“Pastor, there is someone who asks to meet you.”
After preaching in the small Kenyan church, I was taken to the back of a cinder block building and through a dark and narrow doorway. The room was no larger than 6 by 6, and seated was an elderly woman wrapped in the traditional covering of a respectable woman. Her eyes were blind. Her hands crippled and gnarled. Her legs and feet severely bloated.
I sat in the chair next to her while my interpreter let her know I’d arrived.
In her native tongue, she welcomed me to her home, a barren prison to which she is constantly confined by her age and illness, waiting to die. Yet she was filled joy and peace.
We talked for a while and then I asked if I might give her a gift. I took her hand and sang a song familiar to those of us in the West but foreign to her: Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so ….
The widow thanked me and prayed for me, my continued opportunities to preach in her native land, and blessing on the family I’d left at home so far away. I prayed for her.
A few days before my flight home, this woman requested to meet with me one more time. This time I greeted her with her native “aye” and she laughed. She took my hand and we conversed about what I’d done and learned in my two weeks. Still overflowing with the boundless joy of the Lord, we prayed thanking God that if my next journey to Kenya found her tiny home empty, we’d meet again in the eternal house of the Lord.
It is impossible for God to lie, so we have strong consolation, who have fled for refuge to lay hold of the hope set before us. This hope we have as an anchor of the soul, both sure and steadfast (Hebrews 6:18, 19).