Fingerprints

There is a rather famous story about footprints in the sand, and how during our most difficult times God carries us.  But my time in Africa has gotten me thinking quite a bit about fingerprints.  Scientists tell us that everyone has different fingerprints, and law enforcement officials tell us that most hard surfaces we touch bear imprints of our fingerprints.

On my first journey to Africa in early 2010, I was struck by the fact that most of the African children I met wanted to touch my skin or hold my hand – many of them had seen very few mzungus (white people) before.  To be sure, none of them left any fingerprints on me or my clothing.  I have this inescapable feeling, however, that they left fingerprints on me of a much more enduring nature, on a part of me that is much deeper than my skin.  After I returned from my first trip to Africa, I noticed that fingers played a prominent role in many pictures I had of the children.

It seems to me that we leave our metaphorical fingerprints on the lives of those with whom we interact, and them on us.  As I looked the other night at Hero, the young Ugandan boy who just had major reconstructive surgery in Los Angeles after being carved up by a witch doctor, I could see the fingerprints of many people all over him.

I could see the fingerprints of his loving, but uneducated and simple mother who gave him life.  I could see the fingerprints of the witch doctor who tried to take his life.

I could see the fingerprints of Justice O, who fearlessly presided over the first trial in the history of Uganda applying the trafficking in human body parts laws.  I could see the fingerprints of Margaret, the court registrar who took Hero into her home and gave him care and protection after the trial in which he so bravely testified.

I could see the fingerprints of Bob Goff, who facilitated and coordinated the prosecution, showed up and filmed every day of the trial, successfully petitioned the Ugandan courts for legal guardianship of Hero, arranged for Hero’s reconstructive surgery, and transported Hero to the United States.  I could see the fingerprints of Dr. Sherman, the surgeon whose skill and training restored to Hero much of what had been taken from him.  And I could see the fingerprints of Ted and Fayanna Worrell, who are giving Hero a family for the three or four months he will be in the United States.

That evening, I couldn’t help but wonder whose fingerprints were all over me.  I have the fingerprints of my supportive and God-loving parents, my wonderful siblings, my fabulous wife and kids, and my friends and colleagues all over me.  I also have the fingerprints of my former and current students on me.  About two weeks ago, a group of students at the weekly law student Bible study at Tim and Lucy Perrin’s house closed the semester by praying over and for me.  I can still feel their fingerprints on me as they gathered around to pray for our upcoming trip.  Those moments don’t fade quickly.

I can also feel the fingerprints of my Maker, as he continues to pull and push me into new shapes, some of which feel very comfortable, others of which will take some getting used to.

All of this, of course, has caused me to wonder where my fingerprints are.  Unlike the witch doctor who wounded Hero, I haven’t ever cut anyone with my hands.  But I am painfully aware of the times I have cut others with my words or actions.  I am confident that there are many more I have cut that I don’t even know about.  My fingerprints are on those wounds; I wish I could wipe them off.  There is only One who can.

As I interact with students on a daily basis here at Pepperdine, and as my family engages with a new culture, my prayer is that our fingerprints will be most visible on cups of cold water delivered to those who are thirsty.

Joline made this video shortly after I returned, which captures how and why Africa is calling us: