Last week I met a young girl. She couldn’t have been any older than four or five. She had never seen a “white” person. This made 
for an interesting, and unique experience, which made me contemplate how we view race and how we should all approach it with the humor, compassion, and acceptance of a child. While we were chatting with this young girl’s grandfather (in Kenya) several things happen instantaneously; she plops down right next to me, grabs my hand, scrutinizes it like an unknown insect in the grass, and she makes a decision and theory about what’s wrong with me. I’m dirty. I’m white. I’m a white washed African. She looks into my eyes imploring and then it changes to sympathy. She looks eager to fix me so I nod in agreement that it’s worth a try.
Her grandfather and my translator obviously missed the endeavor at hand: “cure my whiteness”. They were not amused. We immediately stopped laughing out loud but our continued sloppy grins revealed the mischievous giggles we were hiding. Despite her efforts I’m still white although I have acquired a minor tan from hours of scuffling down the road in the sun.
To a child, the outside is circumstantial – inside I was no different to her, my skin just didn’t match. If we all could only have this outlook – perhaps we’d understand the Lord’s heart for his children a bit better. 
