that will bring joy to every soul! Don’t live in such anticipation for Heaven that you are blinded from seeing the Kingdom of God among us today. There is so much to be done while we’re here! Embrace the opportunity to live each day in imitation of our Saviour.