I thought about her as 7-year-old Grace sat on my lap and played with my hands. I remembered being young and sitting by my mom at church and using her fingers as a pretend piano. Grace put her hand down and had me put mine on top of hers, then she’d put her other hand, and then I’d put mine. I did the same with my mom.
she danced and sang. In the middle of the sermon Grace grabbed a notebook from my purse and looked up and asked, “Pen?” I didn’t have one, but Colin, who was sitting next to me, let her use the one he had. She started copying words from my bible and trying to draw Joshua and Tabitha, my nephew and niece, from a picture that is in there. She’d look up and grin as I’d nod my head in approval.
At one point she put a dirty piece of plastic in her mouth and I tapped her on the shoulder and shook my head no. She smiled and threw it on the ground.
I met Grace last Saturday at the children’s service. I’ll be honest. She caught my attention because she looks like Chris Tucker.
What made me fall in love with her was when Jodi, Matt and I were buying sodas and bought her a Coke. She looked up at me as I was handing it to her with a smile and she shook her head and said, “Fanta!”
In the States, a child who rejects your gift is spoiled. In Africa, a child who says that just knows what she wants.
We laughed, gave her a Fanta instead and had a good talk. Well, not really since she knows only a little English, but we laughed a lot.
A day or two later we found out she is an orphan and HIV positive. She attends the church alone because they support her financially.
She’s run up to me multiple times in town and given me a big hug and I yell, “Gracie!” and she smiles. I tell her I love her in Swahili and she responds with, “I love you, too” in English.
As I sat in church with her and watched her draw, I wondered what life is like for her.
I wondered what life would be like to be 7 years old, dancing in the children’s program, and look out into a crowd of strangers, with nobody looking directly at you and what you are doing.
What’s it like to not sit in someone’s lap while the sermon goes on? 
What’s it like to not have someone buy you an ice cream cone as the other kids flock around the ice cream man to get theirs?
What’s it like to not have someone say something to the bully who is eating his ice cream in front of you and laughing because you have no money to buy that cone?
What’s it like to see families walk away together after church and walk home alone?
Who is there to tell you that no matter what the other kids tell you, you’re not alone and that you’re special?
I don’t know what will happen throughout Grace’s life, but throughout this next month I will fight for her. I will hug her more than she’s ever been hugged. I will tell her she is loved more than she’s ever heard. And I will ask God that some way, some how she will know that she is not alone and that she is special.
