The Color of Grace CHAPTER ONE As Sick as Our Secrets Every saint has a past. Every sinner has a future. -OSCAR WILDE "Paper or plastic?" the grocery store clerk routinely asked. I didn''t answer; I was focused on the lady in front of me. I watched as her manicured fingers slid her debit card into the neat slot of her wallet; the card sat perfectly in line with the others. She tucked her wallet into a perfectly matching purse, which coordinated perfectly with her suit, which already looked perfect with her peep-toe wedges. The shoes, of course, revealed that her pedicured toes matched her fingernails. Perfectly.
"Paper or plastic?" the clerk inquired again. I looked down at my hand to see the smudged remains of a hastily written reminder: "Wire food money to Congo for kids." The baseball cap on my head covered my hair, which was three days unwashed. The holes in my hat matched the holes in my shoes, but any other potential for perfect matching ended there. My interest in the perfectly matching lady had nothing to do with envy, nor did I judge her. She was simply familiar to me. She reminded me of a woman I once knew. I finished my purchase, finally choosing paper, and went straight to wire money so our team could purchase food for the former child soldiers and orphaned children in our care at the Peace Lives Center in the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC).
After completing the transfer, I walked to my car, praying with each step. I had spent the morning with our Exile International team discussing the need to evacuate the children at the center, knowing the rebels were moving closer to them each day. After three days of deep prayer, sleepless nights, and helpless tears, I was exhausted. I paused when I got into my car and looked at my cracked fingernails as my hands rested on the steering wheel. That perfect lady-I used to be her. While my wallet never remotely matched my purse-and definitely not my shoes-I had been perfect at seeming so in control, so accomplished, so spiritually on point. But my "perfection" was in truth a daily mask that I had put on like makeup to cover the scars of shameful decisions. My mask had hid a life shriveling from the cancer of comparison, a life sick from so many secrets.
How was I ever that lady? That lady-whose life had been sick with secrets-had found the courage to walk into the truth when she met children who had lived through horrors that begged to hide in the darkness. But these children found the courage to tell the truth, and their truth opened doors of hope and healing, not only for themselves but for you and me as well. Children like Devine and Nelson. When Devine was three years old, her mother found her bleeding in the forests of Congo after being raped by rebel soldiers. Devine''s mother scooped up her child and carried her two miles out of the forest. Unable to provide what her wounded daughter needed, she placed her in the arms of a man who took her to a care center for survivors of gender-based violence. Now a teenager, Devine is radiant. She is a leader among her peers.
Her smile and song tell a story of survival. After all Devine has experienced, why is she so strong today? Because someone believed in her. Because someone believed she was larger than her past and stronger than her greatest pain. Nelson is a timid yet strong young man who lives in Uganda. When he was ten years old, the Lord''s Resistance Army (LRA) brazenly stormed his village in the middle of the night. Nelson woke to the sound of gunfire and the piercing screams of the mutilated. Smashing into his family''s straw hut, soldiers jerked Nelson up from his mat on the dirt floor and screamed commands he could not comprehend. He finally understood the horrific orders as the soldiers repeatedly pointed to his parents and forced a machete into his hands.
Nelson was spattered with the blood of his parents, and their screams battered his ears. His hands were tied above his head and his feet were bound with chains. For two days and nights, he was prodded by the butts of rifles and led deep into the forest. Today I sat at his feet as he bravely shared the story of his art-therapy drawing in front of several other children who had experienced similar pain. We walked back to our huts, holding hands. During our final day together, he allowed me to wash his feet as a sign of renewal and redemption. We wept together. Now a teenager, he dreams of caring for other orphaned children when he completes his schooling.
Why is Nelson able to dream today? Because someone believed in him. Because someone believed he was larger than his past and stronger than his greatest pain. There is a little girl in the United States. She lives inside the body of a grown woman. A woman who, because of her past and her pain, had given up on herself and on life. But this little girl . this woman . found purpose in the story of a girl in Congo named Devine and a boy in Uganda named Nelson.
Because of these children and many more, her greatest heartache turned into her greatest ministry, and grace came full circle. Because God never stopped believing in her. Because purpose can come from pain. I am that little girl. I am that woman. My story led me to Devine and to Nelson, and so-as painful as my story is to tell-I begin here. For my story helped me understand theirs. And I hope it will help you understand yours.
My story showed me the way to a healing that transcends culture and time. My story begins with dreams. As a young girl, I loved life. Bubbly, imaginative, and stubborn since the day I was born, I wasn''t the easiest child to reason with; but my parents were supportive, loving, and always pointed me toward God. Overall, my childhood was full of wonderment, joy, and laughter. I played in the woods, made mud pies, hoed rows of tobacco, went hunting, and ate juicy, red watermelons from Granddaddy''s garden with my brother, sister, and cousins. As a kid, I liked my feet to be dirty and bare-I still do. My grandparents lived next door, which in the country really means a cornfield or two away, and my cousins lived down the street.
I grew up in Farmington, Kentucky, with my older sister and younger brother, who shared my same outgoing personality. We were loud and lively. My dad was kindhearted, wise, and goofy (I inherited the goofy part). He served as a minister at small Kentucky churches throughout my childhood. My mom had a nurturing, thoughtful spirit and served others by writing notes of encouragement to the hurting, making casseroles for the grieving, and hosting showers or get-togethers at church and home. We were all raised to be leaders in our communities, to honor the Bible, and to stand for what was right above all. Life was sweet and simple. My childhood was certainly not perfect, but it was wonderful.
Even as a small child, I had a unique love relationship with the Lord, and the desire of my heart was to serve Him and help others come to know Him. When missionaries came to speak at church, I sat bright-eyed in the front row, ready to hear every detail. I dreamed of serving overseas, especially in Africa. I remember asking Santa Claus for a monkey one year for Christmas-fully believing he would come through for me. To my dismay, the only animal under the tree that year was a stuffed chimp, holding a banana that fit in the premade hole in his mouth. As a naive and giddy eighteen-year-old, I went off to a small Christian college ready to take on the world. Actively involved in campus life, I couldn''t wait to get to know everyone I could-the outgoing kids, the kids eating by themselves, and those who didn''t seem to fit in. My heart has always been pulled toward the lonely.
Being an overachiever, popular, and a perfectionist, I constantly found myself striving to do and be more. I always seemed to be in charge of something, speaking at devotionals, or serving as an officer in a club. I traveled on my first short-term mission trip to Zimbabwe, Africa, during my freshman year. It was a dream come true! I fell in love with the culture and the people I met in Africa. Every sight, smell, and story brought me life. Feeling at home there, I knew international work would somehow be part of my life. Even then, I began planning when I could return. I hadn''t dated much in high school; I was too busy soaking up life, leading pep rallies, and spending time with friends.
To say I was a social butterfly would be an understatement. During college, I met a young man who was intelligent, very involved on campus, and admired by many. Unlike me, he was pretty reserved, but became one of my closest friends, as we shared much in common spiritually and in leadership. We began dating, and he soon became the first boyfriend I''d had for more than three months (which was a big deal). We grew closer and closer-partially from the natural rhythm of sharing life together but mostly from an unhealthy dependency that came with repeated cycles of arguing, breaking up, and then getting back together. Believing to a fault that everything would work out, I was convinced we would be fine. We were both Christians and believed divorce was not an option in marriage-somehow we thought that made up for the emotional sickness that defined much of our relationship. Neither of us knew what healthy dating looked like, so we were blind to the.