by Rebecca
I spent very few summers close to extended family – my family served overseas when I was growing up – but when I did spend summers in Canada, we often called my grandma’s basement home. I spent many hours during those summer days shadowing my grandma, learning to cook, helping in the garden (a skill that hasn’t stuck with me), learning to sew and to make bread (skills that did stick!). In the lulls, Grandma loved to play games. UpWords, RummyTile, but particularly the Memory Game – a game she could play with any aged grandchild. I remember the cardboard box, the scent of the well-loved cardboard tiles and that red plastic tray that held the cards. She laid out the game just so on her dining room table covered by a lace cloth protected by a thick plastic sheet. She wasn’t the kind of grandma who let kids win – you had to win fair and square. Cheating was strictly prohibited. But it was solid quality time and as we searched for matching tiles, I loved to listen to my grandma tell stories – some from her childhood, but most from her years serving overseas.
A single, young woman, she boarded a ship on the heels of the final days of World War Two and headed off to the Belgian Congo. Most people would call her courageous and brave, but she just saw herself as a woman faithfully following the call of God on her life. Listening to her stories, I knew I wanted to be just like her when I grew up.
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My grandfather passed when I was four. Most of my years until that point had been spent living in Zaire, formerly known as the Belgian Congo. I have little to no memories of him. A few years back, my dad and my uncle took it upon themselves to publish my grandpa’s autobiography that existed only as a pile of typewritten papers up to that point. They published each chapter as a blog post each week, my uncle hunting down and digitizing aging photographs to accompany each post.
Each week, I devoured the new chapter. I loved reading about my Grandpa’s upbringing in Australia, before moving to France in the middle of a world war to learn French and landing in the Belgian Congo as well. I loved imagining my grandparents living in the middle of nowhere in the rainforest, my Grandpa biking to different villages and my Grandma running a school.
When I finished that last chapter, I had to weep. I was so touched by the genealogy of faith to which I belong, and yet, if life had followed its natural course, I shouldn’t have been a part of this faithful family tree. It is only by divine intervention that I get to claim this spiritual heritage for myself.
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Called to overseas missions as a teen, my dad with my mom returned to Zaire. As they travelled up and down the famous Congo River, sharing the gospel, they also desired to start a family. After many years without success, a baby was offered to them. Adoption hadn’t been on their minds, but when opportunity knocks, you open the door. Having adopted one child, they told a teammate who was a nurse midwife returning for a year of home assignment in Canada to be on the lookout for another baby in need of a family.
Through what my dad would describe as divine intersections, a courageous teenage mom made the unselfish decision to release her baby for adoption and I was plucked by the tender hand of the Father and grafted into this new family. I now had a front row seat to God’s work among the least reached and was modeled God’s heart for the nations.
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“Mom, can we go to Dianna’s house? I want to play Memory,” Isaac tells me one Sunday afternoon. Actually, it’s not just any Sunday afternoon – it’s his fourth birthday. I now live with my own family in North Africa, in a conservative Muslim region, where there is little to no access to Jesus.
Isaac learned to love the game of Memory at his daycare and will play with whoever is willing. He found a fierce competitor in Dianna, a Muslim woman, who we visit regularly. Dianna has encountered Christ and is on the path to knowing him more. When we’re at her house, she pulls out an Arabic copy of the Jesus Storybook Bible and wants to read together – but only after a few rounds of Memory. “When are you bringing Isaac to play Memory with me?” is a regular text I receive from her.
It might not be purposeful yet on Isaac’s part, but I love seeing his love for people grow and how his presence reflects the love of God to them through a small boy who loves to spend time with the nations. What a privilege to be raising up a fourth generation in this genealogy of faith!
As I sit back and watch these two competitors, laughing and egging each other along in a combination of English and Arabic, my heart is touched as I envision Isaac and his great-Grandma Hulda, sitting together in the realms of glory, a set of Memory cards laid out between them. As they play their mutually beloved game, I imagine them stopping briefly to wave to the people who pass by – some who loved, supported, and prayed for them as they brought the hope of Jesus to the far reaches. And others, members of those least reached people groups who received the love of Jesus through them and their families, who faithfully followed the call of God on their lives to the ends of the earth.










