Grace

The Kiswahili word for “pray” also means “beg.”
I had a rough week. It was full of doubt in my work, feeling useless, and that I have once again let God down. And this past week especially, I have seen how I’ve fallen.

I believe it’s all Rob’s fault. While he was here, he prayed with every person, encouraged the clients, and even was about to lead a man he met at a market to Christ. Now, in his 11 days, he clearly explained the gospel to one person, and touched others’ lives. In my 9 months, was I so bold? Did I see the Gospel as the one thing that I needed to tell people? This is increasingly easy to feel, by the way, when you are a missionary.
I guess where Rob excels is where I fall short. I often shrink back from the opportunity to share with people, to pray with people, to read some Bible to people. It made me evaluate who I am, and where my passion has gone. I was reading over my prayers before I came to Kenya and the first months I was here, and they were filled with amazement of God’s grace, humility in every area of my life, and passion for my work here.
I began fighting myself. Why couldn’t I be as excited as Rob? I know all the cliché stuff to say. But they didn’t impassion me. And as my heart felt crushed under my new revelation of myself, I decided to write again in my prayer journal, wanting to know what I was missing. The page had the verse 2 Corinthians 9:8: “God is able to make all grace abound to you, so that in all things at all times, having all you need, you will abound in every good work.”
I thought, “That’s it! My good work is out of, or because of, grace abounding in me.” So there was what I had lacked. I lacked humility, I lacked forgiveness (my own infliction, I’m sure), and I lacked grace.
I needed grace.
So like Jacob wrestled God for his blessing and would not let go until he received it, so also I decided to wrestle God until I received my grace. I decided to be in prayer when I should have been eating, and to mourn over my pride, strength, and everything else that had been keeping me from God and from doing His work. I told God my plan to not let go until He gave me grace.
I prayed that He would do it for His name. I told God that He would be glorified through working through me. I said that He should bring me down, and make me humble, and that He should through that lift me up. It would be in His interest to do it for me, I told Him. Still, nothing.
Then, as I prayed to God, I felt that I exhausted new words to tell Him. I still was quite adamant about holding onto God until He gave me grace. I meant it, too. I would not falter. It made me think more about why I wanted His grace. Why was it so important to me? While I could explain to God why it would be to His benefit, I had yet to consider why it would be mine. It seems like a simple “duh” moment, but I tell you, I cried to God about how His grace is my life, about how if I didn’t have His grace, I wouldn’t be able to work, I wouldn’t even be able to get out of bed. His grace was my bread. He had to give it to me for my sake. At that point, I was begging for my life in a very real sense (those who ever dealt with depression or true remorse know what I mean). It was a feeling I haven’t had for a while, to not see God as a Master I needed to please, but to see Him again as my Savior.
An hour later, we were gathered for dinner over a friend’s house, and the father of the house read a devotion about grace. I received my grace. And now I stand in it, feeling the weight off my shoulders and ready for work with a renewed strength.