The Jesus of KFC

Our team sat, eating our dinner at KFC in downtown Maputo. We all talked and laughed away, enjoying our free day. Sitting outside were a bunch of street kids peering through the window; they wanted our food. We had been told not to give money or food away because it could hurt more than help the needy here. The attendant chased them off the property and slung some colorful Portuguese words around. These kids were loud and rambunctious, troublemakers most likely. I noticed one with crossed-eyes looking utterly desolate. He was the tagalong of the group. I turned back to my food, the little boy’s face still in my mind.

I looked again through the fingerprinted glass. I quieted my thoughts and let the conversation fade away. I felt a still, small voice nudging me.

Lord?

The thought came to my mind to go and pray for him. I dismissed it at first but this feeling was persistent. I needed more affirmation from the Lord. Did he want me to go up to this little boy?

My eyes wandered over the group. The cross-eyed boy was blatantly staring at me, his gaze unrelenting; his small frame fixed on me. It was then I knew; I needed no more prodding.

I asked Blake, one of the guys on my team, to come with me outside; I started talking to the boys, asking their names. The boy’s name was Antonine. I asked if I could pray for him. He nodded slightly. I prayed for physical healing. I prayed for grace. I prayed for mercy. I prayed for a light to shine in this child’s dark world. Blake noticed a threaded ankle bracelet-the kind that witch doctors give out here. We prayed harder.

When I opened my eyes for a second time, I looked at Antonine. His hands were clasped together tightly, his eyes squeezed shut, his head bowed.

Oh, my heart.

The team was leaving so we finished our prayers quickly. My heart ripped in half. I cupped his face in my trembling hands. I said, “Yessuh loves you. Jesus. Yesu.” I knew no other words of comfort to speak. His dark eyes met mine. I got into the van, continually looking back at little Antonine. Tears filled my eyes.

I would go back home to comfort and warmth and an abundant life. But where would little Antonine go? Where were his mommy and dad? Did anyone love him as much as my friends and family love me? Just before the van door closed, he grasped for my hand. I shook my head, tears threatening to spill out of my eyes.

I’m so sorry, Antonine. I have given you all I can. Yesu.

His eyes still pierce my soul. I still feel his tender face in my hands. I won’t readily forget the little boy outside KFC. I won’t readily forget the brokenness I experienced on that night, a beautiful, unparalleled brokenness. The same brokenness I imagine Jesus felt dying on the cross, taking on all of Antonine’s sin and hurt.

I don’t know where little Antonine is; I don’t know if even understood what was going on as we prayed over him. But I like to think that he did. I like to imagine that he felt that still, small voice speaking truth and light into his soul. That maybe, just maybe, he encountered my Jesus outside the KFC in Maputo. That maybe he woke up today a child of God. I’ll never know.

I probably won’t see him again in my lifetime. I’ll never get to see the fruits of praying for him. I can only pray and hope that he will come to know the Jesus that I know. The Jesus of Africa. The Jesus of cross-eyed street kids. The Jesus of infinite grace.

God is not finished with Antonine. And maybe one day, years from now, Antonine will go back to that street corner and pray over some street kids who desperately need Jesus. Maybe he’ll listen to the urging of that still, small voice. Maybe he’ll look back at that night as his first encounter with his Mighty God.

Just maybe.

“And let us not grow weary doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up.” –Galatians 5:9

The Jesus of KFC

Our team sat, eating our dinner at KFC in downtown Maputo. We all talked and laughed away, enjoying our free day. Sitting outside were a bunch of street kids peering through the window; they wanted our food. We had been told not to give money or food away because it could hurt more than help the needy here. The attendant chased them off the property and slung some colorful Portuguese words around. These kids were loud and rambunctious, troublemakers most likely. I noticed one with crossed-eyes looking utterly desolate. He was the tagalong of the group. I turned back to my food, the little boy’s face still in my mind.

I looked again through the fingerprinted glass. I quieted my thoughts and let the conversation fade away. I felt a still, small voice nudging me.

Lord?

The thought came to my mind to go and pray for him. I dismissed it at first but this feeling was persistent. I needed more affirmation from the Lord. Did he want me to go up to this little boy?

