Afternoon sun angled through the windows of the small West African clinic, bringing the heat with it. I stretched my back before calling in the last patient of the day. Twelve-year-old Brahim entered my examination room, cradling his arm and bravely holding back tears.

His mother hurried in with Brahim’s brothers—one older and one younger—trailing behind. The family was familiar to me since I had seen the mother several times to care for her following a stroke.

“He hurt his arm playing soccer,” she explained.

It only took me a moment to realize he had broken his forearm near the wrist—an injury I couldn’t handle at my small practice.

“He’ll have to go to the hospital,” I explained, splinting it the best I could with some cardboard.

I gave Brahim some ibuprofen for the pain and looked at the weary family. Brahim’s mother, weakened from her own medical challenges, still had trouble walking. And a boy with a broken arm would certainly be uncomfortable riding there in an overcrowded taxi.

“I’ll drive you,” I offered.

Relief washed over the mother’s face and she nodded.

Spending my evening happily helping this family receive medical care would be an excellent way to show Jesus’ love through my actions. The perfect chance to be a good Samaritan.

Downtown traffic near the hospital was a nightmare. It was also 97 degrees outside, and the heat seemed to be affecting everyone’s mood—including mine. I was grumpy by the time we finally made it through the tangle of cars and pedestrians to the hospital, only to find that I’d parked on the wrong side of the building. We’d have to walk anyway.

I gritted my teeth and tried to swallow my irritation, hoping it wouldn’t show on my face.

When we finally made it to the right entrance, I accompanied my patient to the room where the orthopedic doctors sat and explained the situation. Brahim’s mother, now managing the youngest brother, had her hands full, so I relayed Brahim’s name and age as his mother had told me at the clinic.

“I’ll order an x-ray,” one of the orthopedic surgeons told me. “But you’ll have to go ahead and wait in line to pay.”

Overhearing this, Brahim’s mother sent her oldest son to stand in line while the doctors examined Brahim’s injury. Thankfully, they agreed to go ahead with the x-ray before the payment was completed.

“He’ll need surgery,” the doctor reported. “It’s a displaced fracture of the radius. We’ll need to do it today.”

I sighed. I could have told them that, speeding up the process. My family was likely eating dinner without me by now.

“Alright.” Brahim’s mother bit her lip and glanced out of the room to the chaotic payment “line”.

“I’ll go switch places with him,” I offered. Though I would have much rather gone home, I headed into the fray to relieve the other boy so he could be with his mother and brother for surgery prep.

I stood in line in the stuffy room for two hours, trying to calm my ire at the line-cutting and molasses-slow pace. After what felt like weeks, I made it to the cashier’s window. Relieved to be almost done with this process, I handed over the three papers with Brahim’s orders and prepared to give the clerk the money Brahim’s family had brought to pay for the procedure.

The man glanced at them and pushed them back across the counter. “Sorry, these names don’t match.”

I stared at him. “These are all for the same person. What do you mean, they don’t match?”

“The spelling is different.” The clerk pointed to the documents. “The names have to be exactly the same in order for me to accept your payment. Please correct them and then come back.”

I looked at the long line behind me. It would be another two or three hours in line if I had to start over because of a spelling mistake.

Turning back toward the man behind the counter, I said, “Look, these are obviously for the same kid. Just correct the name and process it!”

The clerk shook his head. “Everything has to match. Accuracy is my job.”

Leaning forward, I clenched my teeth. “If you don’t believe me, go ask the boy’s mother. She’s right inside that room.” I stabbed a finger toward the half-open door.

The clerk, looking a little rattled, scurried through the door. A few people behind me complained under their breath, and someone snickered. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

So much for being the good Samaritan. More like the grumpy Samaritan.

A moment later, the cashier returned. Glaring at me, he stacked the three papers. “She confirmed the name. You can pay now.”

I slid the bills over the counter, my conscience prodding me to apologize. “I’m sorry for taking out my frustration on you. You were just doing your job. It wasn’t your fault there was a mistake on the paper.” I attempted a laugh. “It’s been a long day.”

He nodded but didn’t smile. “It’s OK.”

I grimaced. My wife and I had come overseas to show the love of Jesus, and I’d always imagined myself doing a better job of reflecting His character.

Ministering cross-culturally sometimes feels like scaling a mountain every day. But as the saying goes, “It’s not the mountain that wears you down, it’s the gravel in your shoe.” It’s easy to let the little frustrations of living overseas—like waiting in long, disorganized cashier lines—get the best of me. I’m thankful that God has grace in my life and relationships in those moments.

My Muslim neighbors will see the best and the worst of who I am. While I pray Jesus’ goodness will show in my actions, it’s Jesus Himself and the grace He offers—not my ability to act perfectly all the time—that will ultimately draw Muslims to follow Him. Situations like these give me the humility to recognize this truth just when I’m tempted to believe it all depends on my own efforts.

Brahim, by the way, is doing just fine…although he’s not too happy about having to miss soccer while his arm is in a cast.

Pray:

• Ask God to give field workers opportunities to display a response to God’s grace in their lives.
• Pray that Muslim men and women will be drawn to the hope of Jesus as lived out by field workers.
• Ask that the Lord will give Brahim’s family a desire to seek Jesus.

**This account comes from a long-term worker. Names and places have been changed for security.**

Main photo on iStock

Original article: https://frontiersusa.org/blog/grumpy-samaritan/