The Cost of Discipleship

Fear and disillusionment. Courage and commitment. Intense emotion and unbridled passion. The ultimate risk of life in exchange for undeserved grace and a treasured spot in eternity. An example for billions of people who would follow the same road centuries and millennia later. An all-out quest by a growing number of believers to risk everything to spread Jesus Christ's message around the world. The book of Acts. Wow.

Have you ever fully dug into this amazing book? I mean really dug in, where your heart beats faster with each revelation and you can't wait to turn the page to see what happens next? All the time you're imagining what it would've been like to have been there beside them. That's what we're going to do in this book, and I cannot wait to take the journey with you.

But first, I need to tell you a story about a precious child who is very close to my heart. In fact, the only person closer to my heart is Jesus, and that's where it all connects. ...

Mama blanc. White mama. That's what my little girl, Missy, called me the first time we met in Haiti in June 2012. And she didn't say it while batting her eyelashes and wearing a sweet smile. Nope. She was pretty much scowling with suspicion. She was two and a half years old and about nineteen pounds soaking wet, but man was she feisty. When her caregiver went to place her in my arms, I think what she wanted to say was, "Don't even think about holding me, you giant pale chick!" but she only spoke a few words of English at the time. Even speaking Creole was difficult because her little lungs were filled with fluid and weakened with tuberculosis. I was holding a bowl of rice and beans, though, which surely made her stomach growl. So instead of dissing me on the spot, she eyed me with a mixture of wariness and hunger. Then she did something remarkable; she reached out and wrapped her fist around my little finger with surprising strength and rasped, "Halo, mama blanc."

On that sweltering June day in 2012, about fifty kilometers southwest of Port-au-Prince, I became a tangible reality to my daughter. She saw and heard and touched me for the first time. She sure as heck didn't trust me at that point though. I was just a large, sweaty, non-Haitian woman. Several visits and suitcases bursting with presents later, Missy had warmed up to me considerably. I'd basically become Santa with bigger hips. The adoption process included two long years and five trips to the hottest place on the planet; in fact, there were times I promised Jesus I'd be a missionary in Africa if He'd just make a Slurpee materialize in front of me. But by the end of it, Missy liked me a lot. I'd become something akin to Barney, only without the obnoxious vocal inflection and purple hue.

But it wasn't until after Missy had come home to live with me in Tennessee — after we'd twirled and wiggled through hours of charades in our quest to communicate (her English was very limited when the adoption was finalized, and my Creole is abysmal); after I'd rocked her through many nights when she couldn't sleep; after I'd held her during way too many blood draws at Vanderbilt Children's Hospital (Missy's birth mom died of AIDS and unwittingly infected her with HIV); after I'd slipped not once, not twice, but three times in wee ponds she'd created by cramming copious wads of toilet paper in a commode and then flushing it over and over again with unrestrained glee (toilets were a luxury in her village, even more so toilet paper, so she was initially quite enamored with it); after we'd discovered a shared affinity for Pirate's Booty (the best popcorn ever), belly laughs, loud worship tunes (especially those with a very active drum track), enthusiastic dancing, roller coasters, pistachios, and playing tag on the beach; and only afterI wiped her bottom and nose and tears more times than I can count — that my baby really began to trust me.

Three weeks ago, I'd spent several minutes at bedtime explaining to Missy who'd be picking her up from school the next day. She'd be spending the weekend with her Aunt Sharon because I would be leaving on an airplane for Kansas City for work the next morning. She turned toward me and slid her chilly, five-year-old feet under the covers and stuck all ten of her perfect brown toes in my "belly fold." I've gained weight since becoming a mom, partly because I've developed a bad habit of eating some of her favorite foods — macaroni and cheese and quesadillas are at the top of her list — and partly because as a single mom I don't have the time to run like I used to and burn off the extra calories. She wiggled her toes in my newly grown valley for a minute, pondering the fact that I was going away for a few days, and then posed a poignant question. "Mama love Missy?"

I replied, "Oh yes, baby. I love you very, very, very much!" She dissolved into giggles and reframed the question into a boisterous declaration, "Mama love Missy! Mama love Missy! Mama love Missy!"

Then her eyelids got heavy, and within ninety seconds she was fast asleep with a smile on her face.

A SCENIC POINT ON THE ACTS JOURNEY

As innocent as it may seem, the ongoing transition that's taking place in Missy's and my relationship is not unlike what we're going to see played out in the book of Acts. Think about this: The disciples had spent three years with Jesus. They'd followed Him all over Galilee and traipsed behind Him to the big city of Jerusalem. Most of them had given up a lot to follow Jesus on this risky, itinerant mission, so they obviously believed in Him. But then things started getting dicey. Quickly. There was a riot and Jesus got carted off by the religious police. After which Pete, their unofficial team captain, panicked and threw Jesus under the bus. Then Jesus went and got Himself murdered — hung on a tree like a rabid dog between two gang-bangers. What would you think in that situation? You might still believe in Him, but would you fully believe what He had told you about all this?

Even though Jesus told His closest friends and followers that all this had to happen to fulfill the Old Testament prophecies, it still threw them for a loop when it did. Why? They probably thought He was being metaphorical, speaking at least a little bit figuratively. They didn't imagine their Savior would really have to die, for goodness' sake! So there, for just a moment, stretched thin as a spider's strand in redemptive history, it looked as if that small band of eleven brothers was on the verge of breaking up.

But just when it seems like this true story is going to have a tragic conclusion, the plot shifts:

In the first book, O Theophilus, I have dealt with all that Jesus began to do and teach, until the day...