My eyes wandered over the group. The cross-eyed boy was blatantly staring at me, his gaze unrelenting; his small frame fixed on me. It was then I knew; I needed no more prodding.

I asked Blake, one of the guys on my team, to come with me outside; I started talking to the boys, asking their names. The boy’s name was Antonine. I asked if I could pray for him. He nodded slightly. I prayed for physical healing. I prayed for grace. I prayed for mercy. I prayed for a light to shine in this child’s dark world. Blake noticed a threaded ankle bracelet-the kind that witch doctors give out here. We prayed harder.

When I opened my eyes for a second time, I looked at Antonine. His hands were clasped together tightly, his eyes squeezed shut, his head bowed.

Oh, my heart.

The team was leaving so we finished our prayers quickly. My heart ripped in half. I cupped his face in my trembling hands. I said, “Yessuh loves you. Jesus. Yesu.” I knew no other words of comfort to speak. His dark eyes met mine. I got into the van, continually looking back at little Antonine. Tears filled my eyes.

I would go back home to comfort and warmth and an abundant life. But where would little Antonine go? Where were his mommy and dad? Did anyone love him as much as my friends and family love me? Just before the van door closed, he grasped for my hand. I shook my head, tears threatening to spill out of my eyes.

I’m so sorry, Antonine. I have given you all I can. Yesu.

His eyes still pierce my soul. I still feel his tender face in my hands. I won’t readily forget the little boy outside KFC. I won’t readily forget the brokenness I experienced on that night, a beautiful, unparalleled brokenness. The same brokenness I imagine Jesus felt dying on the cross, taking on all of Antonine’s sin and hurt.

I don’t know where little Antonine is; I don’t know if even understood what was going on as we prayed over him. But I like to think that he did. I like to imagine that he felt that still, small voice speaking truth and light into his soul. That maybe, just maybe, he encountered my Jesus outside the KFC in Maputo. That maybe he woke up today a child of God. I’ll never know.

I probably won’t see him again in my lifetime. I’ll never get to see the fruits of praying for him. I can only pray and hope that he will come to know the Jesus that I know. The Jesus of Africa. The Jesus of cross-eyed street kids. The Jesus of infinite grace.

God is not finished with Antonine. And maybe one day, years from now, Antonine will go back to that street corner and pray over some street kids who desperately need Jesus. Maybe he’ll listen to the urging of that still, small voice. Maybe he’ll look back at that night as his first encounter with his Mighty God.

Just maybe.

“And let us not grow weary doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up.” –Galatians 5:9

The Jesus of KFC

Our team sat, eating our dinner at KFC in downtown Maputo. We all talked and laughed away, enjoying our free day. Sitting outside were a bunch of street kids peering through the window; they wanted our food. We had been told not to give money or food away because it could hurt more than help the needy here. The attendant chased them off the property and slung some colorful Portuguese words around. These kids were loud and rambunctious, troublemakers most likely. I noticed one with crossed-eyes looking utterly desolate. He was the tagalong of the group. I turned back to my food, the little boy’s face still in my mind.

I looked again through the fingerprinted glass. I quieted my thoughts and let the conversation fade away. I felt a still, small voice nudging me.

Lord?

The thought came to my mind to go and pray for him. I dismissed it at first but this feeling was persistent. I needed more affirmation from the Lord. Did he want me to go up to this little boy?

My eyes wandered over the group. The cross-eyed boy was blatantly staring at me, his gaze unrelenting; his small frame fixed on me. It was then I knew; I needed no more prodding.

I asked Blake, one of the guys on my team, to come with me outside; I started talking to the boys, asking their names. The boy’s name was Antonine. I asked if I could pray for him. He nodded slightly. I prayed for physical healing. I prayed for grace. I prayed for mercy. I prayed for a light to shine in this child’s dark world. Blake noticed a threaded ankle bracelet-the kind that witch doctors give out here. We prayed harder.

When I opened my eyes for a second time, I looked at Antonine. His hands were clasped together tightly, his eyes squeezed shut, his head bowed.

Oh, my heart.

