The walk to and from school in Maramba, Zambia was not my favorite.
To say, as white people, we stood out is maybe the understatement of the year. And if we somehow managed to get by without drawing too much attention it was quickly remedied by the shouts of, “Mzungu!” (white face) from the children in the streets.
Don’t worry, it’s not an offensive term.
Children would run from blocks away to leap on us and be able to hold our hands as we walked. It was adorable you can be sure, but it also started to wear on me. I wanted to be able to walk at my own pace without tripping over the small person at my feet.
We were also stopped by adults, mainly men who had had too much to drink. Not because drunk men were the only kind of men in the streets, but because they were the ones who tended to stop us.
And almost without fail, it would end with them asking us for something we could not give them. We were able to tell some about Jesus and pray for others but we didn’t ever hand out money or even alcohol like they wanted. We offered them only smiles, our time, and a good word about Jesus if they would take it.
These were almost daily occurrences on the way to and from school and it quickly started to wear on me. I began to dread the walk before it even began.
One of our last days coming home from school I took a deep mental breath and began the walk with one calloused thought in my mind.
I just have to walk fast and straight and I’ll make it home without having to stop to talk with anyone.
It was an ugly thought but it was what went through my head. I was tired of being relational with people I would likely never see again. I couldn’t see the point anymore and, to be honest, I didn’t want to.
As we were walking we came across a group of men who were gathered around what looked to be a man in a wheelchair. As we came closer we saw it was actually a group of men gathered around a man in a broken wheelchair.
A piece had broken and one wheel had come off. He wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
I heaved a mental sigh as I realized my quick walk home had hit a detour.
There was enough english spoken that we were able to communicate with the bystanders. We found out where we could go to have the broken piece welded and we decided on our course of action.
With one side of the chair still functional, we picked up the other and half wheeled, half carried the man and chair to the shop a kilometer or so away. The man at the shop welded the piece free of charge and we were able to send Emmanuel, the man in the wheelchair, on his way after praying for him. We then proceeded home, now dirty and sweaty.
It was only later that I realized how much we had painted the picture of Jesus in our own lives. Or at least in mine.
I was trucking along, doing my own thing as well as I could, when one of my wheels broke. I was stranded on the road of life with no way to carry on.
Then Jesus came along. He saw me broken down and, instead of passing by like I wanted to do initially, He stopped.
Jesus looked at my mess and smiled as He said, “This is no problem. I know just what you need. Come on, I’ll take you there!”
Jesus loves us too much to leave us broken down on the side of the road. But He also loves us too much to force us to accept His help. His offer to help us is just that: an offer.
We are not passive, helpless people in the salvation story of our lives. Instead, we are called to be active participants, daily choosing the things God has for us over the things of this world.
And the things God has for us, you can be assured, are wonderful things.
His divine power has given us everything we need for a godly life through our knowledge of Him who called us by His own glory and goodness. Through these He has given us His very great and precious promises, so that through them you may participate in the divine nature, having escaped the corruption in the world caused by evil desires. 2 Peter 1:3-4
God wants to fix your “wheelchair.” But He has one question first.
Will you participate?
