Her Name Is Grace
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Born in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, before she could even walk she had already been forced to flee from bombs, crossing forests and rivers with her parents.
She lived for a while in Angola. She learned Portuguese. She was happy there, but persecution forced her to cross a vast ocean and come to Brazil with her parents and one of her sisters.
Two other siblings, twins a little younger than she was—her best friends and companions—remained with relatives in Angola.
There was not enough money for everyone’s airfare.
I met Grace in Praça da Sé, in downtown São Paulo, on a freezing winter night.
A couple with two little girls caught my attention. They were out on the street, wearing clothes far too light for the cold.
I approached them and asked where they were from.
“We’re from Angola.”
They did not tell me their real country of origin at first.
“Why are you on the street? Where do you live?”
“We were robbed and thrown out of the place where we were staying.”
I later learned that they had been living in an occupied building nearby, in the city center, together with dozens of other families, most of them foreigners being exploited by a Brazilian social movement.
I took them home.
We gave them shelter, warm clothes, food and, of course, toys.
Grace stood out.
She loved to sing. She was remarkably bright and talkative, and she cared for her younger sister with tenderness and attention.
The days passed, and we began to notice a sadness in Grace that refused to leave.
Eventually, we discovered why.
She could not accept having left her two siblings behind.
Together with her father, who was a pastor, Grace prayed every day that she might have her brother and sister back.
The Eternal One, who listens attentively to the prayers of little ones, granted the child this blessing.
With the help of many good people of God, a few months later the family was reunited.
Grace was happy at last.
She went to school. She made friends. She sang with her siblings in the church worship team.
Then one day her father was attacked with a knife on his way to work.
It was not a robbery.
Nothing was taken.
It was intimidation.
Hatred.
Xenophobia.
He received help in time and survived.
I find myself wondering what that did to Grace—to have her father attacked and nearly killed here in Brazil.
The last time we spoke, Grace’s father asked me to help them go to Canada.
He had changed.
This man who had always been gentle and loving was now bitter, depressed, disillusioned, without hope.
He no longer wanted to live in Brazil.
I tried to help as much as I could.
Some time later, I was stunned to learn that Grace, her parents, and her siblings were in a migrant center somewhere in Central America.
As far as I knew then, they were still somewhere along the way, like thousands of others.
I did not know what to think or what to say.
I wished I had done more.
Warned them.
Insisted.
Nor did I know what else to do.
But I could pray.
On that October 12, I prayed for Grace and for her dear family, whom I had the privilege of serving and loving for such a short time.
I prayed that my life might make a difference and become a blessing.
If no longer for her, then for others.
For other Graces.
May coldness, hopelessness, and resignation never take hold of me.
I want to remain capable of weeping and of being disturbed by the suffering of these little ones.
That day I remembered Grace, and I prayed:
Lord, reach her.
Of the many millions of refugees and forcibly displaced people in the world, half are children.
Of the millions exploited by criminal networks through forced labor and sexual exploitation, a great many are children.
Of the many millions who suffer from hunger and acute malnutrition, many are children.
Among the countless victims of domestic violence, drug trafficking, and war, many are children.
There are children confined in immigration detention centers, alone and unable to communicate, because they tried to reach parents who are in another country.
There are children on boats adrift in the Mediterranean, prevented from reaching European shores.
There are children riding in the backs of trucks across the Sahara, fleeing in an attempt to save their lives.
Hidden inside shipping containers.
In the trunks of cars.
There are thousands of children growing up in tents in refugee camps.
Under scorching sun, or in cold, rain, and mud.
Growing up without horizons, sometimes without even a document bearing their name.
There are children confined to tiny rooms, unable to step outside even for a moment, unable to play, unable even to speak loudly or laugh, because they risk being reported and detained for being there illegally.
I have met them there.
I can describe them.
I have seen the fear in their eyes.
In refugee camps in Lebanon and East Timor.
In an immigration detention center and in tiny rooms in Bangkok.
Yes, I met them collecting cans on the streets of Greece to help support their families.
I saw teenage girls boarding planes alone in Middle Eastern airports—being trafficked.
I met them in public squares in Turkey.
In ghettos and houses on stilts in Indonesia.
In tents along the streets and overcrowded shelters in Boa Vista.
In that basement in Pacaraima.
On the streets of Cracolândia in São Paulo.
I met them.
And to my sorrow, only now do I see.
How did I not understand before?
How did I not realize that it was you there, my Lord?
O Father, my Father, our Father...
Forgive us.
Forgive me.
Strengthen my hands.
Give me longer arms, stronger legs, feet that will not give way.
Give me the blessing of raising this large and spacious house—called Abuna—with an enormous, beautiful yard and a great table with more than enough for everyone.
May it be large enough to welcome many of your little ones who are out there...
hungry,
cold,
afraid.
Lord, grant me this grace.
Dear Father,
remember Grace.
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