The team was leaving so we finished our prayers quickly. My heart ripped in half. I cupped his face in my trembling hands. I said, “Yessuh loves you. Jesus. Yesu.” I knew no other words of comfort to speak. His dark eyes met mine. I got into the van, continually looking back at little Antonine. Tears filled my eyes.

I would go back home to comfort and warmth and an abundant life. But where would little Antonine go? Where were his mommy and dad? Did anyone love him as much as my friends and family love me? Just before the van door closed, he grasped for my hand. I shook my head, tears threatening to spill out of my eyes.

I’m so sorry, Antonine. I have given you all I can. Yesu.

His eyes still pierce my soul. I still feel his tender face in my hands. I won’t readily forget the little boy outside KFC. I won’t readily forget the brokenness I experienced on that night, a beautiful, unparalleled brokenness. The same brokenness I imagine Jesus felt dying on the cross, taking on all of Antonine’s sin and hurt.

I don’t know where little Antonine is; I don’t know if even understood what was going on as we prayed over him. But I like to think that he did. I like to imagine that he felt that still, small voice speaking truth and light into his soul. That maybe, just maybe, he encountered my Jesus outside the KFC in Maputo. That maybe he woke up today a child of God. I’ll never know.

I probably won’t see him again in my lifetime. I’ll never get to see the fruits of praying for him. I can only pray and hope that he will come to know the Jesus that I know. The Jesus of Africa. The Jesus of cross-eyed street kids. The Jesus of infinite grace.

God is not finished with Antonine. And maybe one day, years from now, Antonine will go back to that street corner and pray over some street kids who desperately need Jesus. Maybe he’ll listen to the urging of that still, small voice. Maybe he’ll look back at that night as his first encounter with his Mighty God.

Just maybe.

“And let us not grow weary doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up.” –Galatians 5:9

The Jesus of KFC

Our team sat, eating our dinner at KFC in downtown Maputo. We all talked and laughed away, enjoying our free day. Sitting outside were a bunch of street kids peering through the window; they wanted our food. We had been told not to give money or food away because it could hurt more than help the needy here. The attendant chased them off the property and slung some colorful Portuguese words around. These kids were loud and rambunctious, troublemakers most likely. I noticed one with crossed-eyes looking utterly desolate. He was the tagalong of the group. I turned back to my food, the little boy’s face still in my mind.

I looked again through the fingerprinted glass. I quieted my thoughts and let the conversation fade away. I felt a still, small voice nudging me.

Lord?

The thought came to my mind to go and pray for him. I dismissed it at first but this feeling was persistent. I needed more affirmation from the Lord. Did he want me to go up to this little boy?

My eyes wandered over the group. The cross-eyed boy was blatantly staring at me, his gaze unrelenting; his small frame fixed on me. It was then I knew; I needed no more prodding.

I asked Blake, one of the guys on my team, to come with me outside; I started talking to the boys, asking their names. The boy’s name was Antonine. I asked if I could pray for him. He nodded slightly. I prayed for physical healing. I prayed for grace. I prayed for mercy. I prayed for a light to shine in this child’s dark world. Blake noticed a threaded ankle bracelet-the kind that witch doctors give out here. We prayed harder.

When I opened my eyes for a second time, I looked at Antonine. His hands were clasped together tightly, his eyes squeezed shut, his head bowed.

Oh, my heart.

The team was leaving so we finished our prayers quickly. My heart ripped in half. I cupped his face in my trembling hands. I said, “Yessuh loves you. Jesus. Yesu.” I knew no other words of comfort to speak. His dark eyes met mine. I got into the van, continually looking back at little Antonine. Tears filled my eyes.

I would go back home to comfort and warmth and an abundant life. But where would little Antonine go? Where were his mommy and dad? Did anyone love him as much as my friends and family love me? Just before the van door closed, he grasped for my hand. I shook my head, tears threatening to spill out of my eyes.

I’m so sorry, Antonine. I have given you all I can. Yesu.

His eyes still pierce my soul. I still feel his tender face in my hands. I won’t readily forget the little boy outside KFC. I won’t readily forget the brokenness I experienced on that night, a beautiful, unparalleled brokenness. The same brokenness I imagine Jesus felt dying on the cross, taking on all of Antonine’s sin and hurt.

