A MOTHER’S HEART

BY WENDY PALAU

As I stood and looked out at the faces of the women, I felt so inadequate. So different. I was half a world away from home. In a foreign land. Face to face with amazing, beautiful, lovely women who were so different from me. Their background, their context, their struggles—so I thought— were light-years from my own. Of course, I’m not new to Africa. Andrew and I have had the joy of ministering alongside believers throughout the continent for more than ten years. I love Africa. But there was something different this time. A catch in my spirit.

I couldn’t quite place it.

I felt the Lord had given me a message to share—Hebrews 12—and I trusted the Holy Spirit would guide my words, as He always does. But would it resonate with these women? Could I really offer them some sort of encouragement and hope in their specific context? I didn’t question the Lord, but for some reason, on this day, I questioned myself.

I had come to Jos, Nigeria, with my sister-in-law Gloria and a team of good friends from Firm Foundation in Christ Ministries. We had been invited to proclaim the Good News to women and children from ten internally displaced people (IDP) camps. We were also asked to help with a week-long evangelism training conference for church leaders in the area.

Our first day at the IDP camp had been glorious.  I remember walking into the large church in the middle of the camp, looking at more than 1,000 women and children who had packed themselves inside its four walls. A group of men sat toward the back. They had absolutely nothing. Civil war had taken nearly everything—save their lives. Yet the second we walked in, I heard a single woman break into song. It was a joyful song, one of hope and excitement. A few others joined in. Dancing ensued. Within seconds the entire building was bursting with beautiful music, resonating off the pale green plaster walls.

They didn’t yet know the message we would bring—one of hope and forgiveness and peace. But, they were confident that whatever we were bringing truly was good news.

By the end of the day, more than 75 of these precious women had responded to the Gospel message and given their lives over to God. We left the camp full of joy, and confident the Lord was doing a powerful work. Yet now, as I faced this new group of women, all of whom professed to be followers of Christ and leaders in their church and community, I questioned whether I really had something to offer.

Before I jumped into my message, I thought it would be good to share a little of my story.  I wish I could say there was more thought that went into it. Some insight from the Lord. But really, I just wanted them to know me a little better—to maybe make a small connection. I introduced myself and told them about my husband, Andrew, the son of a famous evangelist.

I shared a little about his story. . . his rebellion, his wayward years, and his eventual conversion. It wasn’t much. Just a little of my heart. I then moved on to Hebrews 12. When we ended, I asked if there were any questions. That’s when the floodgates opened. All they wanted to talk about was Andrew’s story—the son who walked away from the faith.

I quickly came to realize, they weren’t just asking to be nice. They were asking because they could relate. They were leaders in their churches. In their communities. And they had their own wayward children.

Together, as a group, under the hot Nigerian sun, we prayed for our children. For the wayward sons and daughters. For those who were far from God. We asked the Lord to guide, protect, convict, and redeem.

As I walked away I couldn’t help but ponder the reality—a mother’s heart, no matter where you are, is the same. The ache is the same . . . for the next generation . . . for our sons and daughters. And why did I think it would be any different?

We may come from different backgrounds, different nations, or different homes. Our daily lives may look drastically different from one another. But our deep heartache for our children is just the same. Our desires and needs and hopes and dreams are nearly identical. And isn’t that the case even right here in the United States? As you look out across your community—as you talk with your neighbors and friends—you may think you are different. How could you ever relate? But the ache is the same. For their children. Even for their own lives.

And if that is our ache . . . our heart . . . how much more does God ache for His children? How much more does He weep over those who have yet to trust Him with their lives or for those who have fallen away? The Father’s ache for His children far exceeds that of our own. And that is why we share. That is why we go . . . to the IDP camps in Nigeria and to our own communities. So that all may know His love.

And that same hope we share is the same hope we need. For ourselves. For our own families. On a daily basis. It is the anchor of our soul (Hebrews 6). So we share with joy, we share with excitement, and we share with conviction.

As my amazing mother-in-law, Pat, told me recently, “Remember, Wendy, this is not our home. This is not the end of our story.” We have hope. We have the Good News. And God is not done.