There was a young girl named Grace.
Everyday, Monday though Friday, we would head to the soccer field and there she would be, waiting. Sometimes she would be waiting on tiptoes for us farther up on the path, face lighting up when she finally spied us coming down the dirt road.
The second day, I recognized her as one of the children we’d played with yesterday, bent down and asked her name. She told me it was Grace.
Two days later I she skipped up to me and asked me if I knew what her name was. I could’ve hit myself for not remembering. I played dumb and confidently told her that her name was obviously “Grass,” and of course I remembered!
She totally called my bluff, but laughed and reminded me of her name. This time I crossed my heart and made a solemn vow to myself to absolutely positively remember her name.
The next time she asked me if I remembered her name, I bent down, smiled mischieviously, and told her her name was “River.” Her mouth dropped in childish shock, but I laughed and told her I actually did know her real name was Grace.
Her answering smile split her face.
As the days went by and soccer quickly turned into intense and most times painful hair braiding since the majority of the kids that came were girls and had absolutely no interest in running around chasing a ball whatsoever, Grace rotated her sweet smile and relatively gentle hands between all of us. It was always funny to see the rest of the team that wasn’t still trying to play soccer attempt to time their hair braiding time to try and snatch Grace from the action.
Two weeks in, I’m sitting down on the edge of the soccer field, and Grace is playing with my hair. Much longer than it had been since the beginning of the race, it had reached the point where little African girls were interested in yanking it. She was gently and calmly running her hands through my hair, simply reveling and feeling the difference between hers and my own, and occasionally winding a loose braid in between just to wind the strands between her fingers.
I was happy and content in the temperate weather and the gentle hands running through my hair. I glanced up to see Grace’s soft but still mischeivious smile above me, and said, “Thank you for doing my hair, Grace.”
She glanced away from my hair to meet my eyes for a brief second before they shifted back again. She gave a soft smile, and her eyes shyly flickered to mine as she replied softly but simply, “I’ll always be here for you, Kendall.”
And that simple little statement absolutely broke me.
Here I was, a missionary in Africa to spread the love of Jesus, being comforted and assured by this ten year old girl with the name of Grace. I was leaving in 2 weeks, and she told me she’d always be there for me. My eyes watered there on the edge of the field, feeling her hands running through my hair like a promise.
A couple days later, Grace is scuffing her feet in the grass when I approach her.
She tells me her family is leaving to visit relatives in another city.
She tells me she must leave tomorrow.
She asks if she will see me again.
She shakes her head sadly when I tell her she will not.
We walk hand in hand on the path home. When the time comes for her to leave, I get down on my knees and squeeze her tight. She asks me quietly if I will sing her a song. Tears running down my face, I tell her, “Of course I will.”
Knees dusty, gripping her hands firmly, face wet, I sing Amazing Grace.
I repeat the verse twice because I can’t bring myself to end the song. I can’t bring myself to end my time with her. But the group is fading into the distance, and I have to go.
So when I finish, I hug her one last time. Her face is wet when it presses into my neck. I stroke her hair, and murmur softly to her. When I pull away, I tell her firmly, “Jesus loves you even more than I do, and even though I have to go, He will never leave you. Remember that, okay Grace?”
She nods and wipes her cheek as I stand in sorrow. I turn, and walk away. I cannot help my head from turning around once I reach the corner to glance back. She is still standing there, watching me. I bite back a sob, and turn the corner.