I don’t know where little Antonine is; I don’t know if even understood what was going on as we prayed over him. But I like to think that he did. I like to imagine that he felt that still, small voice speaking truth and light into his soul. That maybe, just maybe, he encountered my Jesus outside the KFC in Maputo. That maybe he woke up today a child of God. I’ll never know.

I probably won’t see him again in my lifetime. I’ll never get to see the fruits of praying for him. I can only pray and hope that he will come to know the Jesus that I know. The Jesus of Africa. The Jesus of cross-eyed street kids. The Jesus of infinite grace.

God is not finished with Antonine. And maybe one day, years from now, Antonine will go back to that street corner and pray over some street kids who desperately need Jesus. Maybe he’ll listen to the urging of that still, small voice. Maybe he’ll look back at that night as his first encounter with his Mighty God.

Just maybe.

“And let us not grow weary doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up.” –Galatians 5:9

The Jesus of KFC

Our team sat, eating our dinner at KFC in downtown Maputo. We all talked and laughed away, enjoying our free day. Sitting outside were a bunch of street kids peering through the window; they wanted our food. We had been told not to give money or food away because it could hurt more than help the needy here. The attendant chased them off the property and slung some colorful Portuguese words around. These kids were loud and rambunctious, troublemakers most likely. I noticed one with crossed-eyes looking utterly desolate. He was the tagalong of the group. I turned back to my food, the little boy’s face still in my mind.

I looked again through the fingerprinted glass. I quieted my thoughts and let the conversation fade away. I felt a still, small voice nudging me.

Lord?

The thought came to my mind to go and pray for him. I dismissed it at first but this feeling was persistent. I needed more affirmation from the Lord. Did he want me to go up to this little boy?

My eyes wandered over the group. The cross-eyed boy was blatantly staring at me, his gaze unrelenting; his small frame fixed on me. It was then I knew; I needed no more prodding.

I asked Blake, one of the guys on my team, to come with me outside; I started talking to the boys, asking their names. The boy’s name was Antonine. I asked if I could pray for him. He nodded slightly. I prayed for physical healing. I prayed for grace. I prayed for mercy. I prayed for a light to shine in this child’s dark world. Blake noticed a threaded ankle bracelet-the kind that witch doctors give out here. We prayed harder.

When I opened my eyes for a second time, I looked at Antonine. His hands were clasped together tightly, his eyes squeezed shut, his head bowed.

Oh, my heart.

The team was leaving so we finished our prayers quickly. My heart ripped in half. I cupped his face in my trembling hands. I said, “Yessuh loves you. Jesus. Yesu.” I knew no other words of comfort to speak. His dark eyes met mine. I got into the van, continually looking back at little Antonine. Tears filled my eyes.

I would go back home to comfort and warmth and an abundant life. But where would little Antonine go? Where were his mommy and dad? Did anyone love him as much as my friends and family love me? Just before the van door closed, he grasped for my hand. I shook my head, tears threatening to spill out of my eyes.

I’m so sorry, Antonine. I have given you all I can. Yesu.

His eyes still pierce my soul. I still feel his tender face in my hands. I won’t readily forget the little boy outside KFC. I won’t readily forget the brokenness I experienced on that night, a beautiful, unparalleled brokenness. The same brokenness I imagine Jesus felt dying on the cross, taking on all of Antonine’s sin and hurt.

I don’t know where little Antonine is; I don’t know if even understood what was going on as we prayed over him. But I like to think that he did. I like to imagine that he felt that still, small voice speaking truth and light into his soul. That maybe, just maybe, he encountered my Jesus outside the KFC in Maputo. That maybe he woke up today a child of God. I’ll never know.

I probably won’t see him again in my lifetime. I’ll never get to see the fruits of praying for him. I can only pray and hope that he will come to know the Jesus that I know. The Jesus of Africa. The Jesus of cross-eyed street kids. The Jesus of infinite grace.

God is not finished with Antonine. And maybe one day, years from now, Antonine will go back to that street corner and pray over some street kids who desperately need Jesus. Maybe he’ll listen to the urging of that still, small voice. Maybe he’ll look back at that night as his first encounter with his Mighty God.

Just maybe.

“And let us not grow weary doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up.” –Galatians 5